Or might he be (as he most acutely feared) Chernevog’s chosen way back from the grave?
Why should Sasha’s house burn, except to keep Sasha busy while wishes came unhinged and this boy found his way to Ilyana’s heart? Lightning had burned Chernevog’s house to its foundations, and one could never say Kavi Chernevog lacked a sense of humor, even in his darker moments.
Their own looming shadows did occasional battle with clouds of steam, jumped as Sasha worked, with a good deal of muttering and an occasional puff of pungent smoke from the fire, firelight glistening gold on his frowning face. Sasha did not look happy, no; and the thought gnawed him the while Sasha did whatever he was doing, that somewhere in the outcome of this night, he might well be losing Ilyana from his life—not, he prayed the god, in the direction of Kavi Chernevog; but at least in her growing up and away from him, now that this boy had come into the question—this Yvgenie Pavlovitch, who, by that silk and gold he wore, might make his daughter very unhappy.
He prayed if there was a rich father and a palace somewhere involved, that neither should ever involve his daughter, who could have no patience for the scoundrels who went thick as flies about such places—and a young man who lived in such places could not help but entertain scoundrels among his associates, even granted his own impeccable good character.
—No, surely this can’t be our answer. This can’t be the boy our mouse will marry. He’s something altogether other— thoroughly dead, by the look of him. Damned if it isn’t Chernevog! Damn, damn, and damn the scoundrel!
He paced. He watched. He asked Sasha quietly, coming to lean over his shoulder, against one of the posts that held the roof: “If he is a boy, do you think you possibly wished him up? Or did the mouse?”
“I truly don’t know,” Sasha said, moping sweat from his face. “I can say he’s stronger now than he was, but whether that’s good or bad for Yvgenie Pavlovitch I honestly don’t know.”
He did not like the sound of that at all. He muttered, “Where’s Chernevog’s heart right now, that’s what I’d like to know.”
And Sasha said: “I can’t answer that. I do think we should take a very quick bath, get the mouse inside, and wish her a sound sleep tonight.”
Yvgenie lay listening, watching sometimes from slitted eyes while water splashed and the wizard and the fair-haired man washed and talked in low voices that rang strangely through his ears. The heat made him dizzy. They spoke names that stirred no memory in him. He thought, What’s my father’s name? Pavel, of course. But what’s the rest of it? What am I doing here and what do they want from me?
He stole glances at Pyetr, whose features recalled so strongly the girl who had rescued him—who had rescued him and held him when the river had tried to drag him away—she had protested, he remembered her voice, clear above the rain and the rush of water, Papa, please, not head down like that, he’ll have a headache—
He had thought so too—but he had been too far gone to protest being slung over a horse’s back like a bale of rags. And he was sure on those grounds he ought not to like or trust this Pyetr, but his heart wanted to—he desperately wanted Pyetr to trust him, and not to frown at him and wish him dead, and most of all, please the god, to stand between him and Sasha the wizard—who might have helped him so far; but whose ultimate intentions he dreaded more than he dreaded Pyetr’s scowls.
What will he want of me? he wondered, recalling (so he did remember some things) an old woman saying that wizards drank from dead men’s skulls and stirred their potions with children’s finger-bones; wizards bargained very sharply, wizards could bind people helplessly to do their bidding, most probably lost young men who came into their debt, souls who became birds at night and flitted about the woods looking for their suppers.
Their shadows and their footsteps came toward him, making a cool space in the heat from the fire. He kept his eyes shut, while his heart pounded, trying not to let them know he felt the hand that rested first on his brow, and lightly then against his cheek and his shoulder.
“Rest easy,” the wizard said, and it would have been very easy to slip right down then—they tried to take even his fear away, and that was the last defense he had. He fought that urge, held on to his doubts, and after a moment their shadows went away and left him in the light and the breathless heat. The door opened and closed with a single gust of chill from that direction, after which he dared open his eyes and look up at the shadows shifting among the rafters. He was at the first breath relieved that they had gone, and then not glad at all: he began to have the most terrible conviction that not everyone who had been with them had left the bathhouse, that there was someone standing just out of sight in the shadows behind the fire.
