“It’s more than that, isn’t it?” Raphael asked.
Feronantus was silent for a long moment. “There is something that must be done,” he said finally. “Things that have not been a part of the world for a very long time have been awakened. They must be set on the right path.”
“And that path lies in the north?”
Feronantus shook his head. “The path lies everywhere and nowhere, Raphael. The next step is in the north. All of us will be asked to make great sacrifices.”
“All of us? Who do you count in that group?”
“You.” Feronantus laid his hand upon Raphael’s shoulder. His grip was strong and his gaze did not waver. “I would have you and Vera see what I see, Raphael.”
“What of the others? Haakon? Yasper? Cnán?”
Feronantus smiled at him. “They’re safe, Raphael. You brought them back. I lost too many of our brothers, but you didn’t. You saved them.”
Gawain found the young Northerner wandering around in the stable. The trio of local boys who had been tasked with caring for their horses moved efficiently around the dawdling Northerner. Haakon was not the first to stand in the way while the boys mucked the stalls and fed the horses. “It’s a good place to hide,” Gawain said, and Haakon only glanced at him sheepishly.
“They’re leaving in the morning,” Gawain continued, jerking a thumb at the activity going on around them.
“Aye,” Haakon said with a sigh. “I’ve heard.”
“Are you going with them?”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Haakon was perplexed by the question.
“I don’t know,” Gawain said. “Why are you hiding in here?”
“I’m not hiding.”
“No?” Gawain shrugged. “My mistake, then.” He gestured at the row of saddles arranged along the far wall. “I’ll just get what I came for and leave you to your…introspection.”
Haakon grunted, and Gawain wandered to the saddles where he busied himself. The straps were all tightly fastened and cinched to the right length. The leather had been cleaned and polished, and his saddlebags were in the common room he was sharing with Percival and Evren. There wasn’t anything he needed to attend to, nor was a concern for his saddle the reason he had come to the stable.
“What…where will you go?” Haakon asked.
Gawain hid his smile and turned around. “South. Ahmet had a cousin who owns a few boats in Antalya. Evren and I were thinking of telling the cousin about what happened to Ahmet. After that…”
“You would become a sellsword?”
Gawain shrugged. “Nothing much else for men like us. I’m not one to swear vows of poverty and chastity, and the rest get caught up in wars that mean nothing to me. It doesn’t sound like much of a life.” He wandered back to Haakon and pointed out the open doors of the stable at the fields in the distance. “You could marry one of the local girls—I’m sure Benjamin could arrange such a union—and become a farmer. Work the land until your hands are covered with calluses and your back is curved by the weight of the plow.”
“My father was a fisherman,” Haakon said. He raised his hands and showed them to Gawain. “Different set of calluses.”
“You don’t have your father’s hands,” Gawain said.
“Aye, I do not,” Haakon said. “His were never stained with as much blood as mine.”
Gawain shook his head. “We all have blood on our hands, Haakon. We knew it was going to happen as soon as we picked up our first swords. It was a choice we made. You can’t wash it off, boy. That’s what makes us men. It makes us who we are.”
“Do you know who the first man I ever killed was?” Haakon asked.
Gawain shook his head. “I didn’t know the name of the first man I ever killed. I’m not sure I even saw his face.”
“I did,” Haakon said. “I watched mine die. His name was Ögedei Khan, son of Genghis Khan. He was the Khagan of the Mongol empire.”
“Well, he’s a bit more memorable of a foe than some Danish marauder wearing a helmet,” Gawain said.
“You knew?”
“Aye, Bruno told me about your confession around the fire.”
Haakon was silent for a moment. He toyed with the handle of the knife shoved in his belt, and Gawain thought it was probably the blade the boy had taken from the Khagan. “Get rid of it,” he said gently.
“What?”
“The knife. It’s a trophy, and as long as you have it, you’re not going to be able to forget his face.”
“I’m never going to forget his face,” Haakon said.
