“Sasha’s very unusual. But Sasha burned his parents to death. Did you know that?”
“He told me.”
“So he did make a mistake. It scared him out of doing magic at all until your father got his hands on him. He’s very innocent. His wish was not to do harm. And the strength of the innocent in magic is like the strength of children—naive and terribly dangerous.”
“ How do you know about him?”
“I have my sources. I even know what wanted him. It still does. And of course he’d be very foolish to deal with it. You never deal with the one that wants you most. You deal with Something just a bit stronger—and you have to be very stubborn. You can smother a gift the way your young friend did; but it’s very unusual for a child to do the right thing. Usually they don’t. Horn in an ordinary situation, they can do very dangerous things—and very many fall right into the magical world and become—the god knows what. If a child is being attacked—” Her mother caught her hands in hers and held them so tightly the bones ground together, pain she opened her mouth to protest, but her mother said, “As you were attacked, dear. Kavi wanted you dead and you wouldn’t die. You fought back as hard as a wizard could fight, you fought him by wanting your life so much… so much… you pulled at everything in sight, like someone drowning—”
“I did drown, mama!” The pain was nothing. The image scared her. It reminded her—
“You can drown in magic or you can strike out and swim, clear, you don’t have to draw on the natural world. There is a place to get everything your wizardry can use—the right way. It was your fathers damnable teaching that made you a killer. You wouldn’t do what was reasonable, no, you followed your father and you ended up Kavi’s creature—say what you will, Kavi was using you; Kavi’s wishes have been, even while he was sleeping, and he’ll go on using you, against everything you want for yourself, unless you listen to different advice.”
Listening to anyone’s advice frightened her. There had been so many lies.
“Kavi has your husband in his hands,” Draga said, and squeezed hard, while cold panic swept over her. “Don’t wish! Listen! Sasha’s run, he’s had to, he’s completely out of his element. He can’t help your husband at all, he’s in danger himself, and there’s precious little he can appeal to, unless he does resort to magic—alone, untaught, and with your father’s ideas to cripple him. I can’t reach him. You’re the one who has a chance, but you’ve got to listen to me now, daughter, you’ve got to believe for once in your life someone is telling you the truth.”
Something had happened, Pyetr had no idea what, except it meant they were ahorse again, riding in the dark—he had opened his eyes by firelight with the side of his face stinging and Chernevog holding him painfully by the arm, saying, “Get up, get up, pack up. Move, damn you!”
He still had a wobbly, hollow feeling from that sudden waking, he still had no idea what had put fear on Chernevog’s face or what hour of the night it was, but a dream kept coming back to him that Sasha had called his name in profound distress, just before that waking; and he doubted Chernevog would tell him anything but lies.
But Chernevog said, as they rode, “Your friend’s found something, or something’s found him.”
He wanted to know, dammit, he could not help wondering, and Chernevog said, holding to him,
“He’s upstream from us. He went back toward the house and doubled back east and north following the river—looking for Eveshka, I’m sure: it’s what he hopes to do I can’t figure—or how much he understands of anything he’s doing.”
That was a question. Like ghosts, it came at him with fewer distractions in the dark. Pyetr bit the sore spot on his lip and tried to tell himself he had not felt Sasha wanting him, nothing was wrong, that Chernevog was worried was the best thing in the world, and if Chernevog wanted him to make guesses what another wizard would do, Chernevog had to be desperate.
“You felt it,” Chernevog said. “You know he’s in trouble.”
“I don’t know that,” he retorted, “but if you are, that does me good, Snake.”
Chernevog made him think of shapeshifters then, and his thoughts jumped to Uulamets’ likeness, the creature trying to lead him—
“Where?”
—east. To the river…
“My old servant,” Chernevog said. “But slippery. Damned slippery.”
He remembered Sasha saying—the vodyanoi had corrupted Chernevog, not the other way around.
“Corrupted me?” Chernevog asked, and shifted his seat as if that idea had truly startled him. “Corrupted me, god, no!”
Pyetr thought, And you aren’t, Snake?
