Mistress of the Solstice

by Anna Kashina

  The act throws you off for a while, giving you an odd sense of duality. It makes you float between earth and sky, blown back and forth by emotions, like winds on all sides. You lose the subject of your love in a blur that is all men in the world, a blur of arms, bodies, caresses. Love is pain, and this simple recipe allows you to numb it until you sort things out.

  In the end, it works like a charm.

  I needed somebody different. Somebody I had never met before, an outsider who wouldn’t be intimidated by my station. Somebody strong and experienced, who would make me forget my unnatural fancy. This close to the Solstice I couldn’t afford to take any risks.

  To seek a man outside the palace I had to look like a commoner, a village girl adventurous enough to run away from her parents to attend her first Solstice. There were always such maidens, girls who act under the perception that the coming Solstice breaks all boundaries. These girls are common objects of protection for wandering knights, and easy prey for passionate men.

  Like an artist I painted my new appearance, sparing no detail. My black hair became reddish brown, shorter—about waist-long—and curlier. Pretty, but not too beautiful, young, but mature enough for a chance affair. My eyes remained green, though I gave them a touch of brown at the edges. I shaped my eyelashes shorter and lighter, aiming for the subtle look of adventurous inexperience.

  A brown dress over a green undergarment, its neckline low enough to show a little cleavage, completed the outfit. Looking over my final appearance, I added some fullness and color to my cheeks and decided that it would do.

  Wrapped in a dark cloak, I made my way outside the castle. Guards dozed near the entrance to the front courtyard. I sent them a calming thought and made them look the other way as I slid past them, treading noiselessly on the cold stone pavement.

  The tavern I chose was far enough from the palace not to run into any familiar guards, but close enough for an easy walk and, as I knew from my previous forays, popular with adventurers and fortune-seekers. Its huge common room was full, bathed in lantern lights that focused on its center, leaving the corners in the shadow. Thick vapors of ale, sweat, and cheap stew hung in the air like a curtain. Bits of conversations floated up through the background hum that from time to time exploded here and there with roars of quarrel or thunders of laughter.

  Smells and sounds rushed forth to enfold a newcomer into their breathtaking cocoon. I paused in the doorway, adjusting my assaulted senses to a new level of tolerance.

  It was the time of night when ale gets into heads, and the boundaries between acceptable and outrageous stretch to a breakage point. The few women scattered throughout the room had already lost all reserve, draping over their chance companions like bundles of wet cloth. A group of rogues in the proximity of the counter shouted profanities at an ugly serving wench, laughing so vigorously that the ale in their mugs spilled across the floor.

  Along with everyone else in the room, they turned to look at the new addition to their late-night merriment. Their gazes slid over me like thick, oiled fingers, reaching as far inside as my outfit would allow. The force of the sensation made me shudder.

  I ran my gaze over the worst our kingdom’s manhood had to offer. One good lover was all I needed. There had to be one among them that I could use. I forced my eyes to move slowly, not to turn away from anyone, even as the filth of their gazes brought inadvertent color to my cheeks.

  A group in the corner looked somewhat better than the others. Their clothes, one step above peasant dress, showed a reasonable effort toward cleanliness. The one on the right looked less drunk than the others, and as my gaze caught his I saw a gleam of interest that went beyond plain lust. He was less than I’d hoped for, though. Certainly not the seducer I needed today.

  I ran another hopeless glance around the room. And then I saw him. Late twenties, dark, lean, muscular. Handsome, but not overly so. He leaned out of the shadow in the corner, watching me with interest. I met his eyes, then blushed and looked away.

  His eyes bore into me with burning intensity. My heart raced with anticipation. Forcing the images of cornflowers and straw, of smiles and sunshine out of my head, I studied the positions of the future participants in my little play. I measured distances, estimated the approximate times my actors needed to enter the stage. Excitement rose in my chest, the tingling feeling a fighter must enjoy when his sword leaves the sheath to rejoin his hand. It had been a while since I had gone on a man-hunt. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.