“You will,” Gawain said. “It will happen. It just takes time.” He clapped Haakon on the shoulder. “Or a lot of wine. Come with me, young master. I will show you the rest of the world. Let us find a way for you to forget.”
Haakon thought about Gawain’s process, his fingers drumming on the hilt of the knife. Then, with a curt nod, he pulled the sheathed blade out of his belt and walked with stiff legs to the saddles. Standing before the one that belonged to Feronantus, Haakon pulled the blade from its sheath, dropping the leather cover on the ground, and Gawain wondered what the boy was going to do. Haakon hesitated for a moment, wrestling with some thoughts, and then he took several steps to his left and drove the point of the blade into the leather seat of a different saddle—the one belonging to Raphael. “I’m with you,” he said to Gawain as he walked away from the stuck blade.
1242
VELJA NOC
CHAPTER 30:
THE LADY OF THE LAKE
Newly fallen snow coated the frozen surface of the lake, sparkling in the moonlight. The western shore was nothing more than a pale suggestion beyond the moon-lit lake, and if the Teutonics had watchers along the shore, Illarion could not see them. In turn, he hoped he and Nika could not be seen as they made their way along the ice-crusted eastern shoreline. Illarion appreciated that the moonlight reflected from the snow made torches unnecessary, but he still felt exposed.
Nika led the way, and he followed in her shallow footsteps as her boots compressed the shining snow. There was no sound except for the gentle slap of water against the ice beneath the surface of the lake and his loud breathing. The Shield-Maiden moved like a ghost. Overhead there were no clouds, making for a cold night, and the sky was awash with brilliant stars. But for the moon, it was a night identical to the one in Kiev months ago, when the ghostly fog had flowed into the city.
Alexander’s camp lay behind them, far enough away from the shore that it was marked only by an orange glow through the frost-rimed trees. The men were restless, and there had been a number of strenuous arguments in the Kynaz’s tent. Andrei did not argue with his brother in front of the soldiers, but Illarion knew that Andrei was pressing Alexander to take the fight to the Teutonics. So far, the prince’s conviction about Lake Peipus remained firm, but if the Teutonics did not attack soon, Illarion worried that the prince’s position would crumble.
“You’ve sent good men to their deaths, brother,” Andrei had said during their last argument, “and abandoned them when we retreated.”
“There are no victories without sacrifices,” Alexander had replied.
“Strange,” Andrei had said, after a long pause, “to hear you say that, who alone amongst the Princes of Rurik’s house would not raise his sword against Batu Khan, who brokered peace with our last conquerors. Now you’re all verve and fire and talk of sacrifice.” The lilt of the prince’s voice had suggested an excess of wine.
“Tell me brother,” Alexander had asked, his voice tired and sad, “would you have had me throw all that remained of Rus the way of Father and Grandfather? Would a Khan’s slaughter in the streets of Novgorod have pleased you?”
“That is not what I speak of, Alexander,” Andrei said. “I speak only of honor.”
“Families have burned for honor, Andrei,” Alexander said. “Tribes, villages, cities, have all given their lives up to the consuming fires of personal vendettas and sullied pride. A ruler’s first priority is his people
, or he is unworthy of his throne.”
“Yet here you are,” Andrei answered, “fighting to keep from one foe what you would not from another.”
“The difference between you and me,” Alexander finally said, “is that I understand that only the battles we can win are worth fighting.”
Nika slowed, turning her head from side to side as if she were searching for some sign. Illarion saw nothing but snow-covered rocks and trees.
“There,” Nika said, pointing to a cluster of spruce that leaned out from the rest of the forest. She walked over to the middle tree and reached up to brush away the intermittent layer of snow on the trunk. Illarion saw the mark then, and marveled that Nika had seen it at all. It was nothing more than a series of gashes in the bark—some long, some short—stripping away the dark outer layer to reveal the pale trunk beneath. “There will be another mark soon,” she said. “Not much farther now.”