Chernevog said nothing for a moment, and shifted his hands to Pyetr’s shoulders, both, too friendly for Pyetr’s liking. Chernevog’s presence was very quiet for a moment—enough to make a man’s skin crawl, and Chernevog:
“Be still.”
“Be still, hell.” He gave a violent shrug, remembered Vojvoda for no reason, remembered ‘Veshka, remembered the river and Babi and Sasha and planting the garden, all so rapidly he knew he was not recalling these things for his own reasons. He grew alarmed—and got the notion—while it was weaving its way through his thoughts he realized it was not his either—that Sasha’s safety might rely on his willing cooperation.
That’s a damned lie, he thought, but he could not make himself absolutely sure of that. He thought—if it were true—
If it were true—
Chernevog said: “If Sasha thinks the vodyanoi’s corrupted me, then he’s mistaken what he’s dealing with. He’s terribly, dangerously wrong. And so might Eveshka be. You don’t deal with a creature like Hwiuur. You don’t.”
He did not understand, except that no one in his right mind would trust the vodyanoi for anything. He thought, Sasha’s not a fool.
“Sasha’s not wholly a fool. But Hwiuur’s a great liar. He’ll try to frighten you. And if you’re going to deal with magic, Pyetr Ilyitch, you don’t deal with something like him—god, you don’t.” He put one hand on Pyetr’s back, said, quietly, compelling his attention, “Forget about my corruption. It has nothing to do with anything. I’m wanting him to hear you, right now, for whatever you want to tell him, Pyetr Ilyitch.”
He thought, It’s a trap, it has to be.
But immediately it seemed Sasha wanted assurance of him and quick as that he wanted Sasha not to trust the vodyanoi, to make no bargains that did not involve Chernevog’s guidance
No! Pyetr thought, but he doubted anyone was listening to him any longer—he knew Sasha was worried about him, and Chernevog was anxious to find Sasha before Sasha made any bargain with anything, because he needed Sasha, he was afraid Eveshka might have slipped into something that would make her—
He could not think about that. He could not even imagine Unkind of thing trying to shape itself in his mind, Eveshka would never do that, but Eveshka had never wanted to kill anybody either.
Then for no reason he could think of, and very frightened, he was sure Eveshka had conceived a baby, and that it was his, and that nothing was safe or sure in those circumstances. When? he wondered, and, Why not tell me? He was wounded, and fearing she was running from him—but he decided then Eveshka was not, she was concerned for him—
She wanted him the way Draga had wanted Chernevog, nothing to do with his own good.
That was not so. No. And of a sudden he was aware of Sasha wanting his whole attention, of Chernevog behind him again it had seemed otherwise for a moment, as if Sasha and Chernevog were face-to-face—Sasha saying, in words he could almost hear, Pyetr, listen to me, don’t listen to him, it’s very dangerous for you to listen to him.
At the bottom of his heart he was mortally afraid for his sanity. Sasha was telling him to be wary, Chernevog’s hand was holding the reins in his hand and he was leaning against Chernevog with a sense of warmth and ease he told himself was a lie.
Chernevog said, aloud, “Your young friend doesn’t want to be found. But he’s afr
aid of your wife—he’s afraid of her and he’s afraid of the old man’s ghost, which I think he’s found. At least he’s come to his senses. He’s very much afraid your wife is gone, Pyetr Ilyitch—at least, that she’s fallen into a trap he can’t get her out of—and so am I. He’s very much worried that you may be particularly vulnerable to her—and he wants me to keep you safe and away from her.”
“You’re lying, Snake.”
“He’s going to try to find out what he’s dealing with. I hope he survives it, I truly do: I want to know what he finds out. Most of all we don’t want to lend your wife any help—or any victims. Specially one carrying what you hold. Do we, Pyetr Ilyitch?”
“Go to hell,” he said. He refused to believe Sasha had said any such thing, even if it had elements of reason in it, even if it was thoroughly like Sasha to go to help Eveshka and try to keep his tool of a friend ignorant of it—but trusting Chernevog enough to tell him anything about his intentions was not reasonable.
