Alfhercht hitched a breath and knelt by Wielaf, brushing his dirty hair off his forehead. Wielaf’s eyelid twitched at the touch but didn’t open.
Håkon was at Anya’s side then, blue eyes wide. He stared at Wielaf’s chest, reaching a trembling hand up to point.
Then he darted his hand forward and pinched the air. He breathed fast.
He had grabbed a thread. What else could it have been?
“Anya,” Håkon whispered, “can you see it?”
“No,” she said. “A thread?”
He nodded. “It’s . . .” He shuddered. “I don’t like it.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “But it’s breaking.”
Anya put her hand against Wielaf’s neck. He was pale and cool. Under her fingertips, his heartbeat was slow and stuttering. He was limp everywhere. He had been through so much, and now . . .
She held her breath. He was dying.
What thread was Håkon holding?
“Don’t let go,” Anya whispered.
Håkon squirmed. “It feels different from my other magic. It’s so heavy.” He pinched the thread with his other hand and then said, “Anya! It broke!”
Under Anya’s fingertips, Wielaf’s heartbeat stilled.
Alfhercht grabbed Wielaf’s shoulders and shook him. Håkon cried out and pinched his fingers tighter. “He’s going to make me drop it!”
“Alfhercht, stop!” Anya yelled.
He didn’t. He grabbed Wielaf’s face and tried to lift it up. Wielaf was limp. Floppy.
Ivan was there then, grabbing Alfhercht around the arms and hauling him backwards. Alfhercht kicked and struggled, but Ivan succeeded in pulling him away. He wasn’t shaking his brother anymore. Meanwhile, Håkon panted with exertion.
“Can you un-break it?” Anya asked. Her throat felt so tight, she almost didn’t get the words out.
“I don’t know.” Håkon strained, trying to bring his fingers together. They wouldn’t budge.
Threads of fear came off him, sharp. Panic. He was sweating. His breath came fast and shallow.
“It won’t move,” he said through clenched teeth.
Anya touched his threads of fear, rolling them between her fingertips. Fraying them away, like she’d done to Ivan. “Keep trying.”
He nodded. His breaths came slower. He pulled again, and his fingers inched closer.
Behind them, Alfhercht had gone still. No more sounds of struggling reached Anya’s ears.
Håkon gritted his teeth so hard, they squeaked. His hands were white from pinching, and he shook as he strained against the thread. Fear kept coming back, sprouting up anew as soon as Anya frayed those threads away. She kept at it.
Then his fingers touched.
Wielaf inhaled hard.
Ivan let go of Alfhercht. The elf collapsed next to Wielaf and pulled him into a tight embrace. Wielaf’s arms rose up and pushed at his brother. When Wielaf spoke, his words were slurred. “What are you doing?”
Alfhercht refused to let him go.
Anya looped her arm around Håkon’s shoulders. He shook, damp with sweat, and looked down at his hands.
“I have magic,” he said. “I don’t like it.”
From behind Anya, Ilya spoke. “I never thought I’d see that kind of magic used for good.”
Anya and Håkon turned. Ilya’s arms hung at his sides, and he stared at Håkon.
“What magic?” Håkon asked.
“Death.”
Anya opened her mouth to speak, but beneath their feet, the ground rumbled. Anya tensed, certain the creature from the arena had followed them somehow, but the sound of whinnying replaced that fear with a new one. Horses—a ton of them—were riding closer.
Soldiers. Horsemen. The tsar.
Alfhercht glanced toward the noise, and Ilya took a step toward them. Wielaf didn’t notice, but Alfhercht did. He put himself between the bogatyr and Håkon, fingers curled into claws, glaring darkly.
Alfhercht inhaled and pursed his lips.
“No!” Anya put herself between Ilya and Alfhercht. She held her hands up, hoping neither of them would be willing to go through her to get to the other. “Ilya, just let them go. Please.”
Ilya stood his ground, his face pulled into a scowl. “That boy is the Nightingale.”
“We know,” Anya said. “He wanted his brother. That’s all.”
Ilya nodded toward Håkon. “And this one’s a death magician.”
“He’s not going to hurt anyone,” Anya said. “Right, Håkon?”
