Unless the point of his capture wasn’t to stop his attacks.
But what would the point be, then?
She didn’t have an answer to that.
Anya reached the gates Vasilisa had brought her, Ivan, and Håkon through. Two guards flanked the gate, and they stepped forward as she approached.
“A little early to be going out, isn’t it?” one asked.
Anya pulled her coat tighter. “It’s almost morning. I need to get an early start.”
The other one said, “An early start getting killed? This is the Nightingale’s road now. It’s not safe out there, little girl.”
“I won’t get killed,” Anya said. “He doesn’t kill people.”
The guards both laughed.
“Not yet, but he will,” the first guard said. “Now, be a good girl and go back home.”
He reached out to turn her back toward the city, but she ducked away from him. She sprinted toward the gate, and the guards yelled for her to stop. She didn’t. Anya ran across the bridge, past the pile of dead trees, and into the Nightingale’s wood.
Chapter Twenty
Anya hid until she was sure the guards weren’t chasing her, and then she hurried toward the Nightingale’s tree. It was easily visible, towering over the rest of the forest. She didn’t try to find him; she was certain he’d know that she was there, and he would find her.
The huge tree loomed above her. She shuffled up to its base, again marveling at its construction. Smaller trees grew overlapping against one another, creating an impenetrable wall that stretched around so far that her house and barn could have fit inside. It was tall, double the height of the forest around it, its branches swaying in a breeze that hit only the very tallest parts. The breeze swept off its golden and orange leaves, sprinkling them down on Anya like confetti.
Anya put her flat palm against the bark, hoping maybe something magical would happen. But nothing did. It was just a tree.
Movement off to her right side caught her eye. She jerked her hand away and turned. The Nightingale stood in the shadow of the leaves, barely visible. She wondered if he had been there the whole time.
Anya held her hands up, showing the Nightingale she had no weapons. Her heart pounded. Fear sat heavy in her chest. If he wanted to hurt her, he could, and she wouldn’t be able to fight back.
He stepped forward, out of the shadows, so she could see him in full. Did he really look more like an elf now, or was it because now she knew he was one? He was wearing a long coat, rather than just the meager shirt and pants he had worn when he’d attacked them yesterday. Gold skin, but so pale. Like pine wood. Hair like dirty rocks, or was it like pine bark? If he got closer, would he have pine-green eyes?
“I just want to talk,” Anya said.
His painted black eyes never moved from her face. He said nothing.
“Please,” Anya said.
He blinked out of sight.
“Oh, come on!” Anya yelled. She hesitated, then ran to the spot he had been a second ago, hoping it would be apparent where he went. But there was nothing.
The wind rustled the branches above Anya’s head. They knocked together, and a bird sang nearby. She wished desperately for Håkon or Ivan, or both, to be there with her.
“You haven’t killed anyone,” Anya said once she found her voice. “You could, but you don’t. Why?”
The last word—Why?—hung in the air, echoing. She stepped back as the echo of her own voice spun around her, coming from all sides. She shut her eyes, and the echo stopped.
When she opened her eyes, she startled. The Nightingale was standing in front of her, an arm’s length away. His eyes were a deep, dark green. Behind the black paint and the dirt, he was so young. Did the tsar know he was hunting someone barely old enough to grow hair on his face?
He brought his hands up, and Anya tensed. When he moved his fingers, though, he wasn’t pulling threads. He was doing something else. He pointed to himself. He clawed his hands, palms up, in front of his chest. He drew his thumb under his chin.
Then he did those three movements again, and again, and a realization peppered Anya like falling tree leaves. He was speaking to her.
He saw her realize it and he nodded. Faster, he did the same things with his hands, then added more onto the end. Anya got lost in the whirl of intricate gesturing. Is this how elves communicated? By using their hands? Could he not speak?
“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Anya said. “I want to help you, though. Why are you here? How can I help you?”
