“Vladimir is to marry Pyotr Vladimirovich’s daughter, is he not?” said Sergei. “I have met Pyotr’s son. Sasha, they call him. He came to me at the Lavra. Such eyes as I have never seen. He will be a monk or a saint or a hero. A year ago he wished to take vows. Would that he still does. The Lavra could use a brother like that.”

“Well, go and see,” said Aleksei. “Persuade Pyotr’s son to come back to the Lavra with you. Dmitrii must live in your monastery for his minority. All the better if he has Aleksandr Petrovich, a man of his blood, one dedicated to God, to be his companion. If Dmitrii is crowned, he will want every ally ingenuity can yield him.”

“So will you,” said Sergei. The bees droned about them. The northern flowers made up in heady scents for their brief, doomed days. Hesitantly, Sergei added, “Will you be his regent, then? Regents do not live long either, if their boy-princes are slain.”

“Am I such a faintheart that I would not put myself between that boy and assassins?” said Aleksei. “I would, though it cost me my life. God is with us. But you must be Metropolitan when I die.”

Sergei laughed. “I will see the face of God, and be blinded by glory, before I come to Moscow to try and manage your bishops, Brother. But I will go north with the Prince of Serpukhov. It is long since I traveled, and I would see the high forests again.”

PYOTR SAW THE MONK among the riders, and his face grew grim. But he spoke only courtesies until the evening after their arrival. That night, they all feasted together in the twilight, and when the laughter and torches of full-fed people slipped away toward the village, Pyotr came in the dusk and caught Sergei by the shoulder. The two faced each other beside the running stream.

“And so you came, man of God, to steal my son from me?” Pyotr said to Sergei.

“Your son is not a horse, to be stolen.”

“No,” snapped Pyotr. “He is worse. A horse will listen to reason.”

“He is a warrior born, and a man of God,” said Sergei. His voice was mild as ever, and Pyotr’s anger burned hotter, so that he choked on his words and said nothing.

The monk frowned, as though making a decision. Then he said, “Listen, Pyotr Vladimirovich. Ivan Ivanovich is dying. By now, perhaps he is dead.”

This Pyotr had not known. He started and drew back.

“His son Dmitrii is a guest in your house,” Sergei continued. “When the boy leaves here, he will go straight to my own monastery, there to be hidden. There are claimants to the throne for whom the life of one small boy is as nothing. A prince needs men of his own blood to teach him, and to guard him. Your son is Dmitrii’s cousin.”

Pyotr was silent in his surprise. The bats were coming out. In his youth, Pyotr’s nights had been full of their cries, but now they flittered silent as the encroaching dusk.

“We do not just bake altar-bread and chant, my folk and I,” added Sergei. “You are safe here, in this forest that could swallow an army, but there are few who can say as much. We bake our bread for the hungry and wield swords in their defense. It is a noble calling.”

“My son will wield a sword for his family, serpent,” snapped Pyotr, reflexively, angrier now because he was uncertain.

“Indeed he will,” said Sergei. “For his own cousin: a boy that will one day have all Muscovy in his charge.”

Pyotr again was silent, but his anger was broken.

Sergei saw Pyotr’s grief and bowed his head. “I am sorry,” he said. “It is a hard thing. I will pray for you.” He slipped away between the trees, the sound of his going swallowed by the stream.

Pyotr did not stir. There was a full moon; the edge of its silver disc rose over the treetops. “You would have known what to say,” he whispered. “For myself, I do not. Help me, Marina. Even for the Grand Prince’s heir, I would not lose my son.”

“I WAS ANGRY WHEN I heard you had sold my sister so far away,” said Sasha to his father. He spoke rather jerkily; he was training a young horse. Pyotr rode Buran, and the gray stallion, no plow-horse, was looking with some wonder at the young beast curvetting beside him. “But Vladimir is a decent enough man, though he is so young. He is kind to his horses.”

“I am glad of it, for Olya’s sake. But even if he was a drunken lecher and old to boot, I could do nothing else,” said Pyotr. “The Grand Prince did not ask.”

Sasha thought suddenly of his stepmother, a woman that his father would never have chosen, with her easy tears, her praying, her starts and terrors. “You could not choose either, Father,” he said.

I must be old, Pyotr thought to himself, if my son is being kind to me. “It matters not,” he said. The light slanted gold between the slender beeches, and all the silver leaves shivered together. Sasha’s horse took exception to the shimmer and reared up. Sasha checked him midleap and set him back on his haunches. Buran came up beside them, as though showing the colt how a real horse behaved.

“You have heard what the monk has to say,” said Pyotr slowly. “The Grand Prince and his son are our kin. But, Sasha, I would ask you to think better of it. It is a harsh life, that of a monk—always alone, poverty and prayers and a cold bed. You are needed here.”

Sasha looked sideways at his father. His sun-browned face seemed suddenly much younger. “I have brothers,” he said. “I must go and try myself, against the world. Here, the trees hem me in. I will go forth and fight for God. I was born to it, Father. Besides, the prince—my cousin Dmitrii—he has need of me.”

“It is a bitter thing,” growled Pyotr, “to be a father whose sons abandon him. Or to be a man with no sons to mourn his passing.”

“I will have brothers in Christ to mourn me,” Sasha rejoined. “And you have Kolya and Alyosha.”

“You will take nothing with you, Sasha, if you go,” snapped Pyotr. “The clothes on your back, your sword, and that mad horse you think to ride—but you will not be my son.”

Sasha looked younger than ever. His face showed white under the tan. “I must go, Father,” he said. “Do not hate me for going.”

Pyotr did not answer; he set Buran for home with such a vengeance that Sasha’s colt was left far behind.

VASYA CREPT INTO THE STABLE that evening when Sasha was looking over a tall young gelding. “Mysh is sad,” said Vasya. “She wants to go with you.” The brown mare was hanging her head over her stall.

Sasha smiled at his sister. “She is growing old for journeys, that mare,” he said, reaching out to stroke her neck. “Besides, there is little use for a broodmare in a monastery. This one will serve me well.” He slapped the gelding, who flicked his pointed ears.

“I can be a monk,” said Vasya, and Sasha saw that she had stolen her brother’s clothes again and stood with a small skin bag in one hand.

“I have no doubt,” said Sasha. “But monks are usually bigger.”

“I am always too small!” cried Vasya in great disgust. “I will get bigger. Don’t go yet, Sashka. Another year.”

“Have you forgotten Olya?” said Sasha. “I promised I’d see her to her husband’s house. And then I am called to God, Vasochka; there is no gainsaying.”