Mistress of the Solstice

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Mistress of the Solstice Page 12

by Anna Kashina


  “Perhaps your task has given us the advantage we need,” he agreed. “It was a stupid move, to ask for your hand. Of course, he is not on foot. And his mount is not a horse.”

  “Of course not. It has to be no less than a creature of magic and wisdom, to fit into your rhyme. But who could it be? Zmei Gorynich the Fire Serpent, perhaps? Or has Solovei-Razboinik, the Mugger Nightingale,decided to serve him out of the goodness of his heart?”

  “Why don’t you go home and ask your Mirror?” Raven stretched his wings.

  I felt very tired. I didn’t want to think of the boy anymore, of his eyes, of his birthmark—whatever shape it was—or his magic steed. I’d given him a good task and he was going to die. And I, Mistress of the Solstice, had other things to do, not the least of which was to get out of this forest without skewering myself on a branch my dove eyes could not see.

  “I will go back,” I said. “I may even talk to my Mirror, if I have time. But I think you worry too much.”

  “Perhaps,” Raven said. “Perhaps.”

  I flapped my dove wings and rose into the air, starting my slow journey through the thicket of branches. Back to my stone tower in the Tzar’s castle.

  Ivan

  Wolf was waiting at the forest hedge. He had a full bucket of water standing next to him.

  Ivan stumbled to the bucket, dropped on all fours, and drank as much as he could. When he felt his stomach fill up like a grain sack at full harvest, he pulled back with regret that he could drink no more, and sank down heavily next to Wolf.

  “Well?” Wolf asked.

  Ivan exhaled, catching his breath, forcing his tongue to move inside his mouth. It still felt dry, as if he hadn’t gulped half a bucket of water just now. “Baba Yaga. She is the one who can make it there fast enough. She also knows the song that can make the stream reveal itself. And maybe she still has half a vial of water stowed away somewhere.”

  Wolf stiffened. Ivan noticed but was too weak to care why. “And I assume you, boy, believe that she would be kind enough to give it to you.”

  Ivan didn’t respond. It was nice to have Wolf his old self again. It was even nicer to be alive. He didn’t feel like arguing.

  Wolf sighed. “It’s been three days. I would never have thought you could last that long.”

  “Neither would I,” Ivan admitted. “But thanks, anyway.”

  He lifted the bucket to his lips again, feeling the water splash around in his stomach. But he was still thirsty. He felt as if he would be thirsty for the rest of his life.

  “Don’t drink it all at once. You’ll burst.”

  Ivan put the bucket down regretfully.

  “I suggest you wash yourself with whatever’s left,” Wolf said, “and then we get up and go. We have very little time.”

  It was impossible to see any distance in the eerie gloom of the dense forest undergrowth. Walking became more and more difficult. Sticky branches grasped clothes and fur, as if trying to prevent the intruders from going any further. Every step through the moss-covered mud was a struggle.

  “Are you sure she lives out here?”

  There was a growl and a muffled curse before the answer came.

  “It clears up over there.” Wolf sounded as if his mouth were full of leaves. Ivan thought best not to ask.

  The ground began to rise. Ivan’s feet no longer produced the smacking sound they’d made as he’d dragged them through the mud. The undergrowth of aspen, raspberry, and sickly fir gave way to the healthier thickness of young birch and hazel. The eerie forest dimness acquired some shades of yellow, reminding Ivan that somewhere out there the world was bathed in the afternoon sunlight.

  He spotted the purple and yellow of Ivan-and-Marya and bent to pick a flower. After his encounter with Bayun the Cat, he’d promised himself he would always carry one around.

  Only when he straightened again did he become aware of the clearing that seemed to have crept up and opened itself right in front of him. How could he forget that Ivan-and-Marya always grew near the edge of the trees?

