The bandit, she saw with anger, was looking amused again. “Big words for a child. Come, give her to me.”

“I will wager my horse,” said Vasya, not moving—she thought of Katya starving because Dmitrii must have taxes to pay for a new war, and her rage at Chelubey fueled a temper already inclined to rashness—“that this mare will bear me on her back before the third hour rings.”

Kasyan began. “Vasya—”

She did not look at him.

Chelubey laughed outright. “Will you, now?” His eye took in the flighty, frightened mare. “As you like. Show us this marvel. But if you fail, I will certainly have your horse.”

Vasya gathered her nerve. “If I do win, I want the mare for myself.”

Kasyan gripped her arm, urgently. “It is a foolish wager.”

“If the boy wants to throw away his property on boasting,” said Chelubey, to Kasyan, “it is his business. Now off you go, boy. Ride the mare.”

Vasya did not reply, but considered the frightened horse. The mare was dancing on the end of her rope, jerking Vasya’s arms with every plunge, and scarcely had a horse ever looked less rideable.

“I will need a paddock, with a fence of decent height,” said Vasya at length.

“An open space and a ring of people is all you get,” said Chelubey. “You should consider the conditions of your wagers before making them.”

The smile had fallen off his face; now he was crisp and serious.

Vasya thought again. “The market-square,” she said after a moment. “There is more room.”

“As you wish,” said Chelubey, with an air of great condescension.

“When your brother finds out, Vasilii Petrovich,” Kasyan muttered, “I am not standing between you.”

Vasya ignored him.

THEIR WAY DOWN TO the square became a procession, with word flying through the streets ahead of them. Vasilii Petrovich has made a wager with the Tatar lord Chelubey. Come down to the square.

But Vasya did not hear. She heard nothing but the mare’s breathing. She walked beside the horse, while the creature thrashed against the rope, and she talked. It was nonsense mostly; compliments, love words, whatever she could think of. And she listened to the horse. Away was all the mare could think, all she could say with head and ears and quivering limbs. Away, I must get away. I want the others and good grass and silence. Away. Run.

Vasya listened to the horse and hoped she had not done something supremely stupid.

PAGAN HE MIGHT BE, but the Russians loved a showman, and Chelubey swiftly proved himself nothing if not that. If someone in the crowd shouted praise, he bowed with a flourish of the rough-cut gems on his fingers. If someone jeered, hidden in the throng, he answered in roaring kind, making his audience laugh.

They made their way down into the great square, and Chelubey’s riders began at once to clear an open space. The merchants swore, but eventually it was done, and the stocky Tatar horses stood still, swishing their tails, fetlock-deep in the snow, holding back the throng.

Chelubey informed one and all of the conditions of the wager, in his execrable Russian. Instantly, and in defiance of any number of prelates present, the betting among the onlookers began to fly thick and fast, and children clambered onto market stalls to watch. Vasya stood with the terrified mare in the middle of the new-made circle.

Kasyan stood just at the inner edge of the crowd. He looked half disgusted, half intrigued, his glance inward, as though he were thinking furiously. The throng grew larger and louder, but all Vasya’s attention was on the mare.

“Come now, lady,” she said in the horse’s speech. “I mean you no harm.”

The mare, stiff through her body, made no answer.

Vasya considered, breathed, and then, ignoring the risk, and with every eye in the square on her, stepped forward and pulled the halter from the horse’s head.

A muted sound of astonishment moved through the crowd.

The mare stood still an instant, as startled as her watchers, and in that moment, Vasya hissed between her teeth. “Go then! Flee!”

The mare needed no encouragement; she bolted toward the first of the steppe-horses, spun, ran for the other, and ran again. If she tried to halt, Vasya drove her on. For of course, to be ridden, the horse must first obey, and the only order the mare would obey at the moment was an order to run away.

Begone. This order had another meaning. When a foal disobeyed, Vasya’s beloved Mysh, the herd-mare at Lesnaya Zemlya, would drive the young one, for a time, out of the herd. She had even done it to Vasya once, to the girl’s chagrin. It was the direst punishment a young horse could sustain, for the herd is life.

With this filly, Vasya acted as a mare would act—a wise old mare. Now the filly was wondering—Vasya could see it in her ears—if this two-legged creature understood her, and if, just possibly, she was no longer alone.

The crowd all around was completely silent.

Suddenly Vasya stood still, and in the same moment the mare halted.

The crowd gave a sigh. The mare’s eyes were fixed on Vasya. Who are you? I don’t want to be alone, the mare told her. I am afraid. I don’t want to be alone.

Then come, said Vasya with the turn of her body. Come to me, and you will never be alone again.

The mare licked her lips, ears pricked. Then, to soft cries of wonder, the mare took one step forward, and then another, and then a third and a fourth, until she could lay her nose against the girl’s shoulder.

Vasya smiled.

She did not heed the shouts from all sides; she scratched the mare’s withers and flanks, as horses will for each other.

You smell like a horse, said the mare nosing her over uncertainly.

“Unfortunately,” said Vasya.

Casually, the girl began to walk. The mare followed her, her nose still at Vasya’s shoulder. Now here. Now there. Turn back.

Stop.

The mare stopped when Vasya did.

Ordinarily Vasya would have left it there, let the horse go and be quiet and remember not being afraid. But there was a wager. How much more time did she have?

The people watched in muttering hush; she glimpsed Kasyan’s eyes inscrutable. “I am going to get on your back,” Vasya said to the horse. “Just for a moment.”

The mare was dubious. Vasya waited.

Then the mare licked her lips and lowered her head, unhappy, the trust there, but fragile.

Vasya leaned her body onto the mare’s withers, letting her take the weight. The mare shivered, but she didn’t move.

With an inward prayer, Vasya jumped as lightly as she could, swung a leg over, and was on the mare’s back.

The mare half-reared, and then stilled, trembling, both ears pitched pleadingly back to Vasya. The wrong move—even a wrong breath—and the mare would be in full flight, all the girl’s work undone.

Vasya did nothing at all. She rubbed the mare’s neck. She murmured to her. When she felt the horse relax a little—a very little—she touched her with a light heel that said walk.

The mare did, still rigid, ears still pitched back. She went a few steps and halted, stiff-legged as a foal.

Enough. Vasya slid to the ground.

She was met with absolute silence.

And then a wall of noise. “Vasilii Petrovich!” they shouted. “Vasilii the Brave!”