  The rogues at the counter were very drunk by now. The man I was aiming for was sitting a little too far away for my liking, but it had to do. I chose a lonely spot in between the counter and my future hero, and fluttered my hand in a shy, hopeless gesture the servers were bound to miss. Sure enough, the wench, annoyed by the rudeness of the rogues near the bar, kept clear of our corner, turning her back with a determined set of her bony shoulders.

  I waved some more, after making sure the wench was otherwise occupied. I tried not to look at the rogues as I counted under my breath, cursing the ale for clouding their head. Was my plan going to work? Or were they all too drunk already?

  The nearest rogue swayed and finally turned my way. His red face was so swollen with ale that his beady eyes almost drowned in their sockets. He had a glassy look, as if not fully aware of his surroundings. Yet, as he focused on my face—or, rather, my cleavage—his expression acquired some sense. He even winked to me, a pitiful attempt at flirting as he took another swig from his mug.

  “Barman!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  Everyone in the proximity turned their heads to us. My future hero in his corner raised his head and I prayed he wasn’t going to rush to my rescue before time. I settled deeper into my chair, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

  “This beauty here needs a drink!” The rogue’s thunderous voice shook the air, too loud for my heightened senses. “Come here, wench!”

  I blushed, putting on a look of uneasiness. He struggled to his feet and swayed, to the laughter and cheers from his comrades. My heart raced. It’s not going to work. He’s too drunk.

  I waved my hands in pretended agitation, making awkward attempts to push away without getting up from my seat and in the struggle letting my shawl slide off my shoulders to the floor. As I bent to pick it up, I revealed a glimpse of my breasts to the rogue, at the same time looking up at him with the helplessness that this type of man finds inviting. That gave him the necessary boost. He fought his way out of his seat and rushed toward me, bumping into tables and chairs, his drunken companions laughing at his back.

  His condition worked in my favor. Barely able to walk straight, he posed no real threat, but he would look sufficiently dangerous to a frightened village girl. I backed away to the nearest wall, pressing against it, leaving myself open for him to do his worst.

  I pretended to struggle as he tore at my dress, leaving a gaping hole. He reached for my hair, grabbing the comb that held it in place and freeing my hair to flow loose, the reddish-brown curls tumbling down to my waist. I didn’t resist as he savaged my carefully prepared outfit. The only thing I didn’t let him do was leave any marks on me. I had to look my best for later.

  I hadn’t realized that the man I’d picked for myself was such a good fighter. He jumped from his corner, swift as lightning, and struck down my attacker with a single blow. Three rogues came to the aid of the fallen man, and he knocked each of them down with quick punches, aimed so expertly that none of his opponents even let out a sound. Not bothering to see if any of them would rise, he turned to me as I was standing against the wall trembling, tears running down my face.

  “You are so brave…sir,” I whispered, holding my scarf over my torn blouse.

  “You shouldn’t be alone in such a place,” he said with concern. “Let me walk you home…or wherever it is you’re staying.”

  “Thank you, sir.” I reached out for his offered hand and drew back again, as one of the tears in my dress gaped
.

  He kept his eyes discreetly lowered. “You’re in no shape to go outside.”

  “I have my needlework with me,” I whispered. “If I could only find a place to repair my dress, I could do it in no time.”

  “I’m staying in this tavern,” he replied gently. “Would you consider going to my room? I promise you will be safe there.”

  I looked into his eyes and smiled. A smile of trust. Of hidden promise.

  “You are my savior,” I said. “I trust you with my life and honor.”

  Ivan

  Leshy’s voice echoed clearly through the night forest as he recited his first riddle:

  “A delicate basket, I shimmer with light.

  Yet I am so strong, it is useless to fight.

  The longer you struggle, the tighter my hold,

  And when I release you, I also unfold.”

