All about the dooryard stood the wisps of small demons, hearth-creatures. Konstantin’s skin crawled, seeing them. “What do they want?”

The Bear smirked at the assembled devils. “They are afraid. The bells are blotting them out, year by year, but the destruction of their hearths will kill them quickly. They know what I am going to do.” The Bear bowed to them, ironic. “They are doomed,” he added cheerfully, as though to make sure they could hear, and strode on.

“Good riddance,” Konstantin muttered, and followed. The stares of the hearth-chyerti seemed to bore into his back.

There were two men waiting for him in the audience-chamber: Brother Aleksandr and Dmitrii Ivanovich, with Dmitrii’s attendants standing woodenly behind him. The place still smelled of smoke. One wall was scarred with sword-cuts, the paint hacked away.

Dmitrii sat in his carved chair. Brother Aleksandr stood, watchful, beside him.

“That one will kill you if he can,” remarked the Bear, with a jerk of his chin at Sasha. Sasha’s eyes narrowed; was it Konstantin’s imagination or did the monk’s gaze flicker from him to the devil beside him? He knew an instant of panic.

“Be easy,” added the Bear, eyes still on Sasha. “He has the same blood as the witch-girl. He senses what he cannot see, but that is all.” He paused. “Try not to get yourself killed, man of God.”

“Konstantin Nikonovich,” said Dmitrii coldly. Konstantin swallowed. “A girl, my kinswoman, was killed by fire yesterday, without trial. They are saying you set the mob of Moscow to do this. What have you to say?”

“I did not,” said Konstantin, making his voice calm. “I tried to restrain the people from worse violence, from breaking into the terem of Serpukhov and killing the women there. That much I did, but I could not save the girl.” He did not have to feign the sorrow in his voice, just let it float up from the tangle of other emotions. “I prayed for her soul. I could not stay the people’s wrath. By her own confession she set the fire that slew so many.”

He struck the perfect note of regretful admission. The Bear snorted beside him. Konstantin narrowly missed whipping round to glare.

Sasha, beside his cousin on the dais, stood perfectly still.

The Bear said suddenly, “The monk knows how the fire began. Press him; he will not lie to the Grand Prince.”

“That is a lie,” Dmitrii was saying to Konstantin. “The Tatars set the fire.”

“Ask Brother Aleksandr,” returned Konstantin, letting his voice fill the room. “Ask the holy monk there, if the girl set the fire or no. In the name of God, I charge him to speak truly.”

Dmitrii rounded on Sasha. The monk’s eyes were starry with rage, but Konstantin saw with astonishment that it was true. He wouldn’t lie. “An accident,” Sasha bit off. He and Dmitrii looked at each other as if they were the only two people in the room. “Dmitrii Ivanovich—”