Chernevog (v1.2)

by C. J. Cherryh

  They packed up, they picked up the bags and the bedrolls to take out to the horses. Chernevog took the bag with the books and the herb-pots, which answered the question whether Chernevog would turn a hand himself, and certainly what he wanted to keep out of Sasha’s reach, Pyetr reckoned bitterly.

  He also reckoned very well which horse Chernevog would want for himself, and when Chernevog wanted to walk out to the horses, Pyetr kept his mouth shut and planned to keep it that way, wishing at the bottom of his heart that Volkhi would have the discrimination to give a sudden pitch and break Chernevog’s neck—but the very thought that Chernevog might harm Volkhi or magic the spirit out of him made him sure he wanted to do nothing to provoke him. Volkhi came wandering up to them, and he attached the reins, trying to think nothing at all.

  “Pyetr,” Sasha said, and he thought, probably not on his own initiative, that Sasha wanted him to ride double with him on Missy; but, “No,” he said, shaking his head, and went on tying his knots. He knew bullies, he had met them aplenty in Vojvoda, and if he was the target Chernevog picked this morning, then so be it: better one of them than both and better to keep his head down and take it than challenge the scoundrel to find one and the next and the next soft spot until he felt out where all the telling ones were.

  So he finished his knot and lapped the rein-ends over Volkhi’s neck, turned to offer Chernevog a lift up. But he thought men that he was supposed to get on and pull Chernevog up, and he found himself eye to eye with Chernevog, not sure what the man wanted.

  “Go on,” Chernevog said.

  He gave a doubtful shake of his head, turned and took a handful of Volkhi’s mane.

  Fear stopped him men, a cold sudden thought of Chernevog at his back. And something very strong wanted him to go ahead, now, before Chernevog lost his patience.

  He turned against Volkhi’s side and looked Chernevog in the face, sure that one of these conflicting impulses was Sasha’s, one was Chernevog’s, and all he could do was stand there with go and stay chasing around his own cold apprehension.

  “Can’t you just say what you want?” he asked, the way he would ask Sasha, and feared he might be tilting some balance in this silent, rapid warfare… might just have done something very stupid, and dangerous to Sasha, and he wanted Chernevog to think about him, not Sasha. He gave Chernevog a sudden

  Chernevog turned and looked him in the face and he not draw the next breath, absolutely could not get rid of one he had.

  “Stop it!” Sasha cried.

  Breath went out of him. He gasped after the next. Chernevog said, “Don’t do that again,” and Pyetr turned perforce and with his knees shaking under him, found enough strength to get up to Volkhi’s back.

  Chernevog passed him the baggage Volkhi carried, the bag with the books, too, and wanted his hand then, to pull him up.

  Pyetr gave it, leaned, braced his leg, and let Chernevog climb on, with a grip on his arm and his shirt, Volkhi shifting weight from one hind foot to the other. Chernevog settled, and again he felt that queasiness in his stomach that meant two wizards wanted conflicting things of him.

  He bit his lip, he did not ask Sasha to stop, the boy knew what he was doing, if it killed him, the boy knew what he was doing…

  Chernevog’s arms came around his waist, Volkhi turned his head and started moving in a direction he supposed Chernevog wanted, all of which passed in a kind of fog. He wanted Chernevog not to hold so closely, he wanted not to have Chernevog up against his back, he wanted not to feel the dark spot he had felt since last night waking up and slithering about in the middle of him.

  He thought, It’s his heart, whatever that means. It’s his damned, shriveled heart—

  “Let him go!” Sasha was saying, pulling Missy alongside, hut Missy suddenly pitched and shied off. “Pyetr!” Sasha cried and he saw Sasha hauling on the reins, trying to reason with the mare. “Dammit, don’t do that to him!”

  —but that dark spot just wandered about where it wanted to, and finally found itself a place to rest, after which the acute fear passed, and the dizziness passed, and Pyetr only knew something was still there, so close to where he was that he could no longer see it.