Perhaps Pyetr had stayed—perhaps they had only been trying to trick him into opening his eyes. But it did not feel at all like Pyetr’s shadow—it had no feeling of a man at all. Perhaps he should call out to the wizard and his friend before they got too far to hear and beg their help—but like a child in the dark, he dreaded to cry out, first for fear they might not believe him, and might desert him here with an angrier, more wakeful spirit—and then for fear he had already hesitated too long. They were surely out of hearing now.
It might be a bannik—surely that was it: he was in a bathhouse, after all, a wizard’s bathhouse, to boot, and an Old Man of the Bath was not necessarily a hostile or a baneful creature to strangers, just peevish and difficult and probably wondering what he was doing here, a prisoner in its domain.
He thought desperately—that if he could just gather the little strength that had come back to him, he would gladly oblige the bannik and make a fast run for the door, escape across the yard to the horses, wherever they were. He might ride out of this place, and reach—
But he had no idea where he had been going. Not home. Not back to his father, never, never—
A log fell, making his heart jump, with whatever-it-was creeping closer and closer. He felt it on his right, he felt it almost on him, and he leapt for his feet in a tangle of wet towels—fell and scrambled on his knees toward the door. He pushed it and pulled it and it no more than rattled to his efforts while the presence loomed over him. He flung himself around with his shoulders pressed to the door, his senses reeling with the heat and the light. The shadows of beams and posts and rafters gyrated in a gust of wind from the smoke hole.
Whatever-it-was cast no shadow itself, but he felt its chill between him and the fire. He reached back and gripped the solid wood of a beam, hauled himself up sitting against the door and waited for it.
A bannik? A Bath-thing, in a bad mood? They had long, long fingernails that they used when they were angry—always—from behind you. He knew that from somewhere—they would always come at you from behind.
Which this one could not do, while he had his back against (he door—so long as he could keep his eyes open, and keep from fainting in the heat.
Hot tea and blankets. Ilyana had never been so sore or so tired in her life. There were scratches all over her arms, her father and her uncle had had their baths, but that had only helped the mud and the soot: they both had deep burns and scratches she wanted well, dammit, right now: it was the one point on which her thoughts were not scattering tonight, and she wanted that fixed.
“Thank you, mouse,” her uncle said, with that strange, distant feeling he had had since he started talking to her again, and she did not know how to fix that. She only nodded unhappily, having her mouth full, and wondered if her uncle was finally angry at her—not fair, if that was the case, though she had deserved it a hundred times before this, and supposed it was due on other accounts. Or on the other hand her uncle might be upset about the fire and just not trusting himself close to people. She did not want him to be upset, please the god: her mother being upset was enough to be wrong with the world. She needed her uncle to have his wits about him, please.
“Thank you for that, too, mouse—and, no, it’s quite all right. There’s just enough gone on today, and I’m very
tired. Nothing’s your fault.”
“Everything’s my fault. I didn’t need to go after Patches, I could have wished her out, if—”
“None of us had choices,” her uncle said. “That’s why I tell you don’t ever wish for generalities. You didn’t chance to wish up a young man, did you?”
Her face went hot. “Certainly not to drown one!”
“Of course not,” uncle said. “But if he is an ordinary young man, you above all mustn’t make wishes about or at him. It wouldn’t at all be fair.”
“I want him to get well!”
“Of course you do.” Her father, next to her on the bench, poured Babi’s waiting mouth a dash of vodka, poured his own cup, and then poured a large dose into her tea. She had just taken another bite meanwhile, and she needed a drink even to protest her father’s recklessness. She washed down her mouthful of bread with a gulp of the only liquid she had and gasped, her eyes watering.
“Father! That’s more than I’ve ever had!”
“This once,” her father said.