  A strange object dominated the center of the clearing, imposing, like a noble boyar in a village marketplace. It was technically a house, an izba built of unevenly hewn logs. The beams of its thatched roof were carved in ornate images of a raven and a wolf, so masterfully that their fur and feathers seemed real, their deeply set eyes watching the intruders. The house also had a small and rather murky window that looked badly in need of a wash. What lay below, however, didn’t make any sense.

  The izba was standing on a pair of thick poles, ending in tripods at the bottom that made them look more than anything like giant bird legs. As Ivan watched in fascination, the legs stepped from place to place, making the whole contraption look like a giant square chicken pecking in a yard.

  A chicken wearing a house on its body.

  “One thing,” Wolf whispered into Ivan’s ear. “You’ll have to do all the talking.”

  “Why?”

  Wolf looked away. For a moment he almost seemed embarrassed.

  “Because I said so,” he snarled. “This is your mess we’re fixing, remember?”

  Ivan shrugged and focused on the chicken-legged house. It wandered a short distance toward them and stopped, as if noticing the intruders for the first time. The murky window watched them like a wary eye.

  Ivan stepped forward.

  “Um,” he began. “Would you be so kind as to, um, turn your door to me, little house?”

  The contraption appeared to hesitate. Then, slowly, it turned around, revealing a coarse wooden door, swinging open. In fact, Ivan noticed, it had a broken hinge.

  He carefully approached the gaping doorway.

  “Anyone home?” he called out.

  A rustle echoed in the gloom inside. Then a voice said:

  “Do I smell fresh meat? Has young human flesh brought itself to the old woman’s door?”

  Ivan hesitated. The voice didn’t sound old at all. It could have belonged to a healthy matron, one of those responsible for all the opinions formed at the village well. Yet, Bayun’s tale depicted Baba Yaga as an old hag. An ancient woman, old as the trees.

  How should he address her? If she was indeed ancient, he should respectfully call her “grandmother”. And yet, if she was young, he should call her “mother”, or even “sister”. If he did it wrong, the whole visit might prove useless.

  Ivan took a breath.

  “Can I come in, old mother?” he called out.

  There was a pause. Then, more rustling and a chuckle.

  “Fresh meat that insults a woman he cannot even see by calling her old,” she said. “Well, I don’t mind. Rude boys taste the same as polite ones. At least, he found his own way to my kettle. Fine by me. Mayhap you would be good enough to bring along some wood to feed the fire?”

  Ivan stepped forward and peered inside. It was a small and very dirty room. The entire left wall was occupied by a stove of the usual village type. Its flat top, lezhanka, the warmest place in the house, served as a bed, wide enough for two people to lie on.

  An old woman, ancient as the trees, stretched on top of the lezhanka, her skin dark and wrinkled like tree bark. Her hair was disheveled, her face stained with soot, but her eyes gleamed brightly as she surveyed the visitor.

  It was obvious from her looks that he had chosen the right address, not making her seem ancient by calling her “grandmother” and yet respecting her age by adding “old”.

  “A pretty one,” she said. “Come closer, boy, I want to feel how tender you are. My teeth aren’t what they used to be, you know. The last lad that ended up here was much too bony for this old hag.”

  She brought out a hand from under the blanket and Ivan saw a large bone clenched in the gnarled fingers. He couldn’t tell for sure, but by the size of it, the bone could well be human.

  Ivan shivered. “Why would you want to eat me, old mother?”

  “Why not?” she asked with what seemed like genuine interest.

  “Because
—” He struggled for the right words. Put like this, the question did make sense. “I may be more useful alive.”

  “Useful?” She chuckled again. “For what?”

  Ivan threw another glance around the room. The floor was barely visible under a thick layer of dust and dirt that rolled on the floor as the hut stepped from leg to leg, probably tired of standing still. The window was so soiled it barely let through any light. The kettle on the stove was covered with so much soot and grease it seemed shapeless. The smells of dirt, old age, and stagnation hung in the room. It wasn’t overwhelming, but after the freshness of the forest outside, it was too much to ignore.

