Swaying with the loose, unsteady gait of a drunk, Stefan made his way toward the back of the market. He wore a black cassock and a short mantle that reached his waist. A cylindrical black hat sat on his head, forever on the verge of slipping off, yet never quite falling.

  After a while, the passersby became mostly men. Ahead, a low building breathed out white steam. A banya.

  Stefan was swallowed inside.

  “Zaya. The sun’s going to set soon,” Norjin said, glancing back at her. “Want to head back first?”

  Zaya shook her head at once.

  “It’s men’s time now. Unfortunately, you can’t come in. A shame, isn’t it?” Norjin put on a theatrically sympathetic face.

  Zaya answered by glaring in silence.

  Norjin smiled and disappeared into the banya.

  A black cassock and a short mantle hung from pegs on the wall. Norjin stripped off what he was wearing as well, set it aside, took a venik from the corner, and stepped into the bathhouse.

  It was more spacious than he’d expected. The windows were small to keep the steam from escaping, leaving the room dim. Through the haze and gloom, he could make out several men chatting, while others sat in silence, sweating.

  After all the mead he’d put away, Stefan should reek of alcohol. Using the smell as a guide, Norjin searched.

  Then—thud. The sound of someone collapsing.

  Norjin lunged toward it and hauled up a black-clad figure.

  Stefan’s consciousness suddenly thinned. The room spun. He couldn’t stay upright.

  A violent nausea surged through him. He dropped to the floor, crawling, clinging to the boards—

  —and someone lifted him.

  At the edge of his blurred vision, a flank came into view: skin as white and glossy as polished porcelain.

  And there, ugly against it, was a deep red-purple wound, like the mark of a spear-thrust.

  Gold light flooded the world.

  “Lord… at last Your hand has reached me,” Stefan whispered.

  The nausea struck again.

  Panic seized him. He couldn’t vomit on the Lord’s body—he couldn’t.

  He tried desperately to swallow it back—

  —and everything went black.

  A sea of green grass spread before Batu’s eyes.

  He turned sharply, looking back.

  His wife, Boraqchin, stood with her ladies, seeing him off. She would follow at a slower pace, driving the sheep and fattening the herds along the way. Before she reached Rus, he needed to secure a place where she could pitch her tents.

  The wound in his chest had never been as deep as Zaya feared. He had handed the opening phase of the campaign to Subutai out of caution, but still—

  Without him, nothing would move the way it must.

  Soon the steppe would freeze. The ground would harden. Rivers would lock under ice.

  In winter, a host could travel more directly than in summer; their speed would rise.

  They would reach Vladimir—Norjin’s designated rendezvous point—faster than usual.

  Cold water splashed across Stefan’s face, and he jerked back into awareness.

  His blurred vision sharpened—and a pair of blue-gray eyes was peering down at him.

  A slender youth stood there, head wrapped in black cloth, holding a leather waterskin.

  Beside the youth, a man was crouched, watching Stefan. A face too beautiful to forget.

  It was the man from the tavern.

  Stefan wiped his face.

  Outside the banya, evening had already fallen toward dusk. Men from shuttered shops were arriving to sweat off their day. No bells rang anymore.

  “Oh…” Stefan clutched his head.

  He’d done it. He’d missed vespers.

  “Are you all right, Father?” the man asked, genuinely concerned. “Shall we escort you to the monastery?”

  “No—no, I’m fine.”

  Stefan pushed himself up, but even standing was difficult. At once, the man supported him.

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  “We’ll take you,” he said. “That monastery isn’t far.”

  “I’m sorry,” Stefan murmured, and leaned on the man’s shoulder.

  They slipped the gatekeeper a little money and entered the monastery grounds.

  Inside, a monk with a severe face met them at the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the monk snapped at Stefan.

  “Have you forgotten what the bishop said? If you skip the daily offices again, you will be sent away.

  You were driven from your own church and had nowhere to go, and yet the bishop took you in.

  Do you understand what that kindness means?”

  The monk’s words poured out in a scolding rush.

  Norjin looked to Stefan, quietly asking what was going on.

  “I failed again,” Stefan said, his voice shaking. “They told me if I missed the offices one more time, I’d be thrown out.”

  His hands trembled violently.