Chernevog had used him to reach Sasha, that was what he had just done, Chernevog was lying to him and he hoped to the god he had not just put Sasha in more danger than he was already in.
“Hardly possible,” Chernevog said. “But the danger’s not from me. It’s not even from your wife, if that gives you any ease of mind.”
He felt too calm, too much at ease, considering what he was hearing. He hated it. He hated Chernevog for doing it to him, and he thought of breaking Chernevog’s skull—if he could so much as lift a finger toward that purpose.
Chernevog said, “Owl had no pity. He never understood my fondness for him. He did like the mice.”
It had come on him suddenly while he read, without warning… this presence of Pyetr’s-and he should have known then, Sasha thought, in one blink of an eye he should have realized that Pyetr could never have caught his attention without magic, and magic never could have gotten to him through his own precautions without Pyetr’s need to drive it.
Which meant—if he had had any forethought—Chernevog.
He leaned his elbows against Eveshka’s book, thinking—god, he had told Chernevog too much of that as it was, especially the part about the baby. He had thought of that news the instant he had felt he was truly dealing with Pyetr, it was part of his reasons and his heart had led him to admit that without so much as thinking. Now he asked himself what he had done and what he might have agreed to.
II you want to bargain, Chernevog had said, first off—don’t take anything the vodyanoi might offer: he’s easily any shapeshifter’s master, but there are things so far beyond the vodyanoi’s reach.
They’ll waste no time, Chernevog had said, gobbling him down to get you. If you’re going to want magic, young friend, don’t be modest: deal only with real power… me, for a first instance.
After which Chernevog had added, so slyly and smugly he could almost see the smile, After all, if you think I’m a bastard, what do you think my rivals are?
Deal with me or deal with them—and remember we have at least one interest very much in common. Do you want him free of me? I’m certainly willing to talk about that.
And he, perhaps foolishly: Help me at a distance. I’m not ready to bargain with anything. Keep Pyetr safe, hear me? Don’t let him follow me.
—Because he knew, he knew beyond a doubt Pyetr would bo off toward Eveshka if he had the chance; and he was, himself, so scared, so scared for ‘Veshka and of Veshka—
Don’t deal with Hwiuur, Chernevog had said. Certainly he’s not my master. He may act completely on his own—I involved him once and it’s only natural he take an interest, but how fur that interest goes, or if it might involve someone else… take a lesson from me, young friend, never ask for help from subordinates. Some Things are hell to get rid of—…
Something was leaning over his shoulder of a sudden. He turned and looked, heart thumping, virtually sure it was Uulamets, terrified that the ghost had been eavesdropping.
God, the old man had hated Chernevog; and more—he had hated Pyetr… had feuded with him constantly—Uulamets was angry, he knew that he was.
Cold blasted through him like a winter gale, bringing memories of the house, memories of the lightning, the fire, the vodyanoi, muddy bones, a puddle of weed—dark, deep dark, echoing with crazed voices. He felt his knee hit the deck, felt the deckhouse slide past his arm and snag his sleeve—he was on the boat and the boat went back and form across the river, travelers came in numbers, and he was running, hiding among them, while something across the river wanted him—
There were too many memories. They tumbled one over the other, shrieking for his attention. He wanted his own, only his own, he tucked down with his arms over his ears and held on to what was Sasha Misurov with the barest awareness of where he was or when or why.
He thought, when, after a long time, the flood had subsided… Chernevog is right: he’s fragmented, he’s not sane—god, he’s remembering things all out of order—he can’t make sense, he hates Pyetr, he’ll never accept any compromise…
Bargain with what has power, Chernevog had said. Bargain with me…
He wanted sense out of it. He wanted the ghost to find the pieces in right order, the way he remembered them—Malenkova’s house, Draga, the river house— It howled at him, it whirled about him and tumbled all the pieces out of order again in rage, frustration, fear— He cried aloud into that gale:
“Master Uulamets, I’ve no choice—you can’t help me and I’ve no damn choice, have I?”
