After that, for a time during which time was not, she drifted like a rusalka beneath the water. Almost she wondered if she too had drowned and become such a spirit. Twilight and hush enfolded her, windows glowed with colors and images, walls with gold and images … but no, that stern strange face overhead was Christ, Lord of the World, in the ring of his apostles, and yonder giantess made of little stones was his Mother, and … the song, the deep moaning tones that finally lifted from behind a carven screen, while bells rang high above, those were in praise of his Father… She prostrated herself on cold flags.
Awareness seeped into her much later. The church had become a cavern of night; she was alone, except for a few clergy and many candles. Where had the day gone? She crossed herself and hastened out.
The sun was down, the sky still blue but swiftly darkening, the streets full of dusk between walls in whose windows flamelight fluttered yellow. They were well-nigh deserted. Her breath, footfalls on cobbles, rustle of skirts sounded loud in the quiet. Turn right at this corner, left at the next— no, wait, that was wrong, she had never seen yonder house with the rafter ends carved into heads— She was lost.
She stopped, filled her lungs and eased them again, grinned wryly. “Fool,” she whispered. “At your age you should have known better.” She glanced about. Roofs stood black against a heaven gone almost as dark, where three stars trembled. Opposite, paleness crept upward, the moon rising. So, west and east. Her lodging stood near the south wall. If she kept on that way, as closely as these crooked lanes allowed, she should reach it. Then she could knock on a door and ask directions. No doubt Olga would make a fuss and tomorrow Gleb would chide her.
She stiffened her back. She was headman Volodar’s daughter. Picking her steps carefully, gown held above ankles, to avoid the worst muck, she set off.
Twilight thickened toward night. Air lay chilly. The moon gave wan light when she saw it, but mostly it was still behind roofs.
Lampglow, smoke, smells of kvass and cookery, spilled from a half-open door. Voices barked, laughter bayed. She scowled and went by on the far side of the street. An inn, where men were getting drunk. She had seen that sort of thing when she visited the town with a husband. Rostislav had grown too fond of it, he’d reel back to her, all stench and sweat—
Boots thudded behind her, louder, nearer.
She quickened her steps. The other did too, and drew alongside. “Ha,” he growled, “greeting to you.” She could barely understand him.
They entered a patch of moonlight and he became more than a shadow. A head taller than she, he blocked the gathering western stars out of her sight. She saw a pate shaven except for a lock on the right side, a bristle of mustache under a nose that had once been broken, tattoos over the shaggy breast and down the thick arms. He wore a shirt half unlaced, broad trews, short cloak, everything stiff with old grease. The knife at his belt was nearly of sword size, a weapon forbidden to everyone but the Prince’s guards within this city.
A demon flashed ice-sharp through her, and then: No, a Varyag. I’ve heard about them, Northmen and Rusi who ply the rivers, walking stormwinds— She pulled her look from him and sought to go on.
A hand clamped on her right arm. “Now, now, not be hasty,” he laughed. “You out for fun this late, no? I give you fun.”
“Let me be!” she cried, and tugged at the grip. He wrenched. Pain stabbed sickeningly through her shoulder. She stumbled. He held her fast.
“Come,” he said, “there’s an alley, you tike it.” The smell of him caught at her gorge. She must gag before she could scream.
“Quiet, you! Nobody come.” His free hand cuffed. Her head rocked. Darkness roared through. Nonetheless, somehow, she dug her heels down and screamed again.
“Quiet or I— Ha-a-a.” He cast her to the cobbles. When she could see upward, he had turned to meet two others.