"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.
There was ample evidence of a horse on the open ground near the water—Missy, he was well sure. Sasha had gotten this far, Chernevog thought so, too, but when he stood and called
Sasha's name there was no answer from the boat. He saw a way to get to the deck, hauled himself up onto a low limb, grabbed a handful of willow-wands and jumped for the boards.
The thump would have waked any sleeper. His shouting certainly should have. He saw the deckhouse door open, and the far rail splintered with a very large piece missing. That was not at all encouraging.
"Sasha?" he called. And in remotest, most painful hope: " 'Veshka?"
The sail filled and flapped, boards creaked and the water lapped at the hull, but of a single sound of any living presence-there was none.
He gave a perfunctory look into the deckhouse, he saw only the expected baskets, he walked around to the stern and saw the securing loop of rope over the tiller bar—that was better news, At least the hand that had last had the tiller had left it in good order, no matter that nothing short of cutting the forward stay might ever get that spar down and nothing but loosing the rest of the stays and unstepping the mast might make it possible to haul the boat free: it felt grounded, rocking on the water, but not quite floating free.
One only hoped . . . god, one hoped that that splintered rail and the boat having come to such a predicament did not mean Eveshka had left the boat before it ever came to rest. That break in the rail was twice Volkhi's girth, at least.
He dropped to his heels, wiped a finger across the boards underfoot—carried it to his tongue. He tasted salt and dust.
There had been a defense.
Chernevog wanted him back, Chernevog thought the questions answered, he had looked, there was no likelihood anyone had hidden and the fact that the horse was gone meant Sasha had left along the shore.
He wished he were utterly as sure of that. He walked to the broken rail, looked over the side there—saw ripples and a sudden roiling of the water, a fish perhaps.
Perhaps not. There was no scarring of the hull to evidence any impact with the other shore. He looked out as far as he could see, and felt Chernevog's insistence pulling at him—worried, not forcing him—but about to.
Only good sense, he thought. Sasha had gone. If Sasha was riding into trouble, and trouble of the sort that had broken that rail, he was willing to follow. He crossed the deck, snatched a handful of willow-wands and vaulted off to a landing on the spongy ground where Chernevog stood with Volkhi.
"Do you know where he's gone?" he asked Chernevog.
"I know which direction he's gone. I'm relatively sure of that."
Perhaps he was losing his last sane thought, perhaps he was terribly misled even to think of finding Sasha when he had no wish to be found—perhaps the thought that the boy was into more than he could handle was entirely from Chernevog, deceiving him. But he offered the sword to Chernevog on what he reasonably believed was his own impulse, saying, "If you can use it, Snake. Or if you can't—"
"Keep it, if you'll refrain from using it on me. Do we agree?"
‘‘I want to find him. I don't like the look of this.'' He gathered up Volkhi's reins and looked around at Chernevog, wondering and trying not to wonder . . . what was going on with Eveshka and whether—
Whether there was any hope for her—or ever had been—or whether he had loved her enough while there was a chance; or what he had done and not done to bring her and all of them to this.
It was not a confidence he wanted to share with Chernevog. He would have balked at sharing it with Sasha; and now he was not even sure whether his doubts in that intimate matter came from his own heart or Chernevog's at work in him.
She had a baby?
All he could feel was fear.
"You're right," Chernevog said. "You're very right. I'd no notion why this might be happening. Now I do. —Are you absolutely certain that baby's not Sasha's?"
That dark spot wrapped all about his heart. He actually co
nsidered that possibility, actually considered it, in one black moment—appalled to realize he would not be utterly surprised nor even irrevocably upset with either one of them— hurt, yes; but he would understand it—the boy becoming a painfully lonely young man, and Eveshka frustrated with a husband who was (the folk in Vojvoda had quite well agreed with Ilya Uulamets' opinion) no fit match for her.
Chernevog said, "If it is his—"
Chernevog tried to make him know something. All it made him was afraid.
Chernevog said, quietly, "If it is his, Pyetr Ilyitch, there'd certainly be a reason he's avoiding us."
"Damn you, it isn't, and you don't know him!"