She took a more cautious sip. It was strong, but she could taste the tea this time, and the fumy vodka eased her throat and her eyes the way the tea had not. She sipped it slowly, thinking how her mother would say, Pyetr! Don’t give her that much. But her mother was not here. Her father had the only say-so, and his rules were not so strict, about anything. The whole world seemed wider and more dangerous, with her father in charge, and he was treating her like a grownup.
Her uncle said, “I think we should get some rest while we can. Our friend’s asleep out there. I’ve seen to that.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” her father said. “Ilyana, your uncle’s put the old tub in your bedroom; I’m afraid the bathhouse is rather well taken tonight.”
“I don’t know why you can’t bring him up here tonight. The kitchen’s more comfortable than the bathhouse. What if he needs help?”
“Your uncle’s already sleeping here, remember? He’s having to share a bed with me tonight, and I’m certainly not having any stranger bedded down next to the kitchen cutlery.”
“He doesn’t dress like a bandit. I think his father must be a boyar at least.”
“That’s no recommendation. I’ve dealt with boyars’ sons, and there’s not a one I’d trust outside your door.”
Her face went warm a second time. She took a drink to cover what she was sure was a blush, forgetting about the vodka until she found herself with an entire mouthful of tea. There was nothing to do but swallow it. Her eyes watered and she felt hot all over—dizzy, too. “Father, I—”
“ He stays in the bathhouse.”
“I don’t think he’s any—” The room was stiflingly close of a sudden. Her head spun. She felt of her forehead to be sure where it was. Or where her fingers were. “Oh, dear, papa.”
“Mmmm. Never mind the sheets, baby mouse. I think I’d better go straight on to bed.”
“Papa—”
Dirty trick. Yes. Her father stepped over the bench, took her arms and helped her step over. She caught her foot on the bench. He swept her right up in his arms like a baby and the whole room went around and around as she found the ceiling in front of her eyes. It had been years since he had carried her at all, and she grabbed at his neck for fear of falling. But he got her safely through her bedroom door and let her down gently on her bed.
“The mud,” she objected.
“That’s all right.” He tugged at the covers under her. “Sheets will wash. You’ve had one near-drowning tonight. You don’t need another, in the tub. Tuck your feet up.”
Sleep settled around her, soft and deep as the covers her father pulled over her. He leaned down, kissed her on the forehead, and pulled a snag from her hair.
“Good night, mouse. Shut your eyes.”
Silly wish: she already had.
The house was quiet, even the anxious domovoi having settled. Pyetr lay on his back in bed beside Sasha, with just the embers from the fireplace giving them light, wondering what ‘Veshka was thinking tonight, and where she was, and whether she was warm and safe. Distracting Sasha with that question did not seem a good idea right now.
He asked Sasha instead, “What in hell are we going to do with the boy? We can’t leave him in the bathhouse till the snowfalls.”
“I think we should get some sleep. In the morning we’ll think of something.”
“No guarantee we even have a guest at this point.” The latch on the outside of the bathhouse door was new, Sasha’s handiwork, the hour Sasha had learned they were bringing company this evening, but a latch might only keep a helpless boy inside. For other things the smoke hole was enough. So was the crack under the door quite enough for a shapeshifter, not mentioning that certain magical creatures could be anywhere they wanted to be without any cracks and crevices at all to slip through. Certain unpleasant things could pop into the room with them right now, except the domovoi’s and Babi’s watching.
“Babi hasn’t objected to him,” Sasha said, “and if it isn’t a real boy, it certainly took a great deal of trouble getting here, only to leave now.”
That much was true: Babi had curled up on the quilts at Ilyana’s feet in quite his ordinary fashion, with no evident interest in the bathhouse. Babi hated shapeshifters: he would chase them so long as he could smell the least trace of them—once he could tell what they were.
“Go to sleep,” Sasha wished him. So Sasha believed that they were safe to do that now, no matter that Sasha’s house was cinders and someone’s wishes other than his had made havoc of this night.
