He saw her face and burst out laughing. The empty pit of his mouth gaped wide. “You didn’t know! Fool, not to know what happens when you release a firebird.”

Then Vasya heard the vast low roar outside, a sound like the end of the world. She thought of the flight of a firebird, unleashed on a wooden city at night.

I must kill him, she thought, if it is the last thing I do. Kasyan advanced once more, sword high. Vasya hurled Marya away from her and dodged the sweeping blade.

The words of Dunya’s fairy tale ran ridiculously through her mind: Kaschei the Deathless keeps his life inside a needle, inside an egg, inside a duck, inside a hare—

But that was only a story. There was no needle here, no egg…

Vasya’s thoughts seemed to swerve to a halt. There was only herself. And her niece. And her grandmother.

Witches, Vasya thought. We can see things that others cannot, and make faded things real.

Then Vasya understood.

She did not give herself pause to think. She hurled herself at the ghost. One hand reached out and plucked the thing she knew must be there, hanging from the gray creature’s throat. It was a jewel—or had been—it felt in her hand a little like Marya’s necklace, but fragile as an eggshell, as though years and grief had eaten it away from within.

The ghost whimpered, as though caught between agony and relief.

Then Vasya came up kneeling, holding the necklace in her hand, facing the sorcerer. Her ribs—nothing had ever hurt so much. She fought down the pain.

“Let that go,” said Kasyan. His voice had changed: gone flat and thin. He had his sword to Marya’s throat, his hand fisted in her hair. “Put it down, girl. Or the child dies.”

But behind her the ghost sighed, just the tiniest bit. “Poor immortal,” said Morozko’s voice, softer and colder and fainter than she’d ever heard it.

Vasya let out a breath of rage and relief. She had not seen him come, but now he stood, little more than a thickening of shadow, beside the ghost. He did not look at her.

“Did you think I was ever far from you?” the death-god murmured to Kasyan. “I was always a breath away: a heartbeat.”

The sorcerer tightened his grip on the sword, on Marya’s hair. He was looking at Morozko with terror and a thread of agonized longing. “What care I for you, old nightmare?” he spat. “Kill me, and the child dies first.”

“Why not go with him?” Vasya asked Kasyan softly, not taking her eyes from the blade of his sword. The tarnished necklace was warm in her hand, beating like a tiny heart. So fragile. “You put your life in Tamara. So neither of you could properly die. You could only rot. But that is finished. Better to go now, and find peace.”

“Never!” snapped Kasyan. His sword-hand was trembling. “Tamara,” he said, feverishly. “Tamara—”

A red light was trickling in from the window now, brighter and brighter. Not daylight.

Tamara stepped toward him. “Kasyan,” she said. “I loved you once. Come with me now, and be at peace.”

Staring at her like a man drowning, Kasyan didn’t seem to notice when the sword loosened in his grip. Just a little…

Vasya, with her last strength, lunged forward, seized the blade, and put her whole weight on it. He fell back, and Vasya seized Marya, pulled the child back and held her, ignoring the pain in her ribs and hands. She had cut her palms on his sword; she felt the blood begin to drip.

The sorcerer seemed to recall himself; he bared his teeth, face full of rage—

“Don’t watch,” Vasya whispered to Marya.

And she crushed the stone to fragments in her bloody fist.

Kasyan screamed. Agony in his face—and relief. “Go in peace,” Vasya told him. “God be with you.”

Then Kaschei the Deathless crumpled dead to the floor.

THE GHOST LINGERED, though her outline wavered like a flame in a strong wind. A black shadow waited beside her.

“I am sorry I screamed when I saw you,” Marya whispered unexpectedly to the ghost, her first words since being brought to the tower. “I did not mean it.”

“Your daughter had five children—Grandmother,” said Vasya. “The children also have children. We will not forget you. You saved our lives. We love you. Be at peace.”

Tamara’s lips twisted: a horrible rictus, but Vasya saw the smile in it.

Then the death-god put out a hand. The ghost, trembling, took it.

She and the death-god disappeared. But before they vanished, Vasya thought she saw a beautiful girl, with black hair and green eyes, clasped and glowing in Morozko’s arms.

26.

Fire

Vasya stumbled down the stairs, bleeding, dragging the child, who ran in her wake, speechless again and tearless.

The stairway was full of choking smoke. Marya began to cough. There were people on the stairs now: servants. The phantoms were gone. Vasya heard the shrieks of women up above, as though Kasyan had never been there: a young sorcerer with flame in his fist, or an old man, screaming.

They emerged into the dooryard. The gates were smashed; the yard full of people. Some lay unmoving in the bloodied and trampled snow. A few gasped, whimpered, called out. No more arrows flew. Chelubey was nowhere in sight. Dmitrii was calling orders, his face a mask of bloody soot. Most of the horses had been haltered and were being led hastily out through the gate—away from the fire. How near was it? What house had finally succumbed to the falling sparks? The barn-fire in the dooryard was dying down; Dmitrii’s army of servants must have been able to contain it. But Vasya could hear the whispering roar of a greater fire, and she knew they were not safe yet. The wind must be behind the flames, for her to taste the smoke. It was coming. It was coming, and it was her fault.

Sasha was still riding Solovey, she saw with relief. Her brother was speaking to a man on the ground.

Marya gave a cry of fear. Vasya turned her head.

The demon of midnight: moon-haired, star-eyed, night-skinned, had appeared on the stairs, as though born of the space between flames. No horse; just herself. The red light shone purple on the chyert’s cheek. Something like sorrow put out the starlight in her gaze. “Are they dead?” she asked.

Vasya was still stunned from the fight in the tower. “Who?”

“Tamara,” hissed the chyert impatiently. “Tamara and Kasyan. Are they dead?”

Vasya gathered her wits. “I—yes. Yes. How—?”

But Midnight only said wearily, over the roar, almost to herself, “Her mother will be glad.”

Vasya, much later, would wish she had grasped the significance of this. But at the moment she did not. She was bruised, shocked, and exhausted; Moscow was burning down around them and it was her fault. “They are dead,” she said. “But now the city is on fire. How can Moscow be saved?”

“I am witness to all the world’s midnights,” returned Midnight wearily. “I do not interfere.”

Vasya seized Midnight’s arm. “Interfere.”

The midnight-demon looked taken aback; she pulled, but Vasya hung on grimly, smearing the creature with her blood. She was strong with mortality—and something more. Midnight could not break her grip. “My blood can make your kind strong,” said Vasya coldly. “Perhaps, if I will it, my blood can also make you weak. Shall I try it?”