Yvgenie Page 18

  But he believed she did in fact want that, in her heart, if only she could be assured he would not harm the boy. She would talk to him at safe distance, far from other wizardly interference. He had not heard a word or a stray thought from Sasha since they had parted company; and he hoped to come within Ilyana's influence before the night was out. But they were past Volkhi's first wind now, and he set a pace to hold as long as had to be.

  But on the down side of a hill Volkhi began to shake his neck and object to the direction they were going, snorting and dancing about as if he had something entirely unpleasant in his nostrils.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said. On a vagary of the breeze he caught a whiff of it himself: river water where none belonged—

  And snake.

  Something heavy moved in the brush. A voice hissed, ‘Well, well, well, what have we? Is it the man with the sword? How extremely nice. We're so pleased to find old friends.’

  It spoke so softly. And it struck so suddenly, out of the dark brush. Volkhi shied across the slope as Pyetr spied a glistening dark body coming at them across the leaves and signaled Volkhi to jump over it.

  A snaky shadow whipped out of the trees, hit his shoulder a numbing blow—that was his only startled realization as his loot raked across Volkhi's back and he left the saddle.

  Missy was doing her best, poor horse, and for far too long there had been no answer from Pyetr—not a wisp of an impression where Pyetr was now. Nothing had passed the smothering silence from the moment Pyetr had ridden away, exactly what Sasha had feared would be the case. Pyetr had salt and sulfur with him, against noxious and magical creatures: he had given Pyetr that before he left the house.

  But what with their arguing, and Pyetr rushing off, not hearing his warning—the god only hope, Sasha thought, that it was Ilyana's doing and that Pyetr had in fact found her, because for all his wishing he got now a fleeting sense of fright—which gave him no ease either. ‘

  ‘Misighi!’ he called from time to time—but there was nothing from their old friend—and from the young leshys no answer, unless the Forest-things were contributing to the uneasy feeling in the night. The creatures abhorred magic and wizards: they were never easy neighbors to sorcery, and it was certainly an uncomfortably unpredictable lot of wishes I hat had gotten loose in the woods tonight.

  Worse, there was a distressing feeling of self-will about it all, an irrational lack of forethought, or thought at all, and it was all too easy for a young wizard to make that mistake: Chernevog had made that mistake in his own youth, and that the mouse had run away made him fear that Eveshka was right, that they were not dealing with the mouse in her right senses. That the mouse had left her father lying bleeding on the floor, never mind the pillow, gave him no confidence at all tonight.

  In cold truth, he was scared, he was terrified of the mouse's inexperience and her quick assumptions of persecution where none existed: Think, mouse, he wished her. Is it reasonable that everyone who loves you has turned against you? I'm worried about your decisions, mouse. I want to talk to you. I promise I won't harm your young man.

  But he feared his wishes died in the silence and he could not breach it. He was not the naive boy who had bespelled the vodka jug: the years had worn away his certainties; and now a day removed from the fire that had taken his house and so many of his notes, he could not shut his eyes without seeing the flames; and knowing the books were worth his life, knowing now that they had almost cost Pyetr's, the more he thought about it the more he was, stupidly, belatedly, panicked.

  Dammit, Pyetr, doesn't the silence mean something to you?

  Doesn't the fact that you aren't hearing from me—mean something?

  Pyetr, dammit, notice that I'm not talking to you! Stop and wait! I don't like what I'm feeling right now.

  Misighi, do you hear me? Please hear me.

  Then a faint, far thought did come to him.

  ‘Pyetr?’ he asked softly, and did not like—did not like the uneasiness he felt in the air. He suddenly wondered what Volkhi was up to: that seemed the safest question—

  Volkhi was angry, his saddle was empty and he was frightened, exhausted and lost, in a place where Volkhi was sure there were snakes—which was, emphatically, Not His Fault.

  ‘Misighi, dammit! Wake up!’

  He wanted, oh, god Missy to hurry, please! because he could hear a very quiet voice now that he knew beyond a doubt what to listen for, a sibilant and mocking voice, wholly untrustworthy.