  “Wait—listen,” Stefan insisted, turning back to the monk.

  “I met the Lord. The Lord Himself lifted me up.”

  “How terrifyingly presumptuous,” the monk said, making the sign of the cross.

  “It wasn’t a lie,” Stefan said, clinging to the claim.

  “The Lord lifted me. There was a spear wound in His side.”

  Then Stefan swiveled toward Norjin, pleading.

  “You were in that banya too. You saw it, didn’t you?

  The Lord behind me in golden light—His body bearing a spear’s thrust—”

  Norjin and Zaya exchanged a glance.

  “It’s late,” the monk said curtly.

  “There is a lodging house for travelers. You will stay there tonight.

  Stefan—tomorrow, the deputy abbot wishes to speak with you.”

  Stefan groaned.

  Another monk led them to a wide communal sleeping hall, and Norjin and Zaya followed.

  Moonlight leaked through a small window of the lodging hall.

  Norjin slept within arm’s reach.

  Looking at his sleeping face, Zaya’s heart trembled with relief and joy.

  In her hand was the comb he had bought her that day.

  Its silverwork caught the moonlight and glittered.

  Zaya stroked it tenderly, then slid it into her hair. Without a mirror she couldn’t see it, but she felt happy—

  —and in the next instant, she yanked the comb out.

  What am I doing?

  She stared at it, speaking only in her mind.

  Unease crept in, quiet and cold.

  Is this really me?

  The next morning, after a simple meal of porridge and bread, Norjin and Zaya were led to the deputy abbot’s room.

  Stefan, now sober, stood slumped before the deputy abbot’s desk.

  “I can speak a little Kipchak,” the deputy abbot said to Norjin.

  “Apparently this man has been insisting on something intolerable.

  Tell me plainly: did you also see the Lord?”

  Stefan turned pleading eyes on Norjin.

  “No,” Norjin answered.

  Stefan covered his face.

  The deputy abbot fixed Stefan with an icy stare.

  “Pack your things and leave,” he said.

  “And do not imagine you will ever be allowed back here again.”

  Norjin, Zaya, and Stefan left the monastery together.

  Stefan looked as though taking even one step was a struggle.

  “Father,” Norjin said lightly, “want to come with us?”

  Stefan shook his head. He needed a drink. Desperately.

  But he had little money left.

  “If you make yourself useful, I’ll let you drink as much as you like,” Norjin said, casual as if offering a spare cloak.

  Stefan lifted his head.

  “There’s a deal,” Norjin went on. “We need an interpreter. Nothing complicated. We’re just going to hear their answer.”

  Stefan nodded.

  It felt as though there was no other road left to him.

  After they rode out of Vladimir and went on for a while, a few tents came into view.

  They were far sturdier than those of the local Kipchak—built like a proper camp.

  Clinging to Norjin’s back the whole way, Stefan felt dread spread in his chest.

  “Don’t let go,” Norjin warned. “You’ll fall. If you don’t want to break your neck, hold on tight.”

  Ahead, the youth’s headcloth had slipped like a hood onto their shoulders, and a black braid swayed down their back.

  Armored men were visible now.

  That armor—

  “No…” Stefan’s voice came out hoarse.

  The youth swung down from their horse. Norjin stopped as well, dismounted, and helped Stefan down from the saddle.

  A man who looked like a servant took the reins.

  The armored men approached.

  There was no doubt left.

  “T-Tatars,” Stefan breathed.

  The man who had brought him this far turned back to Stefan—

  and showed him a smile.

  Vasily stared at the parchment on his desk.

  He had just finished writing a letter to the Grand Prince of Kiev.

  Tosha had already gone home.

  The Tatars were moving again.

  The messenger who arrived today had reported that Volga Bulgaria had been destroyed.

  His face had been ashen; he said he had seen Bilyar burning down.

  He had nowhere left to return to, so Vasily had at least directed him to an inn—but perhaps he should be given work, too.

  Would the Grand Prince come to Kiev after reading this?

  Vasily thought, then concluded: probably not.

  The Grand Prince would not leave Halych for Kiev. He was a man of Halych.

  Tomorrow, Vasily would walk the walls and send craftsmen to repair what could be repaired.

  It might be pointless.

  But better pointless than too late.