“HOW MUCH FARTHER?” MARYNKA MOANED, boots stomping dark prints into the crisp, pristine surface of the snow. “We’ve been walking for hours. I can’t feel my fingers. My ears are frozen. My feet are sore. Hey! Are you listening?”
“I’ve been listening to you complain for hours. Do you ever stop talking?” Three steps ahead, Kajetan stumbled, floundering through a thin crust of snow and into a deep drift with a startled yelp. His heavy boots and robes dragging him down.
Marynka watched him flail with undisguised amusement. They’d left the woodcutter’s hut at dawn, Kajetan melting his way through the ice built up against the door with a blast of heavenly fire from his saber. “I could help you up if you loosened these.” Marynka waved her bound wrists.
“Why don’t I find more cloth to gag you with instead?”
Marynka considered running while his back was turned, which she’d attempted to do twice already, only for Kajetan to drag her back and threaten to cut her head off. So she sat and lay down instead, stretching out lazily on her back. If her hands hadn’t been bound, she might’ve made a snow angel.
Kajetan looked over his shoulder and hissed through his teeth. “Don’t you dare! Get up. We’re not even close to the city.”
“How do you know? You’ve absolutely no sense of direction. We’ve walked past that same tree three times. I counted. You’re lost. And I’m so hungry and tired I’m about to collapse.” Marynka wasn’t really. The famished growl of her belly had faded to a sullen grumble as its calls went unanswered, and she’d had more than enough rest. But if she could delay him a little while longer, if she could buy enough time before he handed her off to the prince and his soldiers in Warszów. . .
Soft tendrils of morning mist curled past her ear, sparkling softly, coiling low across the frozen earth and through the age-old trees surrounding them. In the wintry quiet between Kajetan’s curses she could hear the tock-tock-tock of a black woodpecker somewhere foraging for food. A frosted spider’s web caught the sunlight slanting through the fir branches.
That same light kissed Marynka’s cheeks. She could feel her strength returning, a tingling of heat that started at the tips of her fingers. Magic, mercifully, sparking in her blood, a flame coaxed back from embers.
And when the sun reached its zenith, when the hour finally turned to midday. . .
Marynka flexed her stiff fingers and tugged, feeling the cloth binding her hands together loosen just slightly. She could turn her chafed wrists.
Kajetan’s shadow fell over her. “Get up.”
When the hour turned to midday, even cloth doused in holy water would not be enough to hold her. She was going to carve this boy who’d dared to bind her into bloody little pieces.
“Why don’t you carry me?” she asked sweetly.
Kajetan’s hand went to the jeweled hilt of his saber. A breeze ruffled the costly feathers tufting his fur cap. “Do we really have to do this again?”
“That threat’s less scary than you think it is. We already agreed you don’t plan to kill me. You returned to Warszów to redeem yourself, and you’re dragging me back to the city now so you can show off that you caught the monster hunting your precious prince.”
Kajetan stared down at her, his expression unreadable, and then his mouth curved into a smile so cruel it would have fit perfectly on Grandmother’s face. Despite herself, Marynka shivered.
“I returned to Warszów to redeem myself?” he repeated softly, dangerously. “I think you’ve gotten the wrong idea. I came back here for the very reason that everyone is saying. My father sent me, or rather, the tsarina did. She doesn’t want an uprising, the expense of another war. I came back like the good obedient son I am to make sure Józef doesn’t join one, or convince the king to. I was told to use any means necessary.”
Something dark flashed in his eyes as he loomed over her. “I am not a good person. I am exactly the things people say I am and worse. And I only need you alive, little monster, so unless you wish me to start cutting small pieces off of you, you’ll get up and start walking.”
They stared each other down.
“You know,” Marynka said slowly, “in another life I feel like you and I could have been friends.”
“A pity then that I am most certainly going to murder you in this one.” Kajetan hauled her roughly to her feet.
Marynka struggled to catch her balance. She stole glances at him as they trudged on through the snow, following a faint path that wound between the low, drooping pine boughs. Stubble shadowed the sharp angle of his jaw, but he looked younger in the soft morning light. Not so many more years older than her.
She kicked a lump of ice, watched it roll across the snow. “Why not let me kill the prince then? Why try to warn him about us? Why chase me down? We could be working together.”
Kajetan let out a derisive snort.
Marynka continued. “Why should we be enemies? I mean we’ve already shared a bed.”