  “He’s perfectly safe,” Chernevog said, which echoed strangely in his hearing, and Volkhi, who had jolted them a bit when Missy shied, walked steadily now. “No reason to worry,”

  Chernevog whispered behind his ear. “I won’t hurt you, I’ve no intention at all of harming you… “

  He felt a deep chill. He was no longer riding through young trees, he was seeing the fireside last night, he was remembering Sasha hitting the stone floor like a sack of flour and himself standing there wondering whether he should want to do something about that. That was how it had hit him: a small dead spot that could see his best friend lying on the ground and ask himself if he really wanted to do something that was going to get him hurt—

  Because for a moment it had seemed nobody ever looked out for anybody…

  As if the last several years had never happened, as if he was the same ragged boy who had had nobody—nobody but a father who sometimes fed him and sometimes got drunk or went off somewhere for days.

  Though he had cared, dammit: he remembered hunting for his father and wishing—god, wishing his father would die so he would never have to spend another night scared he was dead in some damned alley—

  His father had died, murdered one midsummer’s eve. And he had had that same cold dark spot in the middle of him. He had gotten drunk for the first time in his young life, gotten drunk and walked The Doe’s roof ridge with a vodka jug, while drunken grown-ups cheered and clapped below—but they cheered their loudest when he almost fell.

  They had given him drinks, perhaps out of kindness, until he fell on his face. He had missed the funeral, such as there was for Ilya Kochevikov: the town watch had dumped him in a shallow grave and nobody even marked it.

  Not even he had. He had come there the next afternoon to see where it was, and just walked off from it—because his father was through scaring him: that was all he had managed to feel while he was standing there: his father would never scare him anymore.

  He still dreamed about searching for his father. Then the terror would be real again, and he would think, god, he can’t be dead, he can’t be dead—for reasons he did not to this day understand.

  That was where he was this morning—remembering teetering

  drunk on that damn roof—he had done it on three memorable occasions since, for sizable bets—and watching the blurry roof ridge ahead of him swaying back and forth, in his numbness that said there was only that narrow a track to walk, and if he fell the whole world would watch and cheer him down—Walk it with me, Kavi Chernevog? Think you’re brave? Think you’re good?…

  He stood in winter woods, called to Owl, and Owl came out of the snowy sky, white against white, Owl settled on his arm and took the mouse he had for him.

  He could not love Owl now, he could not love anything, he only understood what life and death were. He could know fear, he could know hate, which was tangled with it—he could know his own advantage when he saw it, so it really was not so very different, being without a heart. It was still comfortable to be with Owl. Owl’s needs were simple, a mouse or two—no trouble to catch them, wish them still, wish them dead.

  Owl when he killed was quick. Owl never thought about killing. Owl just did.

  He could wish Owl were free—but he was not: Owl was bound to him and he was bound to Draga. He could escape for an hour or so, he could go out hi the white and the cold and call Owl to him and for a while he could forget… No good to run, her voice said. You can try. No good to wish, she said. You can try that, too. And one night by the hearth she said, this woman standing in front of the fire, Do you want me to call Owl here? No, he said, and insofar as he was still Pyetr, he saw her pale hair and thought, as one would in a dream, Chernevog’s being a fool, it’s Eveshka—not Draga. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with.

  But t
hings seemed to blur then, and he thought, panicked, No, it isn’t ‘Veshka, it isn’t her—before the woman turned her head and looked him in the eyes.

  He wanted out of this dream. He wanted out of it, because he knew where it was going. He heard Owl battering at the windows, he felt his heart beating in panic-Not Eveshka, he kept saying to himself. There was no likeness, none but the hair, none but the shape of the face, he did not know how he could mistake that even from the back. The chin was cleft, the eyes were not Eveshka’s eyes—they were ice, they were winter.

  She came close and touched him under the chin—she was so much taller than he; and lifted his face and kissed him on the mouth while Owl battered himself frantically against the shutters and his heart beat in fear. He had no idea now what right was, or where he could go if he ran. She kissed him twice more and said he had never had a secret she did not know, and never would have a purpose but what she set him.

  He wanted not to go into that room with her… and Chernevog gave him back the daylight and the forest, abhorring his own recollections. Chernevog did not want to be a servant again, he would never be in that position again…

  He walked up the path to the ferryman’s cottage, passed a gate Pyetr knew, in front of trees long dead—he came up the familiar walk-up and onto the porch and knocked fearfully, guarding his thoughts—or Uulamets might know instantly why he was there, and kill him.