  “I could help you tidy up your house. It seems like no one has done it for a while. I could also fix your door. And maybe put new grass into your mattress. It looks like it might need some.”

  “A sweet-spoken one.” She appeared to consider his offer. “Very nice of you, boy, but you said nothing of cooking me any food. And if I starve, I’ll have no use for a tidy house, eh?”

  “I could catch you some wild rabbits,” Ivan suggested.

  “Rabbits.” She smacked her lips. “They’re not as good as human flesh, you know. Not sweet enough. Yet, they’re tender, and if you add beetroot to the stew, it might just make it sweet enough for the old woman’s teeth. But—” she shook her head, “—you’re just like all the other silly boys. Trying to outsmart the old woman. You think I’ll let you go rabbit-huntin’ and you’ll run away. No, boy, the kettle it is for you!”

  “I’ll stay,” Ivan promised. “I won’t go anywhere. My friend will catch the rabbits for you while I clean up. How many would you like?”

  “Your friend?” She clambered off the stove bed to peer out the door, and for the first time Ivan had a good look at her eyes. They were yellow, with vertical pupils. Just like a wolf’s.

  “Where?” she asked.

  Ivan turned. Wolf was nowhere to be seen.

  Marya

  The girl’s dark blond hair, loose from its braid, reached down almost to her knees. I hadn’t been mistaken. It was thick enough to look pleasing when let loose. Very few girls had hair strong enough to grow to that length.

  Her face was still swollen with tears and her pale-blue eyes studied me shyly and with fear.

  “What is your name?” I asked as she walked for me to the center of the room. She moved in a smooth, sliding gait that made her appear as if she glided above the floor, her head and shoulders floating straight, never bouncing with a step. Village girls acquired this walk carrying a koromyslo on their shoulders, a long board with a bucket of water attached to each end, the most efficient device to fetch water from the well. During a sometimes long walk, smooth, gliding steps made water splash much less. And mastering this skill certainly made some peasant women look more elegant and majestic than noble ladies.

  “I am Alyona, mistress,” the girl answered in a half-whisper.

  She was afraid of me, no doubt, and of what awaited her on the Solstice night. I had to make sure she was suitable in every way.

  “How old are you, Alyona?” I asked, making my voice soft and gentle.

  “I will be seventeen next week, mistress. I mean…I am sixteen.” Two large tears rolled down her cheeks.

  I took the girl by the hands, sending some calm into her, making her shivers quiet down, just as my father had taught me to do. Who else but my father would know how to quieten a frightened girl with magic?

  “You understand, Alyona, that it is a great honor to be chosen for the Solstice. You will be sacrificed for the good of our land. You will help all the villages in the kingdom survive another season. Only the most beautiful and worthy maidens receive this honor.”

  “I am very honored, mistress.” Another, smaller tear ran down her face.

  I tried to ignore her tears, looking instead at her lowered eyelashes, the soft curve of her profile, the slender neck. The rest was concealed by the baggy dress she was still wearing, but my serving women assured me her body looked good all the way down. Sadness becomes her, I thought. Her looks will do.

  “Are you a virgin, Alyona?” I asked.

  She blushed so deeply that even her neck turned crimson, and she gave a slight nod of her head.

  I knew she was, but I wanted her to say it.

  “Are you?” I pressed. “Answer me!”

  “I am, mistress, I swear I am!” Another tear slipped down her cheek.

  “Good.” I smiled at her. “I think you will be perfect for your important role. You won’t betray our trust, will you, Alyona?”

  “I will not, mistress,” she said firmly, biting her pretty lower lip.

  That was the secret of dealing with peasants. Say the right words and they will serve you for the rest of their lives. However long that might be.

  “From now on, you are named the Chosen One, the Sacred Maiden of the Summer Solstice. May you serve our land well.”

  I stepped forward, placed my hands on her cheeks, and kissed her on the forehead. My kiss was the official seal on this pact of death. It left a star-shaped mark on her forehead, visible only on the night of the Solstice.