He let his hands drop as she spoke, his eyes watching her mouth. The next time he moved, he was certainly pulling a thread. Her own word—help—came back at her. He was speaking to her, with her own voice. Then he tensed, looking past her with wide eyes. He pointed two fingers at his eyes, and then flipped them around so they pointed to the road.
Anya spun to see what he saw, but no one was there. When she turned back around, he was gone.
“Wait!” she whispered. “Nightingale! Don’t leave me!”
Nothing.
She heard the sound then: horse hooves on the road, coming to a stop. Footsteps in the forest, coming toward her. She hurried back, intending to hide behind the tree. Was it Vasilisa and Misha? Or maybe Ilya? Alyosha? Some other guard? If they found her, how much trouble would she be in?
Anya leaned against the tree, and it shifted against her back. Before she could jump away from it, a hole opened up, and a hand reached through.
The Nightingale leaned out of the hole and grabbed her wrist. He put a finger over his lips, shushing her, as he pulled her inside the tree’s dark interior.
Chapter Twenty-One
The hole that had opened up for Anya snapped shut with a whisper, and she was cast into darkness. She stood still inside the tree for a few heartbeats, the Nightingale holding on to her wrist. Without realizing it, she clutched his arm and clung to him, an anchor in the dark.
The Nightingale tried stepping away from her, but she stepped with him. He slipped a finger between her hand and his arm and tried to pry her off. When she just squeezed harder, he sighed. A moment later, the darkness around her began to lift, and she could see his outline next to her. He was drawing his fingers along threads in the air, rolling them between his fingertips. The light came from stones along the floor, which glowed more brightly the more he rolled his fingers. The glowing stones were bright enough for her to see the entire inside of the tree. It was cluttered with a random assortment of boxes and barrels and bags: things he had taken from travelers, probably. Around the perimeter, the branches of all the trees grew into a narrow, uneven staircase. Anya followed the staircase up with her eyes and noticed a wooden flap covering an opening above her.
“Anya!”
The Nightingale tensed, half fading out of sight. Someone was calling her name from outside the tree.
In the next breath, the Nightingale ran up the staircase. She followed, afraid the lights would go out once he was gone. Anya ran as fast as she felt safe, but he was way ahead of her. At the top was a wide space sheltered by the canopy leaves of all the trees that grew together for the big tree. It was bitterly cold.
The Nightingale hurried to the edge of the tree; he less walked than seemed blown by the wind. Anya followed as he stepped out onto the tree’s long, bare branches, fading from view before her eyes.
Voices from down below wound up to her ears. She recognized them.
“Ivan?” she whispered, darting to the edge of the platform. The ground was a long, long way down, and at the bottom, Ivan stood with Håkon and two other, bigger figures.
Ilya Muromets and Alyosha Popovich. Both wore armor now instead of the finery at last night’s banquet.
Ivan paced around the tree, rubbing his chin. Håkon stood by Alyosha, his shoulder turned away slightly, guarding himself from the bogatyr. Ilya stood still, arms crossed, watching Ivan.
“Anya!” Ivan yelled again.
“What makes you think she’s eve
n out here?” Alyosha asked, picking at the sleeve of his undershirt.
Ivan crouched and poked the ground with a finger. “Little, tiny Anya-size footprints.”
Anya looked down at her boots. She didn’t have tiny feet! She squinted at them. Okay . . . maybe she did.
“Those could be anyone’s,” Alyosha said, bored. “I’m going back to the castle. The princess can’t avoid me forever.”
“Alyosha,” Ilya said in a warning voice, “give it a day or two.”
“I agree,” Ivan said from where he followed Anya’s footprints. “It’s very apparent that she hates your guts.”
Alyosha shouted, “Oh, I didn’t know fools were experts on love!”
“We are, absolutely,” Ivan said. “I thought bogatyri were supposed to be experts on bird monsters, and that’s why you came.”
Alyosha said, “The Nightingale isn’t a bird.”
“Nightingales are birds,” Ivan said.
“Yes, but our Nightingale isn’t,” Ilya said. “He’s called that because of his whistles.”