  Ivan paused, recalling everything he had learned about the game. “There’re rules to these riddles,” Wolf had told him. “First, the answer is a common, everyday thing that everyone knows. Second, each riddle has only one answer that fits everything in the rhyme. And, third, to compensate for the ease of the first two, some of them are very confusingly phrased. Think before you answer, boy.” The warning didn’t seem necessary. Ivan was willing to think as hard as he could to avoid Nikola the Wise’s fate. Yet, no matter how hard he thought of it, there seemed to be only one answer.

  “Spider web,” he said.

  Leshy’s look held mischief, but deep inside, Ivan also saw disappointment.

  “The Fool, the boy calls himself,” Leshy mused. “A tricky fool.” His eyes shimmered in the eerie swamp light. “I always use the easy one first,” he added.

  Ivan knew this didn’t have to be true. Yet, he also knew each new riddle would be harder than the previous one. Leshy liked to play. And he didn’t like to lose.

  “Listen, fool boy,” Leshy said.

  “I flow like a river, I wash like a sea,

  I circle and circle, and never I flee.

  The aim of your life is to keep me contained,

  For death will you meet if I roam undetained.”

  Ivan thought hard. Common, everyday things, Wolf had said. What sort of a common, everyday thing could flow like a river, yet mean death if it roamed undetained? Water?

  But it was hardly the aim of anyone’s life to keep it contained. No more was it true that water never fled. Perhaps Leshy was referring to an ocean?

  Many storytellers spoke about the sea, a great pond of water without shores that led to wondrous kingdoms and magical lands. Some of these tales mentioned “ocean”, the grand pond of water that collected the seas into itself to wash their waters around the edge of the world. Surely water this wide would cause anyone’s death if ever allowed to roam free.

  But a common, everyday thing? Hardly.

  I flow like a river, I wash like a sea,

  I circle—

  What could it possibly be?

  Ivan sighed. Don’t give in to the panic. Fear is your enemy. Fear is what Leshy hopes for. Fear is the making of a kikimora—

  Stop.

  Concentrate.

  Flow. Wash. Circle. Yet, not water. What else can possibly do all these things?

  Ivan glanced at Leshy. The Forest Man was busy, poking at one of the wood ears that creased the fallen birch trunk with a knobby finger. Each time he poked, a dimple appeared on the surface under his finger. Ivan imagined he could see movement.

  He looked closer and drew back in disgust.

  The wood ear was an opalescent mass of worms that glistened faintly in the light of a rising moon. Breaking off from the lump, the worms dug under the white birch bark to reemerge inches away, like divers that swim underwater and pop out their heads to see where they are.

  Ivan moved away along the log. A whole section of it collapsed to become a crawling mass of worms that spread out and poured over the edge of the swamp-island to disappear into the dark glistening water.

  Leshy giggled.

  “How’s the riddle comin’, smart boy? Ready or not, it’s time!”

  Ivan took a breath.

  Don’t show your fear. Leshy feeds on fear. Don’t—

  But what should I do?

  “Come, boy!” Leshy said. “There’s no shame in losing. Think of all the fun we could have out here in my swamp! Just you and me, eh? You have but to say the word to the old man.”

  He beamed and crept along the log closer to Ivan. For the first time Ivan noticed the chill the Forest Man emanated. Or, perhaps, the chill hadn’t been there before?

  A sting in his hand made him look down. A mosquito, perhaps the very same one that had bothered him earlier, was using Ivan’s stillness to feed on his hand. Ivan smashed the annoying insect, leaving a splash of blood on his pale skin.

  He raised his hand to rub the blood off, and paused.

  The aim of your life is to keep me contained.

  Of course. What kind of a fool was he, to think so long?

  “Blood,” he said.

  Leshy cocked his head to one side.

  “Fancy,” he said. “How careless people are when dealing out nicknames. If I remember correctly, our good Nikola the Wise met his doom upon the very same riddle. He kept blabbering about an ocean or something. Why, I don’t even know what an ‘ocean’ is…Blood. Hmmm.”