  7

  ‘Does its head hurt?’ the vodyanoi asked out of the dark. It slithered over Pyetr's leg, and back again, up against his cheek, wet and smelling of river water. Something unpleasant flickered lightly against his ear, inside it, and Pyetr could not move, not so much as lo case the arm that had gone numb under him.

  It whispered within his ear, ‘Is it sorry now, is the man sorry now for his discourtesies?’

  Get away from me, he wanted to say; but breath failed him. The vodyanoi's serpent shape loomed up and up across the visible sky, and lowered, to nudge his chin familiarly with its blunt nose.

  Salt and sulfur, he thought desperately. Salt and sulfur— in my pocket if I could reach it—

  Did Volkhi get away?

  ‘The horse ran, oh, yes, off into the woods. Maybe we can find him.'' A coil fell across his chest, and grew heavier, crushing the breath out of him. ‘Or maybe not. You're so fond of him. Maybe I'd rather eat him later. And no, you can’t reach it, nasty man.’

  Sasha! He shut his eyes, thinking as sanely as he could: I'm in deep trouble, friend. Can you possibly hear me?— 'Veshka? Then, on another, calculating thought:—Mouse, your father's in a damned lot of difficulty. Could we have some help, mouse? You could make things up with your mother... so much easier if I wasn't this thing's supper—

  'Veshka! God, do something!

  Heavier and heavier. He felt his ribs bending, felt the world turning around and around, dark shot through with colored fire. Hwiuur said, tongue flickering maddeningly against his ear, ‘No one's listening. Perhaps it would be polite if I let it breathe a moment?''

  He would. Yes. Anything to get feeling into his hand and find the salt, or his sword—not clever of him to think of that in the vodyanoi's hearing, no. But Hwiuur's weight eased all the same, and he gasped after the promised breath, thinking, What does he want? Whose is he this time, if not Chernevog's?

  —Who's off in the woods with my daughter—

  Oh, god, mouse, where are you?

  The vodyanoi rose up and up, huge, darkening the night over him. ‘Is it polite now?''

  ‘It's very polite,’ he whispered to that shadow, discovering he had a voice. ‘What do you want, Hwiuur?’

  ‘Pretty bones is on the river tonight. And in my cave. What do you think about that?''

  'Veshka. The god only knew what the snake meant about the cave. He risked another, deeper breath. ‘My wife's not so easy to catch.’

  The vodyanoi hissed and bent lower, sharp teeth looming above his face. ‘Very dangerous, very, very dangerous. Foolish man, to get a young one with pretty bones. Life in death. Death in life. Her bones are still in my cave, foolish man, and she hears the river every night in her dreams.’

  ‘What about my daughter?''

  ‘Such pretty, pretty bones. Tell Sasha, tell my dear, my sweet Sasha, that he's been as much a fool as you have.’

  ‘I'll be happy to tell him. Make him hear me.’

  ‘Oh, can't he, now? Too, too bad. Then perhaps we can make a bargain without him, you and I?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Dangerous, dangerous man. What will you give me?’

  ‘What are we dealing for?’

  ‘Bonesss.’ The vodyanoi slithered across his chest, beneath a numb leg and over it, under his back and around and around his body and still he could not move, not so much as n linger. ‘Bones, of course. What will you offer for them? What have you got to trade?''

  He felt pain in his shoulder, apart from the general ache in hi
s limbs. Another in his right hand, thinking of which, he tried to move if only a single finger—thinking, The damned snake's bitten me—that's what it's done. Come on, dammit—god—

  ‘Will you trade?’ Hwiuur asked. ‘Nice, fresh bonesss, I wonder?’

  He might have his sword by him, if starting with that ache in his shoulder, he could move at all. There was the salt—

  The vodyanoi moved across him and weighed his arms. ‘Nasssty man. Don't do that. Your daughter's run off with fine rusalka. With our old friend Chernevog. Aren't you interested?’

  ‘Sasha!’ he yelled. The vodyanoi chuckled softly and caressed his cheek with a scaly jaw.

  ‘Oh, Sasha should have done something by now. So should pretty bones. So might your daughter—but she's sleeping with Chernevog tonight. Such a dutiful child you've made. You should be so very proud.’