  But it was a girl in blond braids that answered the door—the hair was so like Draga’s it made his heart jump with fright; but it could only be Draga’s daughter—a girl no more than thirteen.

  He took off his cap. He knew who she was and dimly knew he was dealing with someone very dangerous to him. He said, in a boy’s young voice, “I’m Kavi Chernevog. I’ve come to see master Uulamets. Is he at home?”

  Eveshka let him in.

  No! Pyetr thought, wanting desperately not to see this; and Chernevog said, silently, at his shoulder, She’s very clever, if she used her good sense—but you can reason with her, can’t you? Persuade her to join us: then there’s nothing can threaten us, nothing will ever threaten us again.

  “No,” he muttered. It was hard to think at all. Chernevog’s thoughts kept coming at him, clinging like spiderweb. He heard Missy behind them, and wanted help, desperately wanted it. He wanted to rein back, and his hands would not move.

  Of a sudden there was a quick thump of hooves, Volkhi spun, all but unseating him and Chernevog, then stopped—as Pyetr saw a flash of Missy’s retreating rump, green birches, Sasha’s white shirt in the sunlight—

  He kicked Volkhi hard then: Volkhi jumped and Chernevog slid, dragging him off, while his fistful of mane kept him and Chernevog upright against Volkhi’s side. He let that go and bashed his elbow into Chernevog’s ribs, spun around and hit him in the jaw—after which he could not hit him again— could not: his arm would not answer and the will to act just would not form itself.

  Volkhi had stopped and side-stepped, trod on one of their fallen packs. Pottery crunched like old bone. Pyetr gazed helplessly out over the sea of young birches, saw nothing but sunlight glancing off the leaves. The boy and the horse were well out of sight in the taller growth now—going somewhere with something in mind, he told himself. Sasha had not just run out on him: the boy had suddenly thought of an answer and he would do something clever and get him out of this.

  Even if the feeling at the pit of his stomach recalled with disquieting immediacy how other friends had run out on him… like ‘Mitri Venedikov backing away from him, refusing to help him, while he was bleeding his life out…

  His own father saying, when he was in trouble for stealing, Boy, you’re not my responsibility…

  Chernevog laid a hand on his shoulder, pulled him around face to face with him. Chernevog’s lip was cut, blood was smeared on his chin, and Pyetr could no more lift a hand than he could a moment ago. He had a long, long moment to realize Chernevog was very put out with him.

  Chernevog said, “Is that all it’s worth? He’s left you.”

  He said, “He’s not left. You’d better worry, Snake.”

  Chernevog looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He expected Chernevog would do something very painful, and on that account it was stupid to have said anything, but it was like kicking the horse—it kept Chernevog busy and let Sasha get that much further.

  Chernevog walked off from him, stood with his back to him, looking off in the direction Sasha had taken, and when Pyetr thought of going for Chernevog again his thoughts slid away from him like water off a roof. He tried to speak, but he could not do that either; and that small dark spot in his mind slithered around stirring up that bitter, pain-ridden memory of ‘Mitri walking away from him in a dark tavern-yard, starting to run, he was so anxious to avoid a friend in trouble—

  Sasha would not desert him. Sasha would be back—in time, he did most earnestly hope. He stood there—he could do little else—until Chernevog turned a cold face toward him and said, “Get up on the horse.”

  Then he wondered—he could not help it—whether Chernevog had reached Sasha with some spell… whether Sasha was even alive.

  Chernevog said, “Move, dammit,” and had him turning and catching up Volkhi’s reins before he even thought about it. He looked back with the sudden remembrance that he was armed, that Chernevog had never taken the sword from him: that was how thoroughly Chernevog had him. He simply could not think of things when they mattered; and Chernevog wanted the sword now. Chernevog said very quietly, “Your friend is being a fool. Give me the sword. Take off the belt and give it to me.”

  He did that, moving as it seemed in a dream, watching his own actions from some remote place. It seemed to him that there was some reason Chernevog wanted the weapon now—that perhaps Chernevog thought Sasha might indeed reach him and, through him, use it.