“We did not share—” Kajetan’s cheeks turned as bright a red as if she’d caught him naked.
“Set me free,” Marynka urged. “I’ll take Józef’s heart, and then you won’t have to worry about him taking part in any uprising.”
“Take his heart?”
“It’s what I do. I’m very good at it. Don’t worry.”
Kajetan shoved a branch violently aside so they could pass through a gap in the trees. Another chunk of ice fell to the ground and Marynka kicked that too. It smacked the back of Kajetan’s legs.
“That was an accident.”
In the silence while Kajetan glared at her, Marynka’s stomach grumbled audibly.
Kajetan raised his eyes to heaven, beseeching, and then he did something shocking. Reaching into his robes, he came out with a small pouch filled with sesame seed candy.
Marynka gaped.
Kajetan scowled and shoved the candy at her, motioning sharply at her to keep walking. “You said you were so hungry you felt you’d collapse. I’m not carrying you if you faint, and if your mouth is full, perhaps you’ll finally shut up.”
“You’ve had this on you all along?” Marynka said, chewing with her mouth full, crunching on the honeyed seeds. “And you didn’t share? What about all the times in the hut when I said I was starving?”
“I’m sharing now,” Kajetan said, defensive. “Why am I even explaining myself to you? You should be grateful. This is very likely your final meal.”
“But not if we work together.” Marynka’s tone was coaxing. She was taking two strides to keep up with each of his. Curse tall people and their long legs. “We both want the prince dead and—”
“I do not want him dead. I have never wanted him dead. I came back because my father told me to, but when I saw you attack him at the costume ball. . .” He cut off, steps slowing. “I thought my father had sent you after him. I thought he didn’t believe me capable of doing what needed to be done. And he would’ve been right, because my body moved on its own. My first instinct was to draw my saber and defend Józef. In that moment I forgot I had ever raised a blade to him, that we’d ever fought. The only thing I felt was the desire to protect him. When I thought I might lose him forever, I couldn’t help myself.” He lifted his face to the winter sky. “They say the Karnawał is a time when the world turns upside down. A time when a peasant can be a prince, when a servant might be a master, a sinner—”
“A saint,” finished Marynka.
Kajetan shook his head. “I am the furthest thing from a saint. But I realize now that I no longer care what my family wants. I can’t go back and undo my mistakes, but I can protect Józef now. From anyone else my father or the tsarina might send, from monsters like you. I want to do something right this time. I want to be able to hate myself a little less. I am not going to let anyone harm him.”
“You’ll be punished,” Marynka said knowingly, “if you go against your family.” Like she would be if she ever turned on the witch she called grandmother, like Zosia would have been for betraying Black Jaga if she hadn’t. . .
The sesame candy turned to ash on Marynka’s tongue.
“It would be a far worse punishment,” said Kajetan, “knowing that I’d killed my friend. The person I care about most in this world. I thought I had once, and it almost killed me.”
Marynka lapsed into quiet. Her boots groaned in the snow.
“And even if I did what they wanted, it would likely not be enough for my father. He’d set me to work at some worse task. There’s no pleasing him. Nothing I do is ever good enough. Sometimes I think he likes to set me challenges just so he can watch me fail.” Kajetan’s jaw clenched. “And so I am done. I am finished proving myself to the person who made me feel worthless in the first place.”
Marynka looked away. “Such wise words, Kajtuś. Does your brain instantly fill with wisdom when you grow to be so old?”
“I’m twenty,” Kajetan said indignantly. “But it’s true this entire experience with you has aged me. I’m surprised my hair hasn’t turned white.”
Marynka snorted.
“How old are you? Sixteen? Seventeen? You’re rather small.”
Marynka kicked another chunk of ice at him.
Kajetan kicked it back. “God, I remember being seventeen. What a perfect fool I was. Józef and I were still cadets. We used to talk for hours, dreaming of all the ways we would change the world, how we would change Lechija for the better.” He shivered suddenly, and so did Marynka, as clouds crossed the sky, plunging the forest into deep shadow.
Marynka’s thoughts drifted and she found herself thinking of the Midnight Forest again. Of Zosia’s home. Once, when she and Beata were younger, they had snuck away from their chores with the vague intent of tracking Midnight down so that they could spy on her. It had been Marynka’s idea, of course. “We’ll learn all her secrets and find out what she really looks like!” And Beata had tagged along simply because she hadn’t wanted to be left behind.