Illarion glanced back the way they had come. He could still see the glow of the fires from Alexander’s camp. “Is it not a risk to come this close to the prince’s camp?” he wondered.
“She is very skilled at remaining unseen,” Nika said with a wry smile. “And even if others stumbled across her, what would they do? I fear more for them than for her, should that happen.”
“When I have met her in my dreams, she…” Illarion trailed off, unwilling to give voice to that which he feared.
“This way,” Nika said. She continued on, and before he followed her, Illarion reached up and laid two of his fingers across the gashes in the tree. They were as wide as his fingers and he could almost imagine the hand that had swiped across the bark, gouging out the pair of marks. Suppressing a shudder, he hurried after the Shield-Maiden.
She spotted another mark and this time he saw it as well, pale scratches high enough on the trunk that they weren’t obscured by snow, and she turned away from the lake, disappearing into the woods. He followed, clumsily thrashing through the snow-covered undergrowth.
Nika moved gracefully through the forest, and no matter how hard he tried to follow her course, Illarion foundered more often than not—stepping in hidden drifts, catching his cloak on spindly branches, tripping over hidden logs. He was sweating profusely by the time she stopped.
“How do you know these signs are from her?” he asked, partly as an excuse to catch his breath.
“Although they look like signs that fur traders and hunters might use, they have none of the marks that would indicate they were cut by a knife or an ax.” She held up three fingers. “And they are too few to be made by a bear.”
Illarion shivered. “How many times have you met with her?” he asked, trying to keep his annoyance from his voice. He knew that Nika hadn’t told him everything, nor had he ever thought she would, but to think that the enigmatic witch was following and watching them was deeply unnerving. He could dismiss the dreams—though it had been harder of late to do so—but to be here, in the woods, about to confront that which had been haunting him was something else entirely.
Nika paused, turning her head slightly but not looking directly at him. “She is to be obeyed, Illarion. I do not call into question things greater than myself, especially when they call on me to fulfill my own vows.”
Illarion said nothing, thinking of the vow Baba Yaga had extracted from him. It is my turn now, he thought.
Nika nodded past the line of trees in front of them. The moonlight played tricks with her face, casting it in an array of unsettling shadows. “What lies beyond these trees is for you to know,” she said. “I am merely your guide, and I can go no further.”
Illarion noticed a gap between two trees that he would have sworn had not been there moments before. He tried to find some parting words to say to Nika, but realized everything he could think of sounded as if he were not expecting to return. His relationship with the Shield-Maiden had been a strange one from the beginning, born of mutual pain and boredom—a sensation of having lost their place in the world. Their hearts had both turned to stone long ago, and no deep affection lay between them, but here and now it seemed that there was trust and understanding.
“I have not always been as kind as I should have,” he said to her.
“Nor I,” she answered.
In the silence that lingered between them, Illarion realized the value of her friendship. It was his turn to initiate the embrace, though she was as awkward as she had been the last time. Still, he caught a glimpse of something in her gaze that made him glad he had hugged her.
He didn’t think the gap between the trees would be wide enough for him, but when he turned sideways and sidled through, he fit easily. The trees were packed more tightly together than he expected, and the gap turned into a narrow passage. It turned to the left, and he lost sight of Nika. He stopped, breathing heavily, and then set aside his fear and continued on. When the passage narrowed, he had to duck several times to get past thick branches that stretched across the gap.
The passage turned again, and he followed it, his sense of direction utterly confused. The passage took another of its impossible left turns—how many there had been now he couldn’t remember—and he found himself standing in an open space in the woods. The ground was flat and clear, and there were no stumps or breaks in the ground that suggested trees had been cleared. The verge of the circle was marked by wooden stakes driven into the ground, and at the center of the clearing there was a ring of stones. A fire of cedar logs burned in the ring.
