“Run!” Chernevog yelled, and Missy bunched her hindquarters and bolted. Hwiuur’s long body stretched across her path. She cleared it: Sasha caught himself on her neck and gasped for breath, Chernevog’s hands clenched on his coat. Missy’s next stride shook them both back, by luck or wishes, and Missy stopped for nothing.
“Get down,” Draga said, and Chernevog’s heart shrank at the sound of that voice, saying, No, don’t, don’t believe anything.
Then Eveshka said, out of the chaos that surrounded her voice, “Pyetr, it’s all right.”
He looked in that direction—willing to listen—almost, for a moment, forgetting why he had come here, except whatever ‘Veshka wanted.
But wolves came from the shadows of the trees, wolves came like shadows and gathered about her skirts.
“The hell it’s all right,” he said, while Volkhi shivered and backed and fretted in the hold of wishes. “Have you noticed, wife, those aren’t dogs? You go running off with never a word, I hear from your old enemy you’re having a baby—”
“Pyetr.” She held out her hands to him.
He kicked Volkhi hard, but Volkhi could not move.
“Pyetr.” Wolves milled about her as she came up to Volkhi’s side, Volkhi protesting with a soft, unhappy sound. She looked up at him, and Chernevog’s heart turned to ice. “I can free you,” she said, but it was the snarling of the wolves that wound around her voice, it was their eyes that looked up at him from the ground. “Pyetr.”
Chernevog’s heart flinched at her touching his knee. She said, “Pyetr, get down,” and it kept echoing.
He shifted his weight, looked down at the wolves looking up at him, looked ‘Veshka in the eyes, ignoring the voices that howled and wailed—it was her he wanted to find. He took her hand, said, while Chernevog’s heart shivered, “ ‘Veshka, why don’t you climb up with me instead? Why don’t we just go home? That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
She hesitated, lips open, lightnings flickering on her eyes. She seemed incapable of speaking then.
He said, “I’m awfully sorry about the garden. But the god knows, the weeds are knee-high by now anyway.”
He saw the least flicker within her eyes. But she wanted him down. She wanted him down—
“If I do, will you give me a wish, ‘Veshka? One wish?”
“What?”
He took a deep breath and slid down among the wolves. “You know what it is,” he said: it was her heart he wanted, he was sure she was listening to him thinking, and if she had no idea about that, she had no idea about anything.
“Don’t ask me that!” she cried. And: “Mama! No!”
He looked around of a sudden as Volkhi shied. He still had the reins. He held on, with an arm around ‘Veshka, the other jerked so hard it took his breath.
He heard Sasha shouting something, aloud or in his head he had no idea. He held on, Volkhi swinging about to rear and fight, hauling him and ‘Veshka up. Volkhi’s knee hit him, knocked the wind half out of him, before Volkhi came down again and his feet hit the ground.
Eveshka wished something then. Lightning cracked, blinding him. Volkhi shied, tore the reins from his hand, throwing him and her to the ground among the wolves.
Missy charged into the clearing, right for the middle of things- run! Sasha wished her, Chernevog felt it in his bones, and the mare fairly flew, arrow-straight between the wolves and the oncoming bear.
Draga knew he was there. Draga turned her attention his way, and Missy stalled and shied up. He felt lightnings gathering, yelled,”Do something!” at Sasha as he let go—slid off the mare and landed on his feet among the wolves, wanting Draga dead this time, seeing Brodyachi charging him…
Sasha had reined back, wanted his attention, was trying to get back to him.
So were the wolves.
Stop Eveshka! he wished Sasha, and turned his wishes on Brodyachi, wished up Hwiuur’s strength, and the river’s dark cold, wished age, and smothering, and Brodyachi’s other shape—the one Draga lent him at her pleasure.
Pyetr tried to move—the ground had come up hard, and he felt Eveshka wanting him well, wanting other things, dark and violent as the wolves about them. He got as far as his knees and one hand, saw Missy’s pale legs bearing down on them, and shoved himself for his feet as Sasha brought Missy to a stop and slid off. “Let him alone!” Sasha yelled at ‘Veshka. “Stop them!” There was a terrible snarling and spitting, there was something in that knot of struggling beasts: Pyetr saw that, trying to stand up. Sasha shoved his sword into his hand and all he could do was lean on it, without an enemy to use it on. He felt the tingling of his skin, recoiled and saw the blade in his hand glow with unnatural fire-Heard Sasha say, shout, into the roaring wind, “Misighi! Misighi, wake up! For the god’s sake, wake up! We need you now!”
Pyetr felt terror slithering wildly inside him, felt doubt, felt hate, felt the claws and the cold. He yelled, “Dammit, Snake!” because he knew a fool was going to get killed where he was. He got a breath and ran, such as he could. Snake was carrying the whole damned fight by himself, up against the hill where Draga stood, a rolling dark tide of bodies sweeping over her—
Of a sudden all his hair was crackling and standing away from him—he stopped and looked up at the roiling sky with the awful feeling the next bolt was his.