  Leshy glanced at a small fir tree rising out of the swamp. There was a barely audible sound, like a breath drawn in, and the tree withered right in front of Ivan’s eyes. The fresh green needles turned yellow, then brown, and then crumpled off the branches, suddenly thinned and gnarled like an old woman’s hands. Leshy watched with a cold gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. Then he turned to Ivan and gave him a meaningful look.

  “All right, Ivan the Fool of a Misleading Nickname,” he said, “since you’re so good at riddles, I’ll give you my hardest one yet. No one has ever been able to guess this one. Off the top of my head, I don’t even think I recall the answer myself.” He giggled.

  Ivan took care not to show any reaction. Intimidating an opponent was an ancient and effective tactic. He had been told that Leshy used it a great deal. The best way to handle it was not to pay any attention. If he could manage to do so.

  He listened.

  “I’m always a welcome one, always a treasure,

  Yet sometimes resented beyond any measure.

  But when I decide that I must slip away,

  You’ll fight to return me, you’ll beg me to stay.”

  Ivan took a breath. “Only one answer,” Wolf had said. Which meant, among other things, that there had to be an answer.

  “Always welcome” yet “sometimes resented”. What could it be?

  A child?

  Most people he knew welcomed children, yet some would do anything to avoid having one; such as, a family with too many mouths to feed; or a maiden who had ruined her prospects of a good marriage by being a bit too careless in her adolescent games.

  There went the “always welcome” part, and with it went the answer itself. However confusing, everything in the riddle had to be consistent with the sole answer that fit all parts of the rhyme.

  If, of course, Leshy always followed the rules. According to Wolf, it was a given. Yet, watching the shifting moods on Leshy’s face, it was easy to suspect foul play.

  “I’m beginning to freeze, boy,” Leshy complained. He cast his eyes on a nearby puddle of swamp water. After a brief moment, steam started to rise off its still surface. By the time Ivan caught his breath, the water was boiling like soup in a kettle. The pale shape of a dead frog floated up and disappeared back in the turmoil.

  Concentrate.

  “He will do anything to distract you,” Wolf had said. “Don’t let him. That’s how he wins.”

  Leshy looked away, and the water slowly calmed again. The faint smell of fish soup tainted the air, topped by the heady aroma of wild rosemary on a hot day.

  “I don’t understand it, boy. Why do you resi
st your fate so much? It’s so nice and cozy here in the swamp. We’re all so looking forward to playing with a sweet one like you…You do like to play, don’t you, boy?” He crept a few inches toward Ivan.

  The chill he’d emanated earlier was gone. Instead, Ivan caught the scent of beresklet berries—flowery and bitter at the same time. The faint smell of stale water gave the beresklet scent a moldy touch, but Ivan couldn’t tell if it was coming from Leshy himself, or from the swamp around them.

  He did his best to ignore the old man and focus on the riddle.

  What was it that everyone welcomed and treasured and yet sometimes resented beyond measure? What was it that one would do anything to keep when it decided to slip away?

  Love?

  Yes, it seemed likely.

  “Ready yet?” Leshy asked.

  Yes, Ivan almost said, but something held him.

  Think some more. You only get this one shot.

  “Oh, come now,” The Forest Man pouted. “Why d’you insist on being sooo boring?…It is so beautiful here at night. Once you sees it, you’ll never want to leave!”

  He swept his hands, as if opening an invisible curtain. Suddenly the air filled with swarms of fireflies. They looked like fairies; at a distance Ivan could imagine seeing them carry small lanterns in their delicate hands. It became bright like daylight. Ivan could even see faint rainbows shining in the glassy wings.

  “See?” Leshy said by his ear. He was so close that Ivan jumped, his heart pounding. How did he get behind me? He suppressed the urge to draw away, to show his fear.

  The Forest Man reached a finger past Ivan and poked the nearest flying shape. With a faint pop it burst apart, splashing Ivan with a tiny droplet of goo.

  It took all the courage Ivan had to keep still as the beautiful fairy-like creatures popped all around him, leaving behind ugly reddish splotches that looked so much like blood.