Prince Ivan looked at the small, simple book with new respect, then closed its covers and set it carefully aside.
The spell had caused a series of extrusions among the still-shelved books, as if someone more expert in what the library contained had pulled each volume slightly outward to make finding them that much easier. Ivan moved hurriedly through the room, gathering books and charts, then took them back to the table and cleared it by the simple expedient of an open-handed sweep. The floor could be tidied later.
That was what servants were for.
It took another hour of leafing through maps before some inner sense told him he had found what he was looking for. It was a tattered sheet of parchment whose clumsy, amateurish outlines lacked the precision of other cartographers’ work – in short, the sort of chart a man might draw for himself if he wished to keep a secret. There were few enough lines and features scribbled in that the bulk of the information must have been stored in that safest of all repositories, the map-maker’s memory – a memory dead and gone these ten years past, for the writing on the map was in the same crabbed handwriting that Ivan had seen on old official documents. It was that of Mar’ya Morevna’s father.
Ivan hadn’t been optimistic enough to expect a dotted line marked ‘follow this to Koshchey’s kremlin’, but when he compared the sketch to better maps, that was exactly what he found. It didn’t say ‘Koshchey the Undying lives here’ in so many words, since for his own reasons Mar’ya’s father had written in the old Norse runes, but the scratchy, angular letters on the sketch-map were in a place where larger charts showed nothing, and that place wasn’t the impossible distance he had expected.
There was no time for niceties like sitting still and begging help from his brothers-in-law. Finding where they were so messengers could deliver wedding invitations had taken almost a week, and hoping that those three kremlins were in the same place was as vain as hoping Koshchey the Undying would have a change of heart and release Mar’ya Morevna himself.
He rolled up the maps and strode from the library towards the stables.
*
Koshchey Bessmertny’s kremlin looked exactly as Ivan thought it might, no palace but a grim, jag-crested citadel squatting atop a low hill in the middle of an unpleasant-looking forest, its presence lowering like a shadow over all the lands nearby. Those lands were bleak and desolate, as if tainted by the presence of the necromancer, though it was as likely Koshchey lived in such grim surroundings because he enjoyed them.
Finding this kremlin had proven easier than Ivan dared to hope. The old maps and the new had each guided in their turn, and behind and beyond all else had been the same magic that had brought him unerringly to the kremlins of each sorcerer brother-in-law. Now after many days of travel it had led him to where his wife was being held; fewer days than he expected, but more than he hoped, while every night the moon grew a little rounder.
At least getting this near to Koshchey’s ugly dwelling had been simplicity itself. There was no town beside it, and no outlying villages, only the ugly forest. Despite its dense undergrowth, Ivan still felt horribly exposed, for every window of Koshchey’s kremlin looked like a malevolent eye and it seemed that every one of those eyes was staring straight at him. At the same time he was grateful for the necromancer’s arrogance. Anyone else would have cleared the ground for two bowshots all around the walls to make sure that nobody could do what he was doing now; but Koshchey let the woodland grow unchecked, sure that no one would be so brave or stupid as to approach his home.
Ivan laid a hand on Burka’s nose to keep the horse quiet, and wondered with grim humour which word best described him.
Half an hour dragged by, resin-scented and stifling in the dark shade of the pine-trees. In that half-hour, despite his apparent immobility, Ivan had examined Koshchey’s kremlin with his mind’s eye. The concentration had left him nerve-drawn and tired just as much as if he had been actually creeping around his enemy’s fortress, but he had learned enough. There were no guards or sentries, no livestock or servants, not even the flutter of silk since no banners flew above that grim fortress. The distant kremlin was dark and empty, and though he was glad of it, Ivan wondered why.
He was still wondering as the afternoon turned to dusk, because in all those hours he had seen nothing alive near Koshchey’s kremlin, neither bird nor beast nor insect inside nor out, and the only thing that moved had been the slow sweep of shadows following the sun.
