“Are you a fool?” he demanded. “Do you think there is no man, out of all of them, with the wit to see you or that golden horse? Can you rely on it, when all eyes will be fixed on your brother? Can you be sure that no Tatar will raise no cry of treachery?” And seeing Vasya staring at him, stone-faced, frozen, he added, “The monk will not thank you. That Tatar tortured him; he is doing it for Dmitrii, for his country, for himself. It is his glory, not yours.”

She turned round, indecisive, agonized.

They were all drawn up, the armies of Rus’ and the armies of Mamai, and shivering in the dawn mist, their mail cold and heavy. Among them were the powers that no one could see. The vodianoy of the Don, waiting to drown the unwary. The leshy of the woods, concealing men in his branches. The grinning king of chaos. The lesser chyerti of wood and water.

And unseen, powerful, aloof, the king of winter. He was in the clouds in the north, the hard, chill wind, the occasional snowflake on her cheek. But he would not come down and stand among them. He would not fight Dmitrii’s war. She had seen the terrible knowledge in his eyes: My task is with the dead.

I could be far from here, Vasya thought, seeing her hands tremble. I could be far away, beside the lake, or at Lesnaya Zemlya, or in a clean forest with no name.

Instead I am here. Oh Sasha, Sasha, what have you done?

ALONE, BROTHER ALEKSANDR RODE onto the swampy field of Kulikovo, rode between the spears of Dmitrii’s vanguard and out into the open space between the two armies. There was no sound but Tuman’s soft snorting breath, and the suck of her hooves in the sodden earth.

A man on a tall red horse rode out to meet him. More than a hundred thousand men on that field, and still it was quiet enough for Sasha to hear the wind rising, sighing as though in sorrow, blowing down the last of the leaves.

“A fair morning,” said Chelubey, sitting easily on his stocky Tatar horse.

“I am going to kill you,” said Sasha.

“I think not,” said Chelubey. “In fact I am sure not. Poor holy man, with the scars on your back and your torn hand.”

“You cheapen this,” said Sasha.

Chelubey’s face was grim now. “What is this to you? A game? A spiritual quest? It is only men against men, and whichever side prevails, there will be women wailing and blood on the earth.”

Without another word, he wheeled his horse around and cantered a few paces away, turned and stood waiting.

Sasha did likewise. Still, all was silent. Strange, in all that gray morning, with men in the ten thousands waiting. Once more he thought he glimpsed a single horse glowing gold in the last of the mist, a slender rider on her back; at her side was a hulking black shadow. He breathed a silent prayer.