  Coils went around and around him. He shut his eyes, trying to move that hand, or to make someone hear him, without magic, without anyone in earshot—

  ‘Misighi!’ he breathed, because there were things that were magical as the vodyanoi, that needed no spells to hear their names invoked—

  Breath stopped. There was no room for it. Then something snarled and spat and rushed, hissing and spitting, across the dead leaves toward him. The vodyanoi reared up and hissed like water on hot iron, carrying him in its coils.

  He had a view of the ground. Far below. Then came a sickening drop. Something attached to his leg—he thought, Hell—what is it?

  Pain got through the numbness. The coils slipped away from him and let him go.

  For what good that did.

  Missy was exhausted. Missy trampled down the undergrowth in her path and simply plowed straight ahead, her breath coming hard—far too many apples and sweets from the kitchen over the years—she could not keep such a pace as she took now.

  But she smelled something familiar and friendly. Her ears went up and she lifted her head for a look as she went, on a last reserve of strength. It was Volkhi she was thinking of, in Missy's way, nothing to do with names: but Sasha knew what she smelled, he had wished Volkhi to come to them, and thank the god, Volkhi, alone of everything in the forest, seemed to have heard—Missy, if not him.

  But where was Pyetr, he wondered of Volkhi, where had he left him, how long ago?

  It was a thoroughly upset, thoroughly tired Volkhi, who did not know where his rider was, and who was sure he was in trouble for it. He arrived out of the brush like a piece of night, distraught, angry, his thoughts scattering every which way—

  But he was willing to stand while Sasha slid off Missy and climbed up on his back. Volkhi thought it was stupid to go back where he knew there were snakes, but he would go, if everybody else was going. Volkhi was going to kick hell out of anything that moved back there.

  Sasha agreed with him. He wanted leshys, he wanted the mouse's attention, he wanted Pyetr's, if he could reach him; and most urgently, knowing the name Volkhi did not, he the vodyanoi sliced and fried, if it harmed a hair on Pyetr's head—

  Hwiuur, you're being a fool. Hurt him and I'll get you for it, I'll get you, Hwiuur, there'll never be a day I'll be off our track.

  Then he was certain of a sudden where he was going—the slack of Missy's reins taking up all but pulled him off Volkhi's neck as Volkhi pricked up his ears and jolted into a brisker pace. Volkhi shook his head and protested with an I-know-you sound as Sasha reined him down to a pace Missy could keep. He wanted to go where Volkhi wanted to go, fast, and it was not helping hold Volkhi in at all.

  Babi was the thought he began to sort out of Volkhi's thoughts. Babi was no easy creature to wish and Babi would not tolerate eavesdropping—but the horses both could hear him. The horses had an idea of Babi that a man had trouble holding; but Volkhi was definitely answering him, in Volkhi's way: Volkhi launched himself straight up a hill with a drive of his hindquarters, wanting more rein as Sasha tried to hold on to Missy and stay in the saddle, while if ever a horse could swear, Volkhi was swearing, fighting the reins all the way to hp crest, into a thin growth of saplings.

  Something shone pale in the dark thicket below, a white scrap of cloth gleaming through interlaced branches—a body lying on the ground.

  ‘Oh, god—’ He almost let go of Missy's reins, then recalled that all their medicines were on Missy's back, and held on to Volkhi's saddle and to her, begging her to hurry, please! While Volkhi fought him all the way down the hill.

  He wanted Pyetr to be all right, he wanted the whole woods to know they were in trouble as he slid down from Volkhi's back and shoved his way through the interlaced twigs of saplings. Babi was curled at Pyetr's side, a very small, very black ball of fur that growled and hissed at him as he fell his knees.

  Pyetr was lying on his stomach, one arm beneath him, his shirt stained dark on his right shoulder, and, god, he had bled enough for three men. He was still breathing—but only just.

  His hands were shaking as he peeled Pyetr's collar down and discovered a wound a sword might have made: a vodyanoi’s bite, he was sure of it. On both sides of the shoulder-and blood was still coming.

  Nothing had been going right: nothing of his magic had worked, and he was never good at doctoring; he believed in pain more than he believed in his own magic, 'Veshka always said so. Uulamets might have dealt with a wound like this, 'Veshka could, little as she worked magic; even the mouse was better than he was—if it was baby birds or a woundedfox—

  Stop shaking, fool. The old man's voice echoed out of memory. Fool, master Uulamets had used to call him when he hesitated. —What's more important, feeling or doing? One or the other, fool! Use your wits! Think!