Illarion stepped into the clearing, turning about as his feet crunched upon the hard-packed snow. He thought he saw a shadow beyond the trees, hulking and unmoving, like a cottage elevated from the ground, though he could not see by what. When he approached the fire, he spotted three skulls carefully arranged on the stones as if they were watching the flames dance. One was gray, one was black, and one was smeared with blood that glistened in the firelight. He felt his guts tighten and his hand reflexively brushed the hilt of his sword.
“There is no need for steel here, Ilya.”
At once, she was there, though he could not have said from whence she came. She was stooped and ancient beyond imagining, swathed in layers of furs. A cowl hid most of her face.
“Sit,” she said.
Even though there was no chair or bench, he obeyed. The ground was cold beneath him, even through his fur-lined cloak. A distant part of his mind found it strange that he, a child of Rus who was no stranger to the endless winters, could be so chilled. Other parts of his mind were frozen with fear, unwilling to accept anything of what he was seeing and hearing. He knew a man’s senses could be tricked, and he could assuage some of the fear with a reasoned reminder of this fact, but he could not dismiss everything.
“Do you know why you are here?” the crone asked. She reached out to draw warmth from the slumbering fire, and her hands were so gnarled that they looked to Illarion like the dried bones of a corpse.
“I have dreamed of you several times,” he said at last. His throat was dry, though from thirst or terror he could not say. “In them, your words have been maddeningly opaque to me. I admit that I understand little of what you have said.”
She let out a cackle of dry laughter, and when she turned her cowled head toward him, he saw her wrinkled chin and gaping mouth. “Is that why you have come?” she asked. “Do you seek explanation of your dreams?”
“No,” he said, swallowing heavily. “I fear that a plain-spoken explanation will be even more terrifying than what I imagine.”
She nodded slowly. “It is said that you are a ghost—a man with one foot still in the grave. You have seen what this fear brings out in other men. And you have seen the power of being a ghost too, have you not?”
“I have,” Illarion said.
“Which do you prefer?”
“I asked for neither.”
She nodded as if he had responded correctly a second time. “Which serves Rus better?” she asked.
“What does Rus need?” he asked in return.
&
nbsp; She leaned forward. “Is this a game you would play with me, Illarion Illarionovich? Answering my questions with a question of your own?”
“Rus needs a savior,” he said, answering his own question, but as soon as he had said it, he realized it wasn’t the correct answer. “Rus has one already,” he said. “Prince Alexander Iaroslavich.”
She nodded. “He can save the people of Rus, should he desire, and they are the bones and the meat of the body that is Rus, but they are not the blood of Rus.”
“You mean like royal blood?” Illarion asked. “He is far more regal than I.” Illarion knew his heritage, as every boy raised in noble birth was required to. The first years of his life had been spent memorizing the names of his descendants, until he knew them as well as he did the young and old of his living family.
“Aye,” she agreed. “The blood of Svyatoslav of Kiev runs deep in Rus, but it is more than that. Svyatoslav was the first. He gave shelter to my sisters and me. He swore a vow to us and we to him. We are bound, his blood and mine, bound to Rus for all eternity.”
Her words confused him, and he let his mind wander over the family trees he had memorized as a boy. Blood mattered, he thought, but not that of the royal line. Who else?
We are bound, his blood and mine.
Nika had told him already. Baba Yaga had been a Shield-Maiden once, and it was with Svyatoslav that the Shield-Maidens had first found sanctuary in Rus. Svyatoslav had had many concubines, from which had sprung many bloodlines ennobled by their origins, but barred from his throne by birth. One—or more—of them must have been Skjalddis. He struggled to recall the dim beginnings of the family lines he had memorized as a child, and then the name came to him. “Malusha,” he whispered. Malusha, daughter of Grimhildr.
“Aye, she is the one,” Baba Yaga said. “You can cut back a tree so that grows no new branches, but unless you pull down the trunk, its roots will still spread, hidden from sight. Eventually, when the land is fertile again, new growth may occur. New leaves may sprout.”
Katabasis (The Mongoliad Cycle, Book 4) Page 32