“R-right,” Håkon said.
Ilya looked down at her and then pointed to Ivan. “And you two are helping them?”
Anya nodded, knowing that the confession was going to get her in trouble.
Ilya and Alfhercht stared at each other as the rumbling of the horses came nearer. Then Alfhercht ducked beside Wielaf and pulled him to his shaking feet. He carried his brother back toward the trees, and both of them vanished into the dark woods.
Anya stayed where she was, arms still up. Ilya didn’t move to chase the elves. He just looked down at Anya and said, “That was brave, little girl. Foolish. But brave.”
“I guess Ivan’s rubbing off on me, then,” Anya mumbled. Suddenly, horse after horse emerged from the trees around them. They were warhorses like Alsvindr, bedecked in plating and royal standards. The first person to approach looked very familiar, and only after Ilya dropped to a knee and bowed did Anya realize who he was.
The tsar.
Everyone around him was dressed for war, but he wore a deep green silk kaftan and a long fur-trimmed robe rather than armor. His leather boots were shined and reflected the torchlight from the riders near him. His eyes had glowed like fire at the banquet, but now they looked less fiery and more like . . . copper. Anya’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as she gazed at his eyes, then at his finger. His diamond ring flashed.
Riding beside him was Vasilisa, and behind her were Misha and her retinue of archers. Packed into the forest behind them were dozens of soldiers with torches. The density of threads rising from the assembled army was almost overwhelming, and Anya gaped at them.
Before she or anyone else could bow, the tsar reached out a hand. “Rise, Ilya, my friend. Be cautious! The Nightingale is in these woods.”
Anya’s heart seized. It tried to beat but seized again. Would Ilya tell the tsar where Alfhercht and Wielaf had gone? Would he tell the tsar about Håkon? She scooted closer to her friend, ready to shove him toward escape if Ilya gave them away.
Ilya licked his lips, then shook his head. “I haven’t seen any sign of the Nightingale, Your Majesty. But there’s something even more troubling.”
Anya glared at Ilya. He was going to tell the tsar about Håkon! She grabbed Håkon’s arm, fingers digging into his skin. She tried to tell him to run, but she couldn’t get out a sound.
“Oh?” the tsar said. He turned a hard stare toward Anya. “These troublemakers?” Without waiting for Ilya to answer, the tsar shouted, “Guards! Take them!”
From the trees behind the tsar, armored guards advanced toward Anya.
Her tongue unstuck. “No!” Anya yelped.
“Wait!” Ilya protested.
“Father!” Vasilisa spoke louder and sharper than anyone else. They all fell silent. The guards stopped in their tracks. Vasilisa pointed to Ivan. “This is one of your fools, Your Majesty. He came here to find and capture the Nightingale.”
The tsar lifted his chin. “Did he? Well, fool, have you done what you came here to do? Have you freed my people from the violence of the Nightingale?”
Anya felt herself simmering, wanting to speak up in Alfhercht’s defense, but knowing it would only get her in trouble. She wanted to grab those threads of fear over the army, fray them away. But she was too far away, and the tsar was right there. It was one thing to do magic in Zmeyreka or in a flooded cave. It was quite another to do it mere feet from the tsar himself.
Ivan said, “W
ell, er, Your Majesty, we—”
“Yes, we did,” Anya said.
The tsar frowned at her, and her blood froze in her veins. “Who. Are. You?”
“Ivan’s companion,” Anya said, surprised her voice was still holding. She stepped in front of Håkon. “We, um, found the Nightingale. And we drove him away. He’ll never bother any traveler to Kiev ever again.”
“I decreed the Nightingale be brought alive,” the tsar spat. “How dare you defy your tsar?”
Ilya put his hand on Anya’s shoulder. “There was no other way. They did what was necessary.”
Anya was grateful to Ilya, but she still shook so hard, she was afraid she was going to collapse. She wished the tsar would speak to someone else, but he kept talking to her.
“Letting him escape is even worse than killing him,” the tsar hissed. “How is he to be punished, then?”
Anya didn’t think he deserved punishment, but she couldn’t say that. So she just stood and trembled.