"If it is—none of us will see it grow up. That's the truth Pyetr Ilyitch. I lie as a matter of course—but this is the plain truth. I killed Eveshka because I'd gotten myself in a trap because she'd have killed me if I hadn't.''
" 'Veshka never killed anything—" —in her life, he started to say, like a fool. But that was the 'Veshka who saved fieldmice. In death, she had killed, the god knew she had killed.
"Her mother sent me," Chernevog said. "A child like his. doubly born—that's power . . . until she grows up. Draga wanted her dead when she couldn't get her away from her father. Draga tried to kill her when she was born. I tried to find her father's hold over her. I got caught in his book; I had to get away and I had to kill her. I had her heart. I thought I might hold her—but I couldn't and you know what happened. Now we're here—and she's carrying a child that I hope to hell is yours.''
"Why?" Pyetr cried. "What's the threat in a baby?"
But he thought of Sasha saying, ' Veshka's mother was a wizard, her father was, she got her gift from both sides . . .
Sasha saying, Chernevog himself was scared of her. . . .
Chernevog did not answer that. Chernevog wanted him on the horse, Chernevog wanted them on their way with no more questions. Pyetr threw the reins over Volkhi's neck and thought with anguish that if Chernevog was lying, he no longer knew his way out of the maze of Chernevog's reasons. If Chernevog was lying, he feared the last thing he would lose would be himself, Chernevog's, ultimately, like Owl, no damn bit more than that. The god only knew but what 'Veshka was going to fight Chernevog— and he was going to be with him, where Sasha had put him, the god help him.
He helped Chernevog up behind him, he all but lost his stomach when Chernevog took his hand and his arm and used him for a ladder—himself leaning far over the other way and Volkhi shifting under him. He said, between his teeth, ”Do me a favor. Sit back, keep your hands off, and don't be wishing at me."
"All I want is your help."
"Stop it, dammit!" he cried, and, drawing a calmer breath, reminded himself how he had had to teach Sasha manners at the first.
He hurt the way he had hurt when an old man's sword had gone through him—only shock at the first, seeing the blade shorter than it ought to be up against his side. He could not even say what had hit him tonight, but he was like that. When he had gotten the old boyar's sword through his side he had gotten quite a ways afterward before the pain had set in—being an ordinary man, and dull as dirt. He patted Volkhi's neck, said, as Volkhi started to move, "I'm sorry, lad."
Chernevog said, "I assure you, I can keep the horse safe. It's not harming him. Nothing I'm doing is harming him."
"What about my wife?" he asked between his teeth. "What about Sasha, dammit?"
Chernevog said, equally short, "One thing at a time. One damn thing at a time!"
So Volkhi and whatever else Chernevog was doing was all Chernevog could manage.
Chernevog had said himself. . . that magic was resisting him.
25
Don't wish, dear, Draga said, don't wish yet. . . .
Whatever you do, dear, don't do anything short-sighted, < make any decision until you know the height and the width of it.
Chase away the straying thoughts, chase everything away. This is the simplest wish you'll ever make. It must be the simplest.
"There's not forever, dear. Not if you sit too long."
Eveshka sat with her chin on her knees, staring desperately into the hearthfire Draga tended through the night.
Wish nothing until you're sure.
But Papa said—kept running through her mind. Papa had said, It's a damned fool who wishes more magic than he's born with . . .
Papa had been with her on the boat, she truly believed that had been no shapeshifter—she had thought about it and thought about it and she had resolved that doubt in her mind. Papa had not been able to stop her from coming here, papa was dead and his presence in the world had grown very faint, but papa had stayed with her and, changed by his death and being again the kind man of her earliest childhood, had feared for her, had watched over her on the river, had wished—
Wished her asleep, most of the time.
Why?
To wish things for her and her baby she would not remember?
To wish things against her mother?
"Your father's dead," Draga said, feeding more twigs into the fire, a fistful of herbs, that flew up on the draft, all sparks, into the red-smoked dark. ‘‘The dead don't always tell the truth. Your father didn't want you out of his hands either. Don't deal with him. You might be his bridge back to the world. Your child might be. Don't think about him. Forget him. The dead have to be forgotten. Think of what truly matters."