Ivan stopped in front of the tree, right where the Nightingale had pulled Anya in. He straightened and looked up, then put his hand on the tree’s side. He dropped his hand, turning back to the bogatyri, and pulled something out from the inside of his coat.
Anya squinted. Was that—? Yes. The notebook Lena had given him. He scribbled in it as he walked slowly to the bogatyri.
“You know,” Ivan said, “I think Alyosha is right. I don’t think she’s out here. Those footprints aren’t even people-prints. They’re obviously from a vila.”
Ilya said, “A vila?”
“A beautiful forest spirit who will suck the life out of you!” Ivan said cheerfully.
“I know what a vila is,” Ilya said. “I didn’t realize they left footprints.”
“Of course they do!” Ivan said. He showed Ilya what he had been writing.
Ilya leaned closer and read it, then nodded. He spoke slowly. “Yes. You’re right. A vila.”
“Yep.” Ivan showed the note to Alyosha, who likewise nodded. “I think you two are safe to go back to the castle.”
“What about you?” Ilya asked. “Are you sure it’s wise to stay here on your own?”
“Of course it isn’t wise!” Ivan said. “But it is my method. I need to do some reconnaissance!” He pointed to Håkon, who had still said nothing, hunched like he expected the bogatyri to attack him at any moment. “My assistant and I will be perfectly safe. Don’t you worry one single bit.”
Ilya and Alyosha exchanged skeptical glances.
The Nightingale appeared in front of Anya then, instantly. One second he wasn’t there, and the next he was. She startled back.
He looked angry. Well, she supposed, he always looked a little bit angry, like he hadn’t smiled in so long that he had forgotten how to do it. He pointed to where Ivan and Håkon stood, eyebrows furrowed quizzically.
“Those are my friends,” Anya said, answering what she assumed his question was: Who are they?
The bogatyri walked away, heads together, speaking to each other softly. As soon as they left, Ivan ran to the tree and looked up. Anya wanted to wave at him, but the Nightingale pulled her away from the edge.
“Hey!” she protested. “I told you, they’re my friends. They’re nice.”
Solemnly, he shook his head.
“Yes,” Anya argued. “Nice. Good.”
He didn’t shake his head again, but clearly he didn’t believe her that they were nice. She couldn’t blame him, really. The last time he had seen Ivan, the fool had attacked him.
She looked down. “They’re good. I prom—”
The Nightingale grabbed her chin in two fingers and pointed her face to him.
“Hey!” Anya protested.
With two fingers, he pointed to his eyes. Then he turned his fingers to her mouth. Back and forth a few times, from his eyes to her mouth, until it clicked.
He wanted to watch her speak.
“They’re good,” she repeated. “I promise.”
The Nightingale’s hand zipped up, and he caught the thread of her last word.
Promise promise promise. His face was a question. Promise?
She nodded. “Yes.”
He still looked unsure, but he nodded once before winking out of sight.
“Hey!” Ivan yelled. “A hole opened in the tree! Håkon! Look!”
Håkon’s voice then: “I’m not going in there.”
“Yes, you are!” Ivan said. “Let’s go!”
“No!” Håkon hissed. “I don’t have any magic. What if something happens? I can’t help you.”
“We’ll be fine,” Ivan said. “I think I’m starting to feel it. The fool magic! I have water magic and fool magic, Håkon.”
“Is it fool magic,” Håkon asked, “or are you just being stupid?”
“Both! It’s what fools do!”
“I’m not a fool, Ivan.”
“And you never will be with that attitude!” Ivan said. “You can’t think too much about things, Håkon. You’ve got to grab life by the horns, and—”
“I told you never to grab things by their horns,” Håkon said. “It’s rude.”
“You know what I meant, you wet blanket.” Ivan’s next declaration echoed from inside the tree. “It’s hollow. There’s lights. There’s . . . Håkon, there are stairs!”
