“They are deciding whether or not to kill him,” said the beast beside her. “It seems your escape has made them wary.”

“You understand Tatar?”

“I understand the speech of men,” said the Bear, just as a dazzle of fresh light poured over the camp, panicking the horses all over again. Vasya didn’t look up. She knew what she would see: Pozhar soaring overhead, streaming smoke, her fiery wings making arcs of scarlet and blue, gold and white.

I can’t make the earth catch fire like I did in the city, Pozhar had said, when Vasya asked. That was—I was so angry, I was maddened with anger. I can’t do it again.

“You don’t have to,” Vasya returned. “Just dazzle them. It will send a message to my countrymen.” She patted the horse comfortingly, and Pozhar bit her on the shoulder.

Now all around the camp, men looked to the sky. A babble of renewed talk broke out. She heard the snap of bowstrings, saw a few arrows arc up into the night, but Pozhar was keeping out of range. A wondering cry, quickly silenced, rose from one of the Russians: “Zhar Ptitsa!”

“Can you make it so they can see you?” Vasya asked the Bear, not taking her eyes off the general.

“With your blood,” he said.

She gave him her grazed hand; he clung greedily, then she yanked her fingers back again.

“At the right moment then,” she said.

Holding fast to the knowledge that they could not see her, she crept into the light. The three men were still arguing, shouting at each other now, while the bird, shining, impossible, soared overhead.

Vasya walked up behind them, unspooled her golden rope, and wrapped it around Mamai’s throat.

He managed a choked gasp, and then he froze, caught by Kaschei’s magic and her own will.

Everyone in sight froze too. They could see her now. “Good evening,” said Vasya. It was hard to get the breath to speak steadily. The eyes of two dozen expert bowmen were on her; many of them already had arrows up.

“You can’t kill me before I kill him,” she said to them. “Even if you fill me with arrows.” In one hand, she had the golden rope, but in the other was her knife, pressed to Mamai’s throat. She thought she heard Oleg’s voice, interpreting, but she didn’t look around to see.

Chelubey had drawn his sword; he took one furious step toward her, then stopped at Mamai’s wordless, pained sound.

“I am here for the Prince of Serpukhov,” said Vasya.

Mamai made another inarticulate croak, and then said something that sounded like an order. “Silence!” she snapped, and he stood rigid when she pressed the dagger a little more into his neck.

Oleg was gaping at her like a landed fish. Above them the firebird cried again, wheeling, bright against the clouds. The Tatars’ horses plunged. Out of the corner of her eye, Vasya glimpsed men, as though despite themselves, lifting their faces to the light.