She thought about Pyetr, but that led at once to thoughts of Kavi holding him prisoner, doing hateful things, spiteful, terrible things to him. Her mother said, quickly,
Don't! Think of flowers. Blue flowers, dear, blue and white—
. . . Spells stitched in hems, spells against too much memory, spells to keep the ghosts at bay.
Spells for forgetting the dark, one stitch and the next, blue thread, green thread, colors the dead could recall but never, ever see.
That was what it was to be dead, and she never wanted to die again, she never wanted anything she loved to die...
"Flowers!" her mother said. "Be careful, daughter!"
She thought of the garden at home, careful rows, thought of her own front porch and the fireside in the evenings, the three of them happy and snug in that house…
"Sasha's coming here," her mother murmured, stirring the embers. The smoke smelled of papaver, and hemp, and strong and dangerous herbs, making her nose sting and her chest burn and her eyes swim. "I know that he is. He's running here for help. But he's dealt with Kavi. He's compromised himself already. I know that, too."
"I don't!" Eveshka protested, and for a moment thoughts went scattering and wild. "He'd deal with him only as he had to."
"Kavi asks a great deal. Your young friend has afforded Kavi a foothold. That's all Kavi asks. You know that, dear. That's all Kavi's ever needed. I don't know this young man—you do. But older and wiser wizards than he have made that mistake, haven't they? Deal with Kavi—when your husband's life is in the balance? Kavi seems so reasonable when he wants you to do him favors. He wouldn't hurt your husband, no, the whole world treats Kavi ill, he's only seemed to be a villain—forget he murdered you: he was young, then; he'd not really harm Pyetr. No matter that he's bestowed his heart on him—"
"Oh, god!"
"It's true," Draga said. "It is true, dear. I'm sorry to tell you so. Owl is dead. He flew at Pyetr's sword." Draga wished her calm, wished her to listen and be very calm.”Kavi tricked your young friend, got your husband alone for only a moment within a magical boundary—that was all it needed."
"How do you know these things?" Eveshka cried.
"Hush, be calm, dear, be calm. I know, that's all. That's what magic does for you. I know—and so far my magic is keeping my workings secret, but your young friend is about to brail through that veil, soon, now, very soon. He's coming here because he believes he's no match for Kavi and he hopes for your help. What will you be able to give him?"
"Why didn't you tell me, dammit? What other secrets are you keeping?"
"Dear, you weren'
t so sure of me—"
"I'm still not!"
"—and I wanted no wishes that might make things worse Now at least you have your wits about you. Use them! Your friend is making mistakes. He's unable to rescue your husband getting himself away was not a coward's choice: you know how Kavi loves an audience."
She was shaking. She remembered the house . . . Pyetr in Kavi's hands . . .
"But it wasn't the only choice young Sasha might have made He might have fought Kavi. Instead he's running for your help, he's thinking of wishing magic for himself to get here—and that's nothing to do alone, god, no, it isn't. Your young friend is making dangerous mistakes, one after the other. He's young. he's inexperienced even in using what he has, he's trusting your father's advice, and he's already put your husband in terrible danger—"
"Stop it, mama!"
"He's coming here, I'm telling you, and he might do anything. Kavi's right on his heels—Kavi has your husband with him, do you understand me, 'Veshka? You know Kavi's going to use him to get your attention."
She looked into her mother's eyes—blue, lucent as glass by firelight,
"'Believe me," Draga said.
"Don't do that, mother!"
‘‘You'd better believe something, daughter. Doubt is your enemy. Fear is your enemy. Love can destroy you and your husband . . . most terribly. All your life's been if-I-dared and someday. Someday's come, 'Veshka. The sun's rising on it. What will you do, 'Veshka—and when will you know your own mind, 'Veshka? Only for regrets?"
‘‘Quit pushing me, mama! I can't think when you push me!''
"I'll forgive you, dear, —but time won't. It goes on just the same. Make up your mind. Do you want me to guide your wish? I will."
Her mother hardly blinked. There was certainty in her. I will, her mother said, strong as a wish. Her mother wanted to guide her, her mother wanted her not to make the mistakes Sasha was making.
CJ Cherryh - Rusalka 2 - Chernevog Page 29