So, when the Tatar drew up alongside them, Sasha saw an opening and didn’t hesitate. But he was wounded, and Chelubey strong. A blow to his jaw shot sparks across his sight, and then Chelubey shouted over Sasha’s head, urging other men on. Sasha dragged himself to his knees, saw his sister, still mounted, wheeling her horse to come back for him.

Vasya, he tried to shout. Run.

Then the world went dark. When he came to, he was still lying on the ground. Chelubey stood over him. “She’s gone,” Sasha heard a voice say. “Disappeared.” He let out a breath of relief, just as Chelubey drew back and kicked him in the ribs. The bone cracked; Sasha doubled up, lacking the breath to scream.

“I think,” said Chelubey, “that after the night’s excitement, the general will have no further objections to you dying while I torture you. Get him on his feet.”

But the men weren’t looking down at Sasha anymore. They were backing up, with expressions of horror.

THE ROAD BACK THROUGH Midnight was short. Vasya’s blood cried out for her brother; and Pozhar had no objection to galloping through the forest at reckless speed. Voron raced alongside them. The black stallion was far swifter than any mortal horse, but still he labored to match the golden mare’s pace.

Vasya mourned in silence even as she savored the strength of the mare beneath her. The firebird was not, and never would be, her other self, and Pozhar’s grace reminded Vasya of her loss all over again.

The Bear paced the horses in silence. He had let go the shape of a man; he ran as a great shadow-beast, nourished by her blood. As they went, he sniffed at the sky, barely containing a bared-teeth eagerness.

“Hoping for killing?” said Vasya.

“No,” said the Bear. “I care naught for the dead. Mine are the suffering living.”

“Our task is to save my brother,” Vasya said sharply. “Not to make people suffer. Are you so quickly forsworn, Medved?”

The two pieces of golden rope shimmered eerily on her wrists. He shot them a dark look and said, a growl just entering his voice, “I have promised.”

“Ahead,” said Midnight. Vasya squinted into the darkness. Fires broke up the night in front of them; the wind brought them the smell of men and horses.

Vasya sat back and Pozhar slowed, grudgingly. Her nostrils flared, disliking the smell of men. “I left my brother on the north side of the camp, not far from a stream,” said Vasya to Polunochnitsa. “Is he still there?”

In answer, Midnight slid down from her horse, put a light hand on the stallion’s neck, whispered. Voron reared up against the sky, mane flying lightly as feathers, and then a raven flew into the night.

“Solovey never did that,” Vasya said, watching the black horse change and fly.

“Take his other form? He was too young,” said Midnight. “A colt still. The young ones only change with difficulty. He’d have learned to control his own nature if—”