  It left his fingers. Chernevog said, slinging the belt from his shoulder, “There are creatures that will offer him everything he needs. He has protection I can’t break, and I’m not entirely sure he’s acting on his own. Do you understand me, Pyetr Ilyitch?”

  He tried not to listen. He thought, doggedly, Sasha’s not stupid, he wouldn’t resort to magic, he swore he wouldn’t, Chernevog’s lying—but Chernevog said, catching his arm with a painful grip:

  “Pyetr Ilyitch, listen to me… “

  They sat in the open doorway, facing each other on benches pulled into the sunlight. Draga’s needle flew in and out the blue wool, making flowers, stitching a chain of red. Draga said, “You shouldn’t think about going home until the baby’s born. Two young men—I’ll warrant neither one’s ever seen a baby born. Have they?”

  “I don’t think so,” Eveshka said, hands on knees—in her own dress, with which her mother’s pale blue ribbons clashed. She thought, I’m not sure this one’s going to be born at all. But he kept that quiet: mama seemed definite and stubborn in her says: papa had certainly had that description right.

  “So you should stay here.”

  One could ask mama to come south and stay, but Eveshka did not find that an attractive thought—bringing mama near Pyetr.

  Not even near Sasha, who would be patient and try to get along with anyone, but mama seemed all too definite in her opinions even for Sasha’s goodwill.

  Not to mention mama’s companion, Brodyachi, who lay at the foot of the old oak, watching every move she made with yellow, suspicious eyes.

  The needle flickered, eclipsed by the wool, sparkling in the sun. “There is no chance that Sasha’s the father?”

  “No!”

  A good many more stitches, before her mother said, without looking up, “Forgive me. But it’s very important.”

  “Damned right it’s important!”

  “I don’t know if there’s ever been any wizard with the gift on both sides. Carrying it to a second generation… “ Her mother promised to tie a knot and bite a thread. “You were difficult enough. A wizard-child of still another degree… the god only knows.”

 
That thought led terrible places. Papa used to say…

  “…Things sometimes seem to want themselves to happen,” her mother said, and sent a chill down her spine, because it was what papa used to say, that she had dismissed with other of her father’s improvable ideas. “It’s troublesome, it’s certainly troublesome. Your father and I used to talk about it—when we were speaking to each other, when we actually thought—well, your father was very anxious about your birth, your father and I quarreled—I suppose he’s told you this.”

  “I don’t know, until I know what it is.”

  “Well—” Draga threaded her needle with white. “Your father was very upset when I conceived you. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Retried to make me lose you; I fought him on it, that much I could do.” She made the center of a flower, a quick series of knots, and Eveshka waited, biting her lip, because papa had never said anything except that she was her mother’s idea and had her mother’s bad habits. “I’d have run off. But he was the stronger, in those days. He couldn’t make me lose you, but he wouldn’t let me leave, either, till you’d been born. Then—” Her mother looked up at her, a troubled, pained sort of look “The truth is, dear, your father tried to kill me the day you were born. He almost did, but I got away across the river. And I wanted you—oh, I wanted you so badly. But I never could cross the river again.”

  It filled in gaps, it made plausible sense. It might be at least one side of the truth, she thought—though papa had said her mother had tried to kill him, too—in more than one way.

  So she asked, hardening her heart, “And Kavi, mama?”

  “Kavi was a very gifted boy, a boatman’s son, so the story goes, from a village downriver. The mother died—Kavi was quite precocious, very dangerous. The father left him with a wizard named Lenki—I heard all this from her—a nasty old creature, really, not particularly gifted, entirely unreasonable, the sort of person one hates to see a child with. But she wouldn’t give him up: she treated him like a rag doll when he was little, doted on him, spoiled him; kicked him about and worked him like a dog once he’d gotten beyond a baby. One day evidently he’d had enough, and she died. I caught him—caught is the word—months later. He’d been living in the woods, alone, like a wild thing. Poor boy, I thought when I found him. I’d lost you… I was very foolish just then.” Another knot. Draga bit the thread and reknotted it. “Well, well, I knew what he’d done to Lenki, but of course I could civilize him. Pretty lad, such lovely, lovely eyes, and very well-spoken… but you know that.”