Now that sun was setting, and with the approaching night came an idea that Ivan would never have contemplated during daylight. It was a plan of such elegant simplicity that it deserved to succeed. He would swing into Burka’s saddle, slip into the fortress under cover of darkness, find Mar’ya Morevna—
And rescue her.
*
Even with Burka’s hoofs muffled with the torn-up remnants of three shirts and a fur hat, Prince Ivan gritted his teeth at each footfall. To ears made over-sharp by jangling nerves it seemed he would have made less noise by simply riding up to the kremlin gate and hammering on it with his mace. That mace was in his hand, both swords were loose in their scabbards, his bow in its saddle-case was strung, and if there been some way to have an arrow ready on its string, Ivan would have done that too.
Burka was uneasy, snorting and stamping, his ears laid right back against his skull and eyes rolling so that Ivan could see their whites glistening in the light of the thin moon. He could sympathize with the horse for he too was shivering with fright, and though he was brave enough to admit it, the admission didn’t help. Koshchey the Undying’s kremlin was a place to strike fear into heroes more courageous than he had ever claimed to be. It not only looked wrong, it smelt wrong and even felt wrong. By their very nature citadels were strong, stern places, ominous in the way that a fully armed and armoured bogatyr is ominous, threatening in the same unspoken way. Yet Ivan had never encountered one which felt actively malevolent.
Until now.
The roofs and domed cupolas rearing above him like black silhouettes cut from the starshot sky were spired like others he had seen, yet their tapering points were longer, sharper, more vicious, like taloned fingers straining ever upwards to claw the very clouds from Heaven. The windows that had looked like eyes during the day had become the empty sockets of a skull, the arches of the many doorways were mouths agape in a frozen scream, and the planked doors were teeth glistening in the pallid moonlight like the teeth of the thousands of Tatar corpses Ivan had seen on the battlefield so few months past. The whole kremlin was a celebration of death, Koshchey the Undying’s mockery of what he didn’t fear.
“At least the place is empty,” Ivan said aloud. He would never have admitted talking to himself and would have claimed the sound of any human voice in that loathsome place was meant to comfort Burka. But it was for his own comfort as well. Suspicion was causing swirls and ripples of unease in his mind, like something large and ominous moving beneath the surface of deep water. This rescue was so easy as to be ridiculous. Too easy. And yet he knew the place was empty.
Wasn’t it?
After a moment’s hesitation, reluctant for those few seconds to set his feet on smooth, domed cobblestones that looked like skulls sunk to their eyebrows in the earth, Ivan slipped from his saddle. Except for the noises he and Burka made, the place was as quiet as a gra…
Ivan stamped on that thought before it had a chance to form.
‘Speak the name, summon the named’, Mikhail the Raven had warned. There might also be ‘name the thing, create the named’, and in this frightful courtyard, graves and death were already far too real. Who knew what might result from a misplaced word? Ivan had seen the consequences of foolishness too many times already for him to risk being foolish any more, until the moment he saw Mar’ya Morevna standing in a doorway with a lantern in her hand, come to investigate a noise where none should be.
All wisdom and restraint was flung away as he ran across the courtyard to take her in his arms and name her with all the
charming small endearments such as lovers use, and hear her sweet voice say—
“Before God in his Heaven, why couldn’t you do as I asked and leave locked doors as you found them?”
Ivan recoiled in shock as if she had slapped him in the face, spread his hands helplessly then opened his mouth to make some sort of an excuse, but the words wouldn’t come. He knew why. Any honest excuse would be stupid, any good excuse would be false, and he had been stupid enough already. Mar’ya Morevna’s words had been as right and proper as anything said in all the wide white world, but no matter how much they had dented his fast-fading pride, what little remained would never let him greet her with a lie.
“Forgive me now,” he said with quiet formality, “or blame me later. Whatever you choose, I won’t abandon you to this foul place and its fouler lord.”
Mar’ya Morevna stared at her husband with the expression of someone with very few choices left, and the most important was whether to laugh or to cry. In the end she did neither, taking his hand in silence as he helped her to the saddle of his horse then leaning back into the comfort of his embrace as he swung up behind her and reached around to take the reins.