But something went away from him then, so suddenly he felt a piece of him had gone—and the tingling stopped: the bolt hit, over on the hill, splitting the night and shattering the ground.
He could not see, men, he could not see at all, except the shadow image seared into his eyes, a swarming mass of beasts and a man with arms uplifted, calling the lightnings. He could not hear, except that crash still ringing in his ears, and that image drifted over and over again through his sight. If there were wolves left he had no way to know, no way to hear them or know whether anyone was still alive but himself.
“Sasha?” he called out, “’Veshka?” and started as someone touched him, as a hard hand closed on his arm and pulled him around, into a man’s arms. Then a much softer touch folded itself about him.
He hoped to the god he knew who had their arms about him. He put his hand on a woman’s back, felt thick braids. Felt the man’s hand, and it was smooth and strong. He said—he thought he said, he could not hear it himself: “I can’t see.” But that was a lie—he thought he would see that sight for the rest of his life.
Then the image began to fade. Sound came to him, the rush of wind, a horse whinnying, Eveshka sobbing, “God, god, Pyetr, —” He saw fire, the whole hill caved in and burning as if it had found a source of wood inside.
Sasha said, “They’re gone. Chernevog, Draga, both. They’re all dead.”
A thought leaped up at him, a nonsense thought, terrible as it was: he had no wishes to use at all, he knew he was innocent—but he said, on a ragged breath, hugging ‘Veshka tight, “I wish to the god I’d never thought about a bear.”
He puzzled ‘Veshka. He felt her wondering. But her wondering had only one voice now.
Sasha said, “We’re not finished yet,” and walked away from them, toward the fire, a figure like the one burned into his memory.
He asked fearfully, “What’s he doing? What in hell’s he doing? —’Veshka?”
She kept her arm around him and guided him in the same direction, saying, “He’s going to send them home.”
He had apprehensions about that. He had no wish to come near that fire. But he walked with her. He stood shaking in the knees while ‘Veshka and Sasha wished something together—
And flinched at a cold spot going through him, shuddered at another. In a moment ghosts were whirling into the fire like leaves, white wisps shredding on the winds, rising in the smoke.
He heard Uulamets’ voice say, out of nowhere, Forgive my wife. She destroyed Malenkova. But Malenkova’s beast was too much for her. She was all its purpose… ultimately, that’s all she was…
That shape followed the others into the fire. Eveshka’s
hand clenched on his.
A white, filmy owl glided past, on broad wings—and a young ghost reached up and let it settle on his hand. That one turned and looked at them, quite solemnly, and whirled away into the smoke.
A spot ached, next Pyetr’s heart, the god knew why.
‘Veshka held his hand tight, ‘Veshka held it till it hurt.
29
Volkhi and Missy had their misgivings about the place. It took, Sasha said, some considerable wishing and a good many bribes to get them back. But they wasted no time in that clearing, with its burned-out house beneath the hill—Sasha on Missy and Pyetr with Eveshka riding behind him on Volkhi, with her arms about him, her head against his shoulders.
She wanted him to know about the child. She wanted him to know, while they rode through the dark, that she would not come home, she would only go with them as far as the boat.
He said, “That’s nonsense. That’s nonsense, ‘Veshka.”
“You don’t understand, Pyetr.”
He put his hands over hers, about his middle. He said, “Chernevog said I’m much too young to understand. But we got along.”
One hand clenched and unclenched. He had made her mad. She did not forgive Chernevog. Forgiving, she wanted him to know, did not come easily to her. She would wish him to forget Chernevog and everything about him—except that scared her, disarming him scared her—in the case there was some wish still in him.
He said, “Well; you’d better not stay on the boat, then, had on me, to be sure I behave.”
That upset her, too. She wanted him to know something very complicated, about wanting things of him and not knowing she was wanting them: she was upset about that, she swore she would never do it again, she wanted him to know that. She had done badly with a husband and she had no idea how she was going to manage a child. “I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t even know what the child might be—”
“A baby, I imagine.”
She thought that was stupidly short-sighted. He was doing it deliberately, refusing to see troubles coming. They were fighting again. She cried. She said, “Stop, I want to get off”—angry, afraid of herself and him.
He said, “I was safe with Chernevog. I doubt you’ll do me any harm.”
“You don’t know what I can do!” she cried.
But Sasha said, calmly, riding beside them, “He’s much wiser than you think, ‘Veshka.”
And Pyetr said, “That’s all right. I made a bargain with her. She has to pay it, isn’t that the way magic works?”
“I didn’t make any bargain,” she said.
“I got off the horse, didn’t I? —Where is your heart?”
She did not answer him. He grew anxious then, wondering if she did in feet have it, or what might have happened, last night.
She said, “I have it.”
“So, well?” he asked. “You owe it. You have to pay.”
They reached Chernevog’s camp, where books lay water-stained and scattered by a dead fire, with their canvas and their baggage. They settled down then to let the horses rest—but there was little of that for them. There was magic going on, Pyetr felt it—felt the anxiety in the air, as if there might be another argument going on; and perhaps he had gotten used to it. He sat with his arms around his knees and waited, not making himself evident.
