15.

Liar

Olga had heard Dmitrii’s cavalcade return. She could hardly help hearing it; the bells rang until her floor shook, and in the wake of the pealing came the cries of “Dmitrii Ivanovich! Aleksandr Peresvet!”

A tight, reluctant ache once again eased about Olga’s heart when she heard her brother’s name. But of her relief she gave no sign. Her pride wouldn’t allow it, and there was no time. Maslenitsa was upon them now, and preparations for the festival took all her attention.

Maslenitsa was the three-day sun-feast, one of the oldest holidays in Muscovy. Older by far than the bells and crosses that marked its passing, though it had been given the trappings of religion to mask its pagan soul. This—the last day before the festival began—was the last day they could eat meat until Easter. Vladimir, Olga’s husband, was still in Serpukhov, but Olga had arranged a feast for his household—wild boar and stewed rabbit and cock-pheasants, and fish.

For a few more days, the people could still eat butter and lard and cheese and other rich things, and so in the kitchen they were making butter-cakes by the score, by the hundred, cakes enough for days of gluttony.

Women filled Olga’s workroom, talking and eating. They had all come with their veils and their over-robes to do their mending in the pleasant crowd of warm bodies and chatter. The excitement in the streets seemed to have risen and invaded the very air of the sedate tower.

Marya sprang about, shouting. Busy or no, Olga still worried about her daughter. Since the night of the ghost-story, Marya had often woken her nurse with screaming.

Olga paused in her hurrying to sit a moment beside the oven, exchange pleasantries with her neighbors, call Marya and look her over. On the other side of the stove, Darinka simply would not stop talking. Olga wished her head ached less.

“I went to Father Konstantin for confession,” Darinka was saying loudly. Her voice made a shrill counterpoint to the murmur of the crowded room. “Before he went into seclusion in the monastery. Father Konstantin—the fair-haired priest. Because he seemed such a holy man. And indeed he instructed me in righteousness. He told me all about witches.”

No one looked up. The women’s sewing had a new urgency. In the mad revel of festival-week, Moscow would glitter like a bride, and the women must all go to church—not once, but many times—bundled magnificently, and be seen to peer out from around their veils. Besides, this was not the first time Darinka had regaled them with tales of this holy man.

Marya, who had heard Darinka’s tale before and was weary of her mother’s fussing, pulled herself loose and scampered out.

“He said they walk among us, these witches born,” Darinka continued, not much troubled by her lack of audience. “You never know who they are until it is too late. He said they curse good Christian men—curse them—so that they see things that are not there, or hear strange voices—the voices of demons—”

Olga had heard rumors of this priest’s hatred for witches. They made her uneasy. He alone knew that Vasya…

Enough, Olga told herself. Vasya is dead, and Father Konstantin has gone to the monastery; let it pass. But Olga was glad of the tumult of festival-week, which would turn the women’s attention away from the ravings of a handsome priest.

Varvara slipped into the workroom, with Marya returned, panting, at her heels. Before the slave could speak, the girl burst out, “Uncle Sasha is here! Brother Aleksandr,” she corrected, seeing her mother frown. Then she added, irrepressibly, “He has a boy with him. They both want to see you.”

Olga frowned. The child’s silk cap lay askew, and she had torn her sarafan. It was high time to replace her nurse. “Very well,” Olga said. “Send them up at once. Sit down, Masha.”

Marya’s nurse came wheezing belatedly into the room. Marya gave her a wicked look, and the nurse shrank back. “I want to see my uncle,” the girl said to her mother.

“There is a boy with him, Masha,” said Olga wearily. “You are a great girl now; better not.”

Marya scowled.

Olga’s jaded glance took in the crowd about her oven. “Varvara, bring our visitors to my chamber. See that there is hot wine. No, Masha; listen to your nurse. You will see your uncle later.”

DURING THE DAY, OLGA’S OWN ROOM was not so warm as the crowded workroom, but it had the advantage of peace. The bed was curtained off, and visiting there was quite usual. Olga seated herself just in time to hear the footsteps, and then her brother, fresh from the road, stood in the doorway.

Olga got heavily to her feet. “Sasha,” she said. “Have you killed your bandits?”

“Yes,” he said. “There will be no more burning villages.”