The tsar looked disgusted. He turned to Vasilisa. “Was this your idea?”
“No,” she said angrily. “I told them to—”
“To let a criminal escape justice.” The tsar’s nostrils flared. “That’s a move of weakness. Is that what you’re going to be? A weak ruler?”
Vasilisa pressed her lips together into a bloodless line.
He held her eyes for a long few seconds and then said softly, “I know you won’t be a weak ruler. Because you won’t be a ruler at all. Return to the castle.” Vasilisa opened her mouth, but the tsar silenced any protest with a single word. “Now.”
She snapped her mouth shut and jerked her horse’s head around. The horse leaped into a gallop right away. Misha and the rest of her guard followed.
When they’d gone, the tsar pointed a finger back and forth between Anya, Ivan, and Håkon. In a tired, exasperated voice, he said, “Take them into custody. Put them in interrogation. We’ll find out where they’ve hidden the Nightingale.”
Guards stepped toward Anya, and she backed up into Ilya. He set his hands on her shoulders, and she expected him to shove her forward into waiting manacles.
But he pulled her back, putting himself between her and the guards. He corralled Ivan and Håkon behind him as well.
“Ilya,” the tsar growled, “move.”
“No.” Ilya squared his shoulders. “These children are not a danger. The Nightingale isn’t even a danger. There’s something beneath Kiev, Your Majesty. Something malevolent. Something . . .” He took a deep breath. “Something evil.”
“Ridiculous,” the tsar said. “They’re lying to you.”
“I saw it!” Ilya roared. “I fought it! I stood close to it, my king, and I could feel the rot of its evil intent. There is a sickness spreading in the foundations of Kiev. These children are not important. Let them go. You have more dire problems to address.”
The tsar snarled at Ilya. “You presume to tell me how to run my kingdom?”
“I do!” Ilya dug his heels into the earth. “You asked us, the bogatyri, to make Kievan Rus’ a holy place. And I’m telling you, it has an unholy boil festering within it. You must do something!”
The tsar’s eyes slid away from Ilya and settled on the trio behind him.
Or did they?
No. They looked past Anya. Past Ivan. And dug into Håkon. The tsar glared at him, his eyes searing copper rings in the torchlight. His hands tightened on his charger’s reins. Was he staring because he had noticed how much Håkon looked like the princess? Or had he noticed . . . something else?
“Very well,” he said, looking away from Håkon. “You’re right, my friend. As always. Yes. Come back to the city. Tell me about this thing under Kiev.” He waved an idle hand at the trio. “Bring them. Not as prisoners,” he clarified. “Let them stay as guests and leave in the morning.”
Ilya thanked the tsar. A moment later, the entire regiment had turned around and was heading back to Kiev.
Anya, Ivan, and Håkon lingered with Ilya as the horses moved ahead of them. Ilya loomed over them and said, “There’s more going on here. I can feel it.”
“You saw what we saw,” Anya said.
Ilya nodded and then looked around. “Those boys can’t go home, you know. The elves.”
“Why not?” Anya asked. She had thought Ilya was on their side. Was he not going to let Alfhercht escape the tsar’s cruel injustice?
Ilya’s answer was possibly even worse than demanding they be turned in. “They have no home anymore,” he said softly. “They used to have cities everywhere in the western forests. But after Grand Princess Olga toppled the Drevlian capital, the rest of their cities started collapsing too. The Alvolk, the Álfish . . . I think you’d be hard-pressed to find even one village anywhere south of Álfheim, and that’s even shrinking now.” He shook his head. “I hope I’m wrong. I hope they can reach their home and live in peace.”
Anya watched the dark forest. No home? She knew the feeling of being faced with homelessness. Alfhercht and Wielaf were free from Kiev, but where would they go?
Ilya interrupted Anya’s thoughts with a huge hand on her kerchief, mussing her hair. “You did very good down there. You’re all very brave to stand in the face of such evil.”
Ivan’s voice, small and forlorn, came from behind them. “What was that thing, anyway?”
Anya remembered what Wielaf had said: a sorcerer. But sorcerers were just people who had gotten very good at their gifted magic. She had always considered Babulya a sorceress, but now she wasn’t so sure. Could Babulya do what that creature in the arena had done? What kind of magic had that sorcerer gotten good at?