“Vanya, Vanya, you’re a very great fool,” she said, “but you’re my fool, and a very brave fool, and I wouldn’t exchange you for the wisest Prince in all the Russias…”
CHAPTER SEVEN
How Prince Ivan rescued Mar’ya Morevna from Koshchey the Undying, and how Koshchey expressed his displeasure
Once Mar’ya Morevna was a prisoner in the echoing emptiness of his ten-years-deserted kremlin, Koshchey the Undying rode out across the face of Moist-Mother-Earth about whatever evil business pleased him best. He rode and slew and brought terror during all the days that Tsarevich Ivan spent in searching the white world, until at last Ivan came to Koshchey’s dark kremlin and carried his wife away from its grim walls. And in that instant, the very instant when Ivan rode out from Koshchey’s kremlin, Koshchey’s black horse stumbled in its gait.
Koshchey Bessmertny was thrown from his seat but rolled upright again, seizing bridle and reins together as he lashed the black horse savagely with his riding-whip.
“Have it been so long since you carried me that you forget who I am?” he snarled as he struck. “You shall learn better before all is done!” The black horse reared up, rolling red eyes and flaring red nostrils as it pawed the air with iron-shod hoofs as sharp and deadly as the mace of any bogatyr. It neighed shrilly, outraged at being given hard blows and hard words without reason for either.
“Practice indeed, Koshchey the Undying, Koshchey the Cruel!” it squealed, and though it spoke words like a man, its voice was not the voice of any human born. “Has it been so long since I last carried you that you forget what I am, and what it cost to earn me?”
Koshchey the Undying released the bridle and lowered his whip, then coiled the lash and thrust it through his belt. “I remember three days of striving to keep you and your stablemates under my eye,” he said. “I remember how I mastered one and all, and I remember how I chose the best.”
“And I remember how I once was free, and now am free no more.” The black horse lowered its head and the red fire died from its eyes.
“That was the bargain,” said Koshchey the Undying, showing the points of his teeth in a cruel smile. “And you lost.” He set hand to pommel and foot to stirrup, and rose to his saddle again with an ease that gave the lie to his long white hair and beard. “So why did you stumble? What do you smell?”
“I smell a Russian smell where none should be. Prince Ivan has stolen Mar’ya Morevna from the dark kremlin, and even now he rides for the borders of your wide domain.”
“So, and so, and so,” said Koshchey. He drew the riding-whip out of his belt and twisted it between his hands until the plaited leather creaked with the sound of a tree in a storm. “This is no more than I expected from a fool who wants to be a hero.” Then he rapped the butt of the whip against his horse’s neck and spoke with the foul sweetness of something gone rotten. “Is it possible, best and swiftest of all, to catch them again?”
“It is possible,” said the black horse, flinching from the touch on its neck. “You could grow flax and harvest it, you could make thread and weave the white linen, you could make yourself clothing and wear it to rags, and even if you waited as long as all that, still it would be possible.”
“It had better be,” said Koshchey the Undying. “For your sake.” Then he set heels to the horse and whip to its flank, and rode off like a storm in pursuit.
*
Tsarevich Ivan and Mar’ya Morevna rode as swiftly as their need for silence, and as silently as their desire for great speed. For a long time no word was spoken, because both were listening for sounds of pursuit and neither was willing to say so aloud. The reason was simple: name the thing, call the thing. Only when he judged it safe did Ivan rein Burka back from that headlong gallop, and slip to the ground so that he could remove the wads of padding from the horse’s feet.
After that they rode more slowly, so Burka wouldn’t tire any sooner than he must. Even then, Ivan knew his noble steed would be wearied soon enough, with the burden of two riders on his back. The best and kindest way was for one or both to dismount and walk alongside, but for the present such kindness was impossible. They were still too close to Koshchey’s kremlin and, even close to exhaustion, a horse could cover ground much faster than two people on foot. Ivan’s suspicions about the ease of the rescue were increasing with every minute; suspicions that if rescue was easy, escape would be hard.