“By God’s grace,” Olga said. She crossed herself and they embraced.

Then Sasha said, with unaccountable grimness, “Olya,” and stepped aside.

Behind him, in the doorway, lurked a slender, green-eyed boy, hooded and cloaked, wearing supple leather and wolfskin, two saddlebags slung over his shoulder. The boy at once paled. The saddlebags thumped to the floor.

“Who is this?” Olga asked reflexively. Then a shocked breath hissed out between her teeth.

The boy’s mouth worked; his great eyes were bright. “Olya,” she whispered. “It is Vasya.”

Vasya? No, Vasya is dead. This is not Vasya. This is a boy. In any case, Vasya was only a snub-nosed child. And yet, and yet…Olga looked again. Those green eyes…“Vasya?” Olga gasped. Her knees went weak.

Her brother helped her to her chair, and Olga leaned forward, hands on knees. The boy hovered uncertainly at the doorway. “Come here,” Olga said, recovering. “Vasya. I can’t believe it.”

The erstwhile boy shut the door, and with her back to them, raised trembling fingers and fumbled with the ties of her hood.

A heavy plait of shining black slithered out, and she turned once more to face the oven. With the cap gone, now Olga could see her little sister grown: that strange, impossible child become a strange, impossible woman. Not dead—alive—here…Olga struggled for breath.

“Olya,” Vasya said. “Olya, I’m sorry. You are so pale. Olya, are you well? Oh!” The green eyes lit; the hands clasped. “You are going to have a baby. When—?”

“Vasya!” Olga broke in, finding her voice. “Vasya, you’re alive. How came you here? And dressed so…Brother, sit down. You, too, Vasya. Come into the light. I want to look at you.”

Sasha, meek for once, did as he was told.

“Sit down, too,” Olga said to Vasya. “No, there.”

The girl, looking eager and frightened, sank onto the indicated stool with a loose-limbed grace.

Olga took the girl by the chin and turned her face into the light. Could this really be Vasya? Her sister had been an ugly child. This woman was not ugly—though she had features too stark for beauty: wide mouth, vast eyes, long fingers. She looked far too like the witch-girl Konstantin described.

Her green eyes spilled over with sorrow and courage and terrible fragility. Olga had never forgotten her little sister’s eyes.

Vasya said, tentatively, “Olya?”

Olga Vladimirova found herself smiling. “It is good to see you, Vasya.”

Vasya fell to her knees, crying like a child into Olga’s lap. “I m-missed you,” she stammered. “I missed you so.”

“Hush,” Olga said. “Hush. I missed you, too, little sister.” She stroked her sister’s hair, and realized she was crying as well.

At last Vasya raised her head. Her mouth quivered; she wiped her streaming eyes, drew breath, and took her sister’s hands. “Olya,” she said. “Olya, Father is dead.”

Olya felt a little cold place form and grow inside her: anger at this rash girl, mixed with her love. She did not say anything.

“Olya,” Vasya said. “Didn’t you hear? Father is dead.”

“I know,” Olga said. She crossed herself, and could not keep that coldness from her voice. Sasha glanced at her, frowning. “God give him peace. Father Konstantin told me all. He said you had run away. He thought you had died. I thought you had died. I wept for you. How came you here? And dressed—so?” She eyed her sister in some despair, taking in anew the disheveled shining plait, the boots and leggings and jacket, the disturbing grace of a wild thing.

“Tell her, Vasya,” said her brother.

Vasya ignored both question and order. She had shot stiff-legged to her feet. “He is here? Where? What is he doing? What did Father Konstantin tell you?”

Olga measured out the words. “That our father died saving your life. From a bear. That you— Oh, Vasya, better not to speak of it. Answer the question: How came you here?”

A pause, and all the ferocity seemed to rush out of her. Vasya dropped back onto her stool. “It should have been me,” she said low. “But it was him. Olya, I didn’t mean…” She swallowed. “Don’t listen to the priest; he is—”

“Enough, Vasya,” said her sister firmly. Then she added, with an edge, “Child, what possessed you to run away from home?”

“CAN THAT BE ALL THE TRUTH?” Olga demanded of her brother sometime later. They had gone to her little chapel, where whispered conversations were not so strange and there was less chance of being overheard. Vasya had been sent off, in Varvara’s care, and in great secrecy, to bathe. “The priest told nearly the same story—but not exactly—and I hardly believed him then. What would drive a girl to act so? Is she mad?”