“No,” he tried to object—might have objected: an ordinary man could be more stubborn than a wish, but proximity made a difference with magic, and tired as he was, close as he was to Sasha, he had not a chance: he was already slipping down into dark.
—at the same moment he thought he heard ‘Veshka say, out of the dark and the faint patter of rain on the roof: “Pyetr, care of her. For the god’s sake don’t let that boy near her.”
5
Uncle was awake, at the table in the kitchen—uncle was being as quiet as anyone could be, but Ilyana had heard the cellar door open and close a long while ago, and waked again hearing the scratch of uncle’s pen, and the creak of her father’s door, just now. “There’s tea,” her uncle whispered; then her father’s voice said, very low: “How long have you been up?”
“Not that long.” Ilyana strained to hear something she did lose, and heard her father walk across the kitchen. Pottery rattled. Tea cups, she thought.
Then she remembered the most remarkable event of a very remarkable yesterday and wondered if their guest was all right—whether he had slept last night, or whether he was feeling better this morning.
She thought, Yes, without a reason for knowing that.
And then she thought, He really can’t stop me from hearing him. I think I just woke him up. —Please don’t be scared, Yvgenie Pavlovitch.
He was more than scared. He was terrified, waking on the ground, against the door: she heard a pounding from far away and knew that was him trying to open the bathhouse door.
That’s odd, she thought. Why doesn’t he just lift the latch?
No. The door was barred from outside. But there never had been a latch outside. That was terribly dangerous, on a bathhouse. When had that happened?
How long have I been asleep?
She caught terrible fear, so strong it stopped her breath. — Please, she wanted Yvgenie to know, no one’s going to hurt you. They’ve only locked the door to keep you from wandering off last night. I’m sure that’s the reason.
—Ilyana! Go to sleep!
Her uncle frightened her, he was so strong and so angry, surprising her like that. She heard, with her ears, him saying to her father: “She’s fighting me.”
Then her father’s voice, sternly: “Mouse, go back to sleep.”
That confused her. Her father was kind, her father would never hurt anyone, he was not on her mother’s side. So why had the
y latched the bathhouse door? Why did the boy remember them threatening him?
She tried to tell her father, The boy won’t hurt anything. You’re scaring him!
And her uncle: Ilyana! Don’t wish at your father. Go back to sleep.
She wanted not to. She was determined not to. Her father was saying, “... take him down the river, fast—if we had the damn boat.”
Her uncle gave off terrible thoughts of a sudden, houses all crowded together, afire, and horses and men in metal, with swords.
Then uncle knew she was still listening: uncle was very angry at her and wanted her very sternly to mind him and go to sleep.
She said, making her lips work, too, so her uncle could not make her forget what she was saying, “Stop it, please stop doing this to me.”
She felt cold and afraid. She was numb and cold in her right leg and bruised about the shoulder and her hand that she had used on the door—
“Ilyana!” her uncle said, and her door opened (but not that door) and she was lying warm and in bed with Babi at her feet.
“He’s cold,” she said. “He’s cold and the fire’s out and he’s scared, uncle, please don’t scare him any more.”
Her uncle came and sat on the side of her bed and brushed her hair out of her eyes. Her uncle looked worried, and tired, and harder than she had ever seen him. Her uncle said, somberly, touching her under the chin,” Ilyana, you haven’t been dreaming, have you?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing about Owl?”
Another shake of her head. God, she had not even thought about Owl last night. Or her friend. She had outright forgotten. Damn!
Her uncle said, “Ilyana, you can’t take things as you want them to be. I very much fear your young man drowned last night.”
“He didn’t! There’s nothing wrong with him, except the fire went out—” She had not meant to forget her friend, please the god he knew that—her father had made her sleep—
“Mouse, listen to me. Look at me. I don’t want you to argue with me. It’s very dangerous for you to argue with me, dangerous to your father and to you and to me. Don’t think about Chernevog.”
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