He only judged it was safe to talk when they passed beyond the sinister forest that surrounded Koshchey’s kremlin. Considering how Mar’ya Morevna had spoken to him when they first met there it might not be so safe to listen, but there were questions and answers to be exchanged and Ivan wanted to hear her voice again no matter what she said. At least there were no condemnations of his conduct in releasing Koshchey the Undying.
Instead there was an apology.
“I should have told you about him,” said Mar’ya Morevna, “about his powers, his strengths, his weaknesses – though God knows those are few enough! Above all I should have asked if anyone had warned you to beware of Koshchey the Undying.” Ivan laughed hollowly, a sound that said much more than words, and the slight squeeze of his wife’s hand on his wrist was another apology. “Asked,” she finished in a small voice, “and then explained how it was my father came to capture him.”
“Why was he only imprisoned, and not…” Ivan faltered slightly, unwilling to speak his meaning too plainly with the memory of Koshchey’s deathly kremlin still far too fresh in his mind. “Not dealt with as you dealt with Manguyu Temir?”
He was curious, for despite the mildness of his own father’s reign, Tsar Aleksandr would never have let Koshchey live. He would have been hanged, or burnt, or shot with arrows, or whatever was required to kill so dangerous a prisoner. He would never have just been imprisoned, for a captive might one day win free as Ivan himself had proved. He said as much, and Mar’ya Morevna turned awkwardly in the high saddle while she tried to embrace him. But even then she shook her head regretfully in the silver moonlight.
“‘Dealt with’?” She returned Ivan’s own words with an ironic twist that said more than any lecture. “Beloved, haven’t you grasped the import of Koshchey’s name? Why do you think his kremlin has no locks or shuttered gates or armoured guards? Why do you think I was permitted the mockery of freedom to walk its empty corridors? Koshchey has far more than the lifetime of any thief to hunt down and restore what might be stolen, or recover any prisoner who might escape. I couldn’t even do that for myself. He laid a charm on me so I couldn’t leave his kremlin without the aid of someone from outside. The thought of it amused him. He said it would prove if you were brave, or stupid, or really cared for me.”
“Then he knows,” said Ivan in a small voice.
“By now? Almost certainly. This chase is a game where he makes and breaks the r
ules to suit himself. He knows I need my books of magic to return him to his cell, but he also knows they’re far enough away that he can catch me before I reach them. You see? This is his sport!”
“Then kill him!” snarled Ivan.
Mar’ya Morevna swore softly. “You hear, Vanya, but you don’t listen! Koshchey is Undying. Undying. He can’t be slain by any man, or by any weapon wielded by the hand of man.” She glanced at him and frowned at the thought so plain on his face. “No, nor by the hand of woman either! Before the good Lord God, I tried!”
Ivan could believe it.
“He offered an alliance to my father, but his price for peace and safety was my hand in marriage.” Her voice became that of someone remembering times long past, so seldom thought upon that their unpleasant memories provoked no more than bitter amusement. “My father’s reply was that he was unaccustomed to bartering the happiness of his family even against the peace of thrice nine Tsardoms, and least of all…” She hesitated, then laughed quietly. “Least of all to an Old Rattlebones, who’d be better suited to a grave than the bed of a girl not one-hundredth his age.”
Ivan’s only comment was a thin whistle through his teeth. Small wonder the daughter cared so little for Tatar hordes, when her father treated an Undying necromancer with such disdain. “So what happened afterwards?”
“Koshchey came against us with an army. That was the only time I saw how wise my father was in all the ways of strategy and tactics – and because I understood what he was doing, I realised how well he had taught me. It was, he told me later, how the antique Romans fought their battles. Each regiment, each squad, each man, moved like pieces on a chess-board. Koshchey’s host was beaten and scattered, and he was taken captive. Killing him was impossible, so my father locked him in that cell and spent his last years trying to learn the source of Koshchey’s death. Instead he took his own death from a fever, and from that day onwards the cell stayed shut…”
Prince Ivan Page 16