  “My servants will see to your needs and help you get ready,” I said and waved to my maids to lead her away.

  As I approached my father’s quarters, I heard muffled screams coming from the inner room. I hesitated. I didn’t like to disturb my father when he was with one of his women. Especially not when he was in a mood to be rough, but time was precious and there were questions I needed to ask him.

  I pushed open the heavy door and the hinges squealed. My father liked to be warned of visitors. I was glad, as it meant I was spared from catching him unawares.

  A woman’s garments were scattered on the floor of the main room, a boyar’s daughter by the look of it, though it was really none of my business. My father was free to have his fun whichever way he liked. If these girls were foolish enough to get caught with him, it was their problem.

  There was a smirk on his face when he came out of his inner chamber to meet me.

  “I need to talk to you, Father.”

  He smiled, but kept his silence. He knew why I’d come, of course, but he wouldn’t make it easy for me.

  I held his gaze. “I talked to Raven before dawn.”

  “And?”

  “He told me the prophecy.”

  “So?”

  “Why didn’t you tell me, Father? Why did you let me face the boy unprepared?”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in prophecies,” he said with dry amusement.

  “I thought you were the one who taught me not to,” I parried.

  We studied one another for a moment.

  “The Raven suggested that I ask the Mirror why the boy came to our kingdom. And who is helping him.”

  “A wise precaution.”

  “Will you come and see it with me?” And with a glance toward the inner chamber, I added, “When you can.”

  He shrugged. “Let’s go. We can’t afford to waste time.”

  He turned and walked out of the room and I followed, forcing thoughts of what we left in my father’s inner chamber out of my head. It was none of my business.

  Back in my room, we took our places in front of the Mirror. I caught my father studying my face.

  “I like having my only daughter as my head priestess. It’s the only way to be sure no secrets escape,” he said.

  I bit back the retort. I was angry that he hid things from me, but now was not the time to talk about it.

  “Why did you think the boy was the one from the prophecy?” I asked instead. And then, another thought struck me. “You haven’t spoken to Raven since his treason, have you?”

  My father didn’t answer.

  Anger boiled inside my chest. “So, you knew exactly what the boy was up to. It was no coincidence that you appeared in my tower when you did.”

  He grinned. “Very clever, my daughter.”

  I shivered. “Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I coul
dn’t have told the boy anything. And yet, you made me feel guilty. Why?”

  He stepped closer. I could feel his cool breath on my cheek.

  “Remember, Marya, the first lesson I taught you about separating your feelings. Remember the men who gave their lives to bring you pleasure.”

  I remembered. How could I forget?

  “Come here,” my father put his arms around me and pulled me close, cradling me in his embrace. I froze. He’d taught me on my thirteenth birthday to never long for his touch. And yet, I still did. More, I depended on it, on these rare moments when he took me into his arms.

  Perhaps it was the magic he used to bind my will to him. I didn’t care. These moments were worth everything, worth the tears of the Sacrifice Maidens, the silent obedience of their heartbroken parents, the lonely, loveless nights up in my chamber at the top of the East Tower.

  I buried my face in his chest, inhaling his scent like cool moonlit stone, feeling my troubles dissipate as his hands caressed my hair.

  “Guilt,” my father said against my bent head, “is a good emotion. Guilt and anger. They help you to stay on guard. And you are still on guard, aren’t you, Marya?”

  “Yes, Father,” I breathed out.

  “Good.”

  He ran his hands through my hair and down my back. I shivered.

  This is a trick. A trick to take me off guard, to let dangerous feelings slip through. A test.

  I might have fallen for it when I was thirteen, but not now. I was calm. I was detached. The only shades of emotions were anger and guilt. No, not even those. I was the Mistress of the Solstice, the head priestess at my father’s side. All the longing, all the warmth my treacherous body felt in response to his touch, was no more than a trap my father had laid for me, to test how powerful I had become.

 

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