The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy Book 3)

by Katherine Arden

The sky was a river of stars, but she didn’t look up. The death-god was the only thing she could see.

“There are no monsters in the world, and no saints. Only infinite shades woven into the same tapestry, light and dark. One man’s monster is another man’s beloved. The wise know that.”

Magic makes men mad. They forget what is real because too much is possible.

“And yet, I will think of the future,” Vasya retorted. “To remind me that the present is not forever. One day I may see my brother Alyosha again, and my sister Irina. I might have a home of my own, a place and a purpose, a victory. What is the present without the future?”

His last words, a reluctant confession. As I could, I loved you. She would never forget how he’d looked then. His expression, the impress of his hands, were seared into her memory.

“I am a witch,” said Vasya. Blood was running down her hand now, spoiling her grip. “I have plucked snowdrops at Midwinter, died at my own choosing, and wept for a nightingale. Now I am beyond prophecy.”

“I have crossed three times nine realms to find you, my lord. And I find you at play, forgetful.”

“Did you bring me here to watch me bleed to death? You are going to be disappointed. I am getting used to spiting people by surviving.”

“Love is for those who know the griefs of time, for it goes hand in hand with loss. An eternity, so burdened, would be a torment. And yet—” He broke off, drew breath. “Yet what else to call it, this terror and this joy?”

She bent forward to breathe into his ear: “Never give me orders.” “Command me, then,” he whispered back. The words went through her like wine.

Finally, wearily, he threw a log on the fire and said, “I do not like him.” “I fear,” said Sergei, “that he does not care in the slightest.”

“He”—she stumbled, finished—“he has been a joy to me.” And, drily, “Also a great source of frustration.”

She could not think for wanting him.

“As I could, I loved you too,” she whispered.

“You shattered him,” she said. “Perhaps. Though I did not make the cracks.”

“You’re coming with me,” she told him. “I don’t trust you out of my sight.” “Quite right,” said the Bear and looked up at the sky with a sigh of pleasure.

“They are wicked,” said Sergei at last. “They are the unclean forces of the earth.” “Men are also wicked,” Vasya returned passionately.

“Men make themselves afraid,” the Bear told her, smiling. “Imagining is worse than anything they actually see. All it takes is whispers in the dark. Come with me now, Vasilisa Petrovna.”

That way lay madness: hiding from the worst parts of her own nature until, out of sight, they became monstrous growths to devour the rest of her.

“I will call you again,” she said. “If there is need.” “So you will,” he said. “I may even answer.”