They’d crept to the edge of Black Jaga’s domain, where their steps had turned hesitant, the air growing rapidly cooler and the light fading swiftly. They’d halted on the very threshold of that forest of death, too nervous to venture past the trees standing sleeping in the starlight, too spooked to break the hostile silence. The Midnight Forest was not a place for the living. Nothing stirred there, not a leaf, not a twig. The gnarled roots of the trees were skeletal claws and the tortured branches bent and twisted. It would have taken a blessed prince on a holy quest to cross that black wilderness to find the house that dwelt at its heart, and the witch as old as the world who lived there.
No wonder, then, that Zosia had wanted so badly to run away, to escape that cold darkness. At least here. . .
The sun broke through the clouds, setting fire to Marynka’s hair.
“I was wrong,” Kajetan said, glancing at her sideways. “When you’re quiet, it makes me nervous. What wickedness are you plotting now?”
Marynka pressed her bound hands to her heart. “I’m hurt. It’s like you don’t trust me.”
Movement between the trees caught her eye. For an instant, she dismissed the vision as a trick of the morning light. But then a horse, riderless, and pale white as the snow, came trotting through the trees. Its mane gleamed like silk. Its hooves were shod with gold.
Marynka froze in her tracks.
Kajetan too, his face lighting with surprise and wonder. “Oh,” he said softly. “She must’ve been part of the kulig.” He took a half step forward, drawn, like a person bewitched. “What a beautiful lady you are.” He made a soft clicking sound with his tongue.
A terrible burning hope kindled in Marynka’s chest. She dropped to her knees in the snow.
Kajetan whirled at the sound, hissing through his teeth again in exasperation. “How many times must I—”
The instant his back turned, Beata materialized from the mist and morning light. Her hair a golden halo, a large branch gripped in both hands. She brought it down on the back of Kajetan’s head with all her strength.
He dropped like a rock, with a single sharp cry that made Marynka wince. Before she could do anything, Beata was there, throwing her arms around her and clinging to her fiercely, burying her face in Marynka’s neck. Marynka let go of every other thought and let Beata hold her, melting into the familiar embrace, savoring it. She wondered briefly if she should let herself get captured more often if it meant Beata was too relieved at the mere sight of her to scold or shout or be angry.
“Thank God. Thank God.” Tears sparkled white on Beata’s cheeks. “I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you. I thought the snowslide had killed you both.”
There was a horrible knot in Marynka’s throat. “I was worried about you too,” she whispered hoarsely.
“You were?” Beata said.
“Of course.” Marynka was shocked and a little offended her friend would think otherwise. Her fingers clutched at Beata’s white kontusik as she pulled back. “I thought you—”
“Oh, your wrists!” Beata exclaimed. Her nails lengthened to claws as she sliced the cloth strips binding Marynka’s hands, fury twisting her features as she glanced at Kajetan. “How dare he lay his hands on you! Did he hurt you anywhere else? I’m going to kill him.”
Marynka squirmed away from her fussing. Free from the holy-water-soaked bonds, the raw red skin at her wrists was already starting to heal, though far more slowly than she would have liked. “Forget that. Forget him. What about you? Are you okay? Zosia’s shadows snatched you from the sleigh and—”
Beata’s expression darkened at the other girl’s name, and she rubbed her shoulder as if to ease some past hurt. “I’m fine. Really. Something like that isn’t enough to kill me. And anyway I. . .” She stopped.
“What?” Marynka said when she didn’t continue.
Beata bit her lip, gaze straying beyond Marynka to her horse. The animal flicked its ears. “You can’t be angry.” Her violet eyes were imploring. “I had to do it. You were lost and I didn’t know what else to do.”
Marynka’s brow furrowed in confusion.
A sudden breeze blew a strand of golden hair across Beata’s lips.
The air around them warmed. All Marynka’s relief faded away. A cold, creeping dread stole through her veins even as the hot breeze rushed across her skin. “Beata,” she whispered, “you didn’t.”
Beata’s expression was a portrait of guilty defiance. “I called for help. I had to.”
The wind picked up, blowing wildly now, sweeping away the last of the morning mist, carrying with it the familiar scents of summer: Fresh hay and the heady aroma of sun-warmed earth. Rain-soaked leaves. Red poppy flowers. Snowmelt dripped from black branches as an old woman, her thin back bent with age, her eyes like molten gold and her head wrapped in a bloodred kerchief, strode between the trees.
Marynka’s throat was dry as dust. “G-Grandmother.”