“No,” said Sasha, wearily. Above him, Christ and the saints reared in glorious panoply: Olga’s iconostasis was very fine. “Something happened to her—and I think there is more to this tale than either of us knows. She will not tell me. But I cannot believe her mad. Reckless she is, and immodest, and sometimes I fear for her soul. But she is only herself; she is not mad.”

Olga nodded, biting her lips. “If it weren’t for her, Father would not have died,” she said, before she could stop herself. “And Mother, too—”

“Now that,” Sasha said sharply, “is cruel. We must wait to judge, sister. I will ask this priest. Perhaps he can say what she will not.”

Olga looked up at the icons. “What are we to do with her now? Am I to dress her in a sarafan and find her a husband?” A new thought struck her. “Did our sister ride all the way here dressed as a boy? How did you explain that to Dmitrii Ivanovich?”

Awkward silence.

Olga narrowed her eyes.

“I—well—” Olga’s brother said sheepishly, “Dmitrii Ivanovich thinks she’s my brother, Vasilii.”

“He what?” Olga hissed, in tones completely unsuited for prayer.

Sasha said, determinedly calm, “She told him that her name was Vasilii. I judged it better to agree.”

“Why, in God’s name?” Olga retorted, controlling her voice. “You should have told Dmitrii that she was a poor mad child—a holy fool, her wits deranged—and brought her instantly and in secret to me.”

“A holy fool who came galloping into the Lavra with three rescued children on her horse,” returned Sasha. “She ferreted out bandits that we’d not found in two weeks’ searching. After all that, was I supposed to apologize for her and huddle her out of sight?”

These were Sergei’s questions, Sasha realized with some discomfiture, coming out of his own mouth.

“Yes,” Olga told him wearily. “You are not enough in Moscow; you don’t understand— Never mind. It is done. Your brother Vasilii must be sent away at once. I will keep Vasya quiet in the terem long enough for folk to forget. Then I will arrange a wedding for her. No great match—she must not catch the Grand Prince’s eye—but that can hardly be helped.”

Sasha found he could not stay still: another thing strange for him. He paced through the pools of light and darkness thrown by the many candles, and the light fretted his black hair—like Olga’s and Vasya’s—a gift from their dead mother. “You can’t confine her to the terem yet,” he said, coming to a halt with an effort.

Olga crossed her arms over her belly. “Why not?”

“Dmitrii Ivanovich took a liking to her, on the road,” Sasha said carefully. “She did him a great service, finding those raiders. He has promised her honors, horses, a place in his household. Vasya cannot disappear before Maslenitsa, not without insulting the Grand Prince.”

“Insulting?” hissed Olga. The measured tone suitable for the chapel had deserted her once more. She leaned forward. “How do you think he will take it when he finds out that this brave boy is a girl?”

“Badly,” said Sasha, drily. “We will not tell him.”

“And I am supposed to—to perpetuate this, to watch my maiden sister race about Moscow in the company of Dmitrii’s carousing boyars?”

“Don’t watch,” advised Sasha.

Olga said nothing. She had been playing games of politics every day since her marriage at fifteen, longer even than Sasha. She had to: her children’s lives depended on the whims of princes. Neither she nor her brother could afford to anger Dmitrii Ivanovich. But if Vasya were discovered—

More gently, Sasha added, “There is no choice now. You and I must both do what we can to keep Vasya’s secret through the festival.”

“I should have sent for Vasya when she was a child,” Olga said, with feeling. “I should have sent for her long ago. Our stepmother did not raise her properly.”

Sasha said wryly, “I am beginning to think that no one could have done any better. Now, I have tarried too long; I must go to the monastery and get news. I will speak to this priest. Let Vasya rest; it will not be strange if young Vasilii Petrovich spends the day with his sister. But in the evenings he must go to the Grand Prince’s palace.”

“Dressed as a boy?” Olga demanded.

Her brother set his jaw. “Dressed as a boy,” he said.

“And what,” Olga demanded, “am I to tell my husband?”

“Now that,” said Sasha, turning for the door, “is entirely up to you. If he returns, I would strongly advise that you tell him as little as possible.”