Ilya cracked his knuckles. “I don’t know. Something that shouldn’t be there, whatever it is.”
Anya agreed with him. “Gospodin Ilya, thank you for not telling the tsar about the Nightingale.”
Ilya nodded, then looked out into the forest. “I wish them luck, wherever they end up. If they come back here, though, I won’t be able to let them go again.” He looked at Håkon. “And you. The boy with death in his fingers.”
Håkon shook his head. “I don’t—”
“You do,” Ilya said. “That’s a rare magic. You can do evil things with a magic like that.”
“I won’t,” Håkon said. “I would never.”
Ilya nodded. “See that you don’t, or I’ll have to come have words with you. Now, should we get back to the castle, where it’s warm?”
Anya said, “I don’t think we should go into Kiev again.”
Ilya looked down at her, surprised. “Is that right?”
Anya had a terrible feeling in her gut in the form of copper and diamond, but she couldn’t figure out what it meant. She knew what made it worse, though: the thought of returning to the castle.
“We want to go home too,” she said.
“Well, I won’t stop you,” Ilya said. He squatted in front of her so they were eye to eye, and he said, “I’m blessed to have met you. Your parents would be proud.”
Anya’s lip trembled. Her heart felt too big for her chest. She nodded, unable to thank him or tell him he was her hero or ask which way the road north was. He smiled at her and stood, then nodded to Ivan and Håkon before sparking golden threads of light magic in one hand. He walked away, his self-made light the last thing to fade in the dark forest.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Anya, Ivan, and Håkon stood in the dark forest for a few minutes, trying to put their thoughts together. Håkon looked particularly troubled, staring off into the distance.
Finally, Ivan said, “I wish we were home.”
Anya did too. Desperately.
Håkon just sighed.
Footsteps made all of them tense up. For a moment, Anya thought it might be the elves, but she banished that thought the moment she remembered Alfhercht’s complete silence in the trees. They wouldn’t have made noise.
The person coming out of the trees was dressed in armor, her golden hair braided around the crown of h
er head. Vasilisa, with Misha behind her. Why were they there? Had they come to take the three of them to the castle?
Anya squared her shoulders. “We’re leaving.”
“I know.” Vasilisa seemed less prickly than usual. She was bordering on casual. “I wanted to thank you, since my father won’t.”
“For what?” Anya said.
“You got rid of the Nightingale,” Vasilisa said. “You didn’t do it the way I wanted you to, but he’s still gone. He won’t attack people anymore. That’s what matters. So thank you.”
Anya watched Vasilisa, scanning around her for threads that would betray any fear in her. None. Misha, on the other hand, had a few wafting up from him.
“You’re welcome,” Anya said.
“Here.” Vasilisa reached behind her to where something was secured to her back. She pulled it off and tossed it at Anya, who realized what it was even before she caught it.
“My bow!” Anya gripped it close. She’d forgotten all about it in the madness of the day. Vasilisa also had her arrows, and Misha had Ivan’s staff.
Vasilisa said, “I know I’d want my weapons back if I left them somewhere, so we brought them to you.”
“Thank you,” Anya said. She hesitated, then pressed forward. “I know our deal was that you were going to send for my papa if I brought the Nightingale back alive, and we didn’t hold up our end, but—”
Vasilisa shushed Anya with a hand in the air. “I already sent for him.”
A warm feeling spread out from Anya’s heart. “You did?”
“I did.” Vasilisa’s mouth cracked upward, a smile that seemed uncomfortable on her face, and then she punched Misha in the arm. He came forward, holding two small pouches in his hands.
“Rewards,” he said as he handed one to Anya. “Some rubles.”
He hesitated handing her the other one. It was a little bigger than the pouch with rubles. Finally, he said, “And this one is from my family. When I couldn’t find you this morning . . .” He frowned. “We were all worried. My father said blessings for you. And when I came back to the castle to look for you, I brought a gift from us.”
Anya took the second pouch as she said, “You didn’t have to bring me a gift.”
Anya and the Nightingale Page 21