Ivan’s footsteps thumped on the steps, and then Håkon’s followed, slower and more cautiously. As Anya watched, Ivan’s head appeared at the top of the stairs, and his face broke into a huge grin when he saw her.
“Anya!” He hurried out of the opening. “What are . . .” Ivan trailed off as he looked around the tree and let out a low whistle of appreciation. “This is the best treehouse I’ve ever seen.”
Håkon was still on the stairs, peering up like a surfacing vodyanoi. “This is a trap.”
Anya jammed her hands on her hips. “It’s not a trap! Come up here already.”
Håkon narrowed his eyes and stayed on the stairs.
Ivan walked around the platform, inspecting things. “How did you get up here?”
“The Nightingale,” Anya said. “He brought me up.”
“Is he here?” Ivan peered around, suddenly tense.
“He was,” Anya said. “He disappeared. I think he’s afraid of you two.”
Ivan laughed. “He’s afraid of us?”
Anya crossed her arms. “He’s different when people aren’t shooting water balls at him.”
“Hey!” Ivan said. “He attacked us first!”
Anya shushed him. “He could have killed us easily if he wanted to. But he didn’t. He tried to tell me something earlier—”
“What do you mean, tried?” Ivan said. “Does he not speak Russian?”
“He doesn’t speak at all,” Anya said, then corrected, “Not with his mouth. He uses his hands.”
The look of confusion on Ivan’s face was absolute but didn’t last long. His eyes sparked the way they did when he had a brilliant idea.
“Can you call him back?” Ivan asked, eyes still glowing. He pulled the notebook out of his coat. “We can use this to write to him!”
“Will he be able to read it?” Anya asked.
Ivan shrugged. “Maybe not. We won’t know until we try, though.”
“Well, anyway, I don’t think I can call him back,” Anya said. “He just shows up when he wants to.” She glared at Håkon, still standing on the stairs. “You’re probably not making him reappear any faster!”
Håkon muttered and trudged up the last few steps. He stood by Anya, arms crossed and hands dug up under his armpits. “We’re all going to die.”
“We are not,” Anya said, and then the Nightingale appeared just out of reach of any of them. Ivan and Håkon startled, but Anya was getting used to the Nightingale’s popping in and out. She turned to face him, hands up. “They’re nice! Just jumpy.”
The Nightingale was silent, but he stood like every muscle i
n his body was ready to snap. He watched Ivan or Håkon; whoever it was, Anya couldn’t be sure, because they were both behind her while she faced the Nightingale. She hoped they weren’t misbehaving.
She turned. Ivan and Håkon were both staring at the Nightingale, equally tense. The air was tight around them. Anya whacked Ivan’s arm with the back of her hand, and he flinched.
“Anya!” he said. “What?”
“Give me your notebook,” she said.
He pulled the notebook against his chest, hesitating.
“Wait. What if we charm him?”
“We’ll tell him it’s a charm book,” Anya said. “Maybe that will stop the magic.”
Ivan squirmed. “I don’t—”
“We don’t have all day!” Anya snapped, and he handed over the notebook and the charcoal pencil he had been using.
Anya flipped the book open past the first page, where Ivan had scrawled his “insurance” the day before. The next page was the one Ivan had showed the bogatyri, presumably, because it said in Ivan’s tall, thin lettering: It’s a vila. Go away.
She flipped to the next blank page and wrote, This is a charmed notebook. Sorry. Can you read this? She held it up to the Nightingale, whose eyes scanned across the page in the proper direction. So at least he knew how to read. But did he read Russian?
He met her eyes and nodded slowly.
Relief. She scribbled more: My name is Anya. Then she wrote Ivan and Håkon, and took turns pointing to each name and then the boy to which it belonged.
The Nightingale watched Anya introduce her friends, and then he took the charcoal pencil from her. With careful, looping letters, he wrote Alfhercht.
“Alfhercht,” Anya said, trying the name out: AWL-furkt. She wasn’t sure she was saying it right, but that was as close an approximation as she could come up with. “Your name is Alfhercht.”
Anya and the Nightingale Page 15