He felt as if master Uulamets had gathered him up and hit him in the face—repeatedly. He felt cold, and weaker, and weaker.
It was theft—he knew what Uulamets was doing, the same deadly robbery that he had done to the trees, the same that a rusalka did to her victims. He wished it to stop—but he felt the cold deepen, until his jaws locked and his teeth were chattering, the lamp flame making wild shadows about the deck as the wind swirled about him.
“Don’t,” he said, “master Uulamets, stop… stop it!”
The book fell open in his lap, wind blew at its pages.
It wanted him to look at it. He could hardly hold the book, he hugged it in his arms and braced it against his knee, cramped up to turn it to the light. A second time the wind whipped the pages, driving the lamp flame in giddy shadows.
He read, I’m not sure this is the best thing to do—but something’s terribly wrong. I’ve dreamed about water. I dream constantly about water and something wanting me. I know Pyetr’s safe now, at least. This time it was so close to taking him, so close — I don’t know where, I don’t know for what purpose, I only know I can’t stop it without going there myself…
The cold grew worse. Pages escaped his hands, and the wind died. He could scarcely hold the book, his fingers were so cold. The first word his eye fell on now was—
Draga.
24
Volkhi should have been exhausted and footsore by now, carrying two men’s weight through this damnable bog. Pyetr thought so—so far as he could think at all—but Volkhi showed no signs of tiring, and that unnatural endurance began to scare him, so for as he could stay awake to worry. He tried—damn it all, he tried to move, if only to inconvenience Chernevog, but every time he succeeded in moving he abruptly fell asleep again in Chernevog’s arms—while Volkhi kept traveling and for all he knew, killing himself. Little Chernevog cared for that.
But finally Chernevog said, “No. I’m doing no harm to him. None to us either: blackest sorcery as old Uulamets would have it. Or magic—it’s all one. I haven’t your young friend’s limitations.”
“A horse can’t go on forever!” he cried.
“While I wish it, he can. And be none the worse for it, I promise you.”
He thought about that a moment, in the haze his thoughts occupied, thought about it and began to worry about where they were going, and where Sasha was, and whether Sasha and Missy had a chance of staying ahead of them—
“But I want them to,” Chernevog said. “Remember?”
He did not remember. He thought, it’s another damn trap. He’s playing games again.
“All he’d have to do,” Chernevog said, “is he reasonable and deal with me. Remember that, too.”
He thought, muzzily, Have anything you want, as long as you want, any time you want? It’s hell on Sasha—hell on ‘Veshka— the god knows Volkhi and I aren’t damn happy right now, either.
He felt himself going out again, abruptly, dizzying as a fall. “No,” he said, fighting it. But it never did any good.
Perhaps he did sleep. Perhaps it was immediately afterward that Volkhi stopped and Chernevog said, shoving him upright, “You can get down now.”
Something vast and pale shone through the trees. His eyes could not make sense of it until he realized it for the flapping sail of the boat.
Chernevog wanted him to find out what the situation was. He needed no order to do that. He flung a leg over Volkhi’s neck and slid off to a landing steadier than it had any right to be and a well-being greater than it sanely ought to be. He let the reins tall: Chernevog could fish for them if he wanted to stay ahorse; himself, he was very willing to board the old ferry, hoping—
—hoping for rescue if the boy was there and had his wits about him; and fearing the god knew what kind of terrible discovery aboard; but he tried not to think of that.
Chernevog said, above him on Volkhi’s back, “The boy’s slippery, if nothing else. Damned difficult to track, but I don’t think he’s here. Catch!”
Chernevog flung the sword at him. He snatched it by the hilt in surprise, and had instant and uncharitable thoughts of slinging the sheath off and running Chernevog through.
His breath came suddenly short. Chernevog said, “Go on. You haven’t all night.”
“Damn you,” he muttered, clenched the sword in his hand and turned and went toward the boat, where Chernevog wanted him to go. Anger choked him, while that dark cold spot stirred in the middle of him and wanted his attention, now, sharply, to what regarded their mutual survival.
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