  —Warmth. Light to see with, herbs and wishes and bandages to stop the blood, do, fool! Don't sit there! Wish while you're working!

  He scrambled up and broke dead branches off lower limbs, the driest wood there was; he untied his baggage from Missy's back, got the medicines and the fire-pot—oily moss for tinder: he tucked a wad in beneath the twigs, struck a spark and wished it—dammit! to light straightaway, no messing about with might-be's.

  Candles tipping, spilling wax. The fireplace would not hold a fire, because in his heart he was afraid of it—

  Dammit!

  Fire took, the least point of light, and faltered. God, he was going to lose it—

  —Please, please be all right, Pyetr, don't do this to me. It's no time for jokes, Pyetr, please wake up and talk to me, I'm not doing well at this! Someone's wishes are winning, but not mine tonight—

  The mouse is wishing us not to catch her and her generalities are killing us—

  So wish the specific, fool! Decide and do! Specific always wins!

  Second spark. No infinite number of chances. There was so much blood in a body, and magic had to want the fire, believe in the fire, one spark at a time, not flinch at the flames, not set out to fail from the beginning.

  River stench clung strong about this place. Fire gave smoke, smoke of birch and alder, smoke of moss and herbs— and water gave way to it.

  No time for medicines. Blood was flowing too fast. He laid hands on the wound while Babi's fire-glittering black followed his every move. Babi was here, too, Babi was wanting things to work, no less than he was.

  One did not need the smoke, one did not need the herbs, one needed only think of them—yarrow and willow, feverfew and sulfur—

  Vodka. Babi's eyes glowed like moons. But Babi stayed quite, quite still. And licked his lips.

  Think of health. Think of home, with the crooked chimney and all. Think of 'Veshka and the mouse being there, and Pyetr, and himself—one did not need to touch, one needed only think of touching—and not even that—

  But the sky in that image grayed, and the house weathered, and lost shingles—

  He brought back the sun again. He put the shingles back, and added the horses grazing on the open hillside and Babi In the front yard.

  Clouds tried to gather. Weeds tried to grow. A board fell off the gate.


  He hit his lip and made it go back. A rail fell off the fence. But he set himself in the middle of that yard, with Pyetr as he was, and wanted the shoulder as it had been.

  That was the answer. Shingles fell, thunder rumbled, and he built a small fire in front of him and fed it, while he fed the one in the dark of the woods, and breathed the smoke, pine and willow.

  He set the vodka jug beside him in the yard—the unbreakable and inexhaustible jug: his one youthful magic, the once-in-a-lifetime spell old Uulamets had told him a wizard might cast: no effort at all it had been to want that jug rolling across the deck—not unbroken—but truly whole, so whole it could never afterward be less than it was at that moment.

  Scarily easy, so easy that he had felt queasy about that spell ever after. He had doubted it could be good, and most of all feared what wishing at someone might do—

  But he needed that absolute magic now, if only once for the rest of his life, and the jug was the key. He saw the yard, with the wind blowing and the sky going darker; he picked up the jug among falling leaves, locked it in his arms and wanted, with the same simplicity, Pyetr to be with him, the same—the same—as in that unthinking instant he had be-spelled the jug—

  No! Oh, god, that day had not been the best in their lives. Pyetr had not married 'Veshka, yet, had not had a daughter then.

  God, what have I done?

  But the shingles were on the roof again, the yard was raked and kept. The house was standing solid and intact; but he had no idea who was living in Pyetr's house… as it would someday stand. He had wished something. He had felt the shift in things-as-they-were and things-as-they-would-be. He wanted to go inside the house and find out who lived there; or failing that, only to go up on the porch and look in the unshuttered windows, please the god, to reassure himself what he had done would not change what was inside—

  But he was sitting in front of a dying fire with the vodka jug in his arms, and Pyetr was lying on the ground in front of him, while Babi—Babi had his small arms locked about Pyetr's neck, his face buried in Pyetr's pale hair.