But finally Eveshka got up and walked off into the dark and stood there. And very slowly he became aware of something furtive and angry next to his heart.
She said to him, wizard-wise and scared, so very scared it made his heart beat fester, You may not like me, Pyetr. But I’ll take it back again if that’s the case. I’ll find some other place to put it.
He got up and walked over to her, stopped at a little distance, feeling her upset. “’Veshka,” he began, wanting to reassure her.
She said, aloud, “My father ran from Malenkova’s house. My mother stayed to fight her for her place. It was brave and it was stupid. She beat Malenkova and lost to the wolves. She had to have magic—and it used her.”
“Chernevog said as much—about using magic.”
“Pyetr, I can’t put it down now. If there’s a child—I’ll have no choice.”
He understood that. “We don’t want the house to burn.”
“Don’t—”
“—joke? I prefer to.”
For a moment her heart hurt him, the panic was so acute.
“Shush,” he said. “Calm down. Calm down. Let me tell you about Chernevog—”
“I don’t want to hear about him!”
“I think you should,” he said. “I truly think you should.”
She stood staring at him, in the firelit dark. Her lip trembled. Tears glistened in her eyes.
“Will you do that for me?” he asked. “Will you listen?”
Winter came. Snows lay deep. Babi turned up in the newly built stable, keeping very much to the horses’ company, perhaps that he had taken to his proper job—perhaps that he had renounced wizards and their doings. But he was back, and safe, and seemed content. Occasionally, even last evening, one saw leshys walking. Firewood appeared, miraculously, outside the bathhouse, which nothing haunted, nowadays.
But the baking, this morning, went undone. There were kettles of water, there was a great shifting and moaning of the house-timbers, there were two men trying not to panic, because Eveshka was very close to that herself—they had seen kittens come into the world, and Sasha had seen a calf born once, he said, at which Eveshka burst into tears.
She was scared, terribly scared, Pyetr knew that, having her heart against his own. He did everything he could, he did far better than he thought he could—who had always, always gotten queasy at blood, and flinched at other people’s pain. She did not want Sasha there, she had terrible imaginings of what the baby might look like, of birthing something horrid, and deadly—most of all she wanted no one wishing at her.
She cried, I don’t know what I am, the god only knows what the baby is! I should never have gone through with this—
He reminded her what Sasha said: “You never truly left this world. A rusalka isn’t dead. A rusalka hasn’t died. That’s her trouble, isn’t it? You have every right to be alive.”
She gave a great breath then. And maybe she wanted the baby born. It happened very quickly. He did all the things Sasha had told him, and held his daughter in his hands.
“Look at her!” he said. “Look at her!”
Eveshka said, worried, he felt it plain as plain, “Give her to me. Give her to me, Pyetr.”
Afraid, still. He felt her wishes protecting him. He felt them asking questions a baby had no way to answer.
She wanted him to leave, please, now, let her take care of things.
That stung. But he knew why she felt that way. He felt her fear, inside. He ducked out the door, where Sasha hovered.
“She’s all right,” he said—but Sasha knew, Sasha knew anything he wanted to, the god help him. Sasha shoved a cup of tea and vodka into his hands, said, “Sit down.”
“She’s scared,” he said, wishing with all his heart he could do something, “she’s so damned scared… But if it wasn’t right, the House-thing would do something, wouldn’t he? He’d let us know.”
“He’d know,” Sasha assured him.
But something strange happened then. He felt ‘Veshka’s startlement, that made his heart jump, and he shoved the door open. Something black was lying on the covers of the bed.
The ball of fur lifted his head from his paws, looked up at him with round, solemn eyes, and got up and snuggled next to the baby in Eveshka’s arms.
Babi was back. Babi approved of this arrival in the house.
Assuredly Babi did.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
C.J. Cherryh was born in St. Louis, Missouri, but has spent most of her life in Oklahoma. She now lives in Oklahoma City. She has a BA in Latin, an MA in Classics, plus additional language courses; she also qualified in field archeology, but never practiced. She was a professional trans
lator in French, and has taught Latin, Greek, and Ancient History.
Her first novel, Gate of Ivrel, was published in 1976, and she quickly became a leading writer of both fantasy and science fiction. She received two Hugo Awards, one for her short story, Cassandra, and the second for her novel, Downbelow Station. Her novel Rusalka was published by Del Rey in 1989.
In her own words:
“I write full time; I travel; I try things out. I’ve outrun a dog pack in the hills of Thebes and seen Columbia lift on her first flight. I’ve fallen down a cave, nearly drowned, broken an arm; been kicked by horses, fended off an amorous merchant in a tent bazaar, slept on deck in the Adriatic, and driven Piccadilly Circus at rush hour. I’ve waded in two oceans and four of the seven seas, and I want to visit the Amazon, the Serengeti, and see the volcano in Antarctica. I can read history in a potsherd, observe time in a stream-bank, and function in a gadget ancient or modern—none of which has ever cured me of losing my car keys or putting things together before I read the instructions.”
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