Rusalka

  Both feet this time, and the split boot had taken a flood in. If there was water north of Kiev he had not fallen into or stepped in, Pyetr Illitch had no notion where it was.

  But the ghosts let him alone, which might be the daylight, he thought: he hoped so, and fought his way along the streamside with increasing surety where she was and increasing certainty she was following the stream.

  He was not crazed. He knew he was in trouble, he had left his pack and his supplies, he was less and less certain he knew the way back to Sasha and the old man, and he was virtually sure—in that way that wizards had of making a man know things—that Eveshka was headed straight for Chernevog.

  Alone.

  After which—

  After which, with Chernevog holding her hostage and with themselves entangled in this damned forest, there was no safety—no safety for any of them once it got down to wizardly quarrels, on their enemy’s own terms and their enemy maybe with help of his own—the vodyanoi, for one, and the god only knew what else.

  Things were starting to go wrong for Uulamets in such numbers Pyetr had a worse and worse feeling about the odds in Uulamets’ company, although he hoped the old man might at least have resources left to protect himself—and Sasha, if Sasha was standing next to him and helping him. While an ordinary man like himself—

  —seemed mostly a distraction and a perpetual cause of arguments.

  Pyetr could feel quite sorry for himself if he let himself think about that fact, quite sorry for himself, quite angry and quite resentful of Ilya Uulamets ; but there had been altogether too much of temper and foolishness for his liking, and he did not intend to waste his time on the anger. Perpetually glum, he told himself: and no sense of humor. Maybe wizards had to be like that, but he was not, despite a most ridiculous and unmanly lump in his throat when he thought about the boy and when he slowly figured it out that that had most likely been goodbye back there, for good and all.

  He had thought about going back, at first, when he had failed to draw Eveshka back; but he had thought then about his dealings with the old man, realized he was doing no one any good, and reckoned that the old man most probably could wish himself on Eveshka’s track, but that in this matter Pyetr Kochevikov had his own clear sense where she was—and he could perhaps rely on a quieter and less fallible sense in Chernevog’s territory.

  So he had a magic of his own, of sorts, something Chernevog might not know and something he doubted even Eveshka herself could escape, if only he could keep his wits about him in this place: he had to, or lose—

  —lose what he had until lately mistaken for gold and places; one was that boy back there, and one was Uulamets’ long-dead daughter. Lose them he might, he thought, but not to Chernevog.

  Not while he could do anything about it. ill-prepared as he was, he had his sword, the god knew there was no lack of water to drink, and he had learned how to keep himself warm at night and fed from the forest itself, at least sufficient to keep him going.

  Chernevog had wizards to worry about. Maybe the vodyanoi had told him there was a weak link in their company: namely an ordinary man; and for all Sasha and Uulamets had sworn he was hard to magic, still, maybe—wizards being a skittery lot—and considering an ill-wish by what Sasha had told him was likeliest to hit right at a weak point—

  Namely Pyetr Kochevikov.

  That was the way Pyetr figured it, which actually helped the lump in his throat—at least offering him the possibility that Sasha had never wanted to be angry with him, that Sasha might at this very moment be wishing him back as hard as he could—

  Would he not?

  Pyetr pondered that and wanted to feel it if that was the case: he truly did, even if it hurt. That was far better than thinking Sasha was still angry with him.

  Absolutely no, he told himself at once, Sasha would not be angry with him, not to that extent; and he fretted at it, sorted through all the impulses in his heart, trying to find that confusion that wizard-wishing made in him; but he found himself without any ambivalence at all about his own safety—and that would be Sasha’s first and strongest concern.

  Maybe Eveshka’s magic had taken hold of him so thoroughly Sasha simply could not get past that sense that guided him. But there were other answers, some of which scared him almost to the point of turning back and trying to find the boy.

  No, he told himself, no, and no, for all the reasons that had brought him this far. He had learned about wizards, even Sasha—that a man who tried to figure out why he was doing anything could only get crazier and more and more scared.

  So one reckoned the odds once, took a well-reasoned path and left the point of choice behind as quickly as possible, blinding oneself to all second thoughts, to wizard-sent ones and true ones alike.

  Just keep walking, he told himself every time doubts occurred to him. If the boy’s in trouble, you’re no help at all going back.

  There was no sign as far as Sasha could see, as thoroughly as he and master Uulamets searched the wooded streamside.

  No splitting up, Uulamets insisted, foremost of instructions, and with the ghosts plaguing them continually, with the vodyanoi somewhere unaccounted for—Sasha agreed. Ignoring the touches, the whispers, the cold spots, he clambered up and along the stream bank, with ever and again an anxious eye to the water.

  About the chance that Pyetr might be under that dark, sluggish stream—he did not want to think about that, he adamantly refused to think about that.

  But that wish worked no more than the rest did. He kept calm, and he tried to keep his wits and his eyes sharp as he clambered with the old man along the tangle of branches along the root-choked edge, looking for any footprint, anything, be it no more than a snag of thread in a thornbush; he tried to keep his thinking straight while cold spots went through him at random, tried to know whether his thoughts were all his own or whether someone was wishing him to miss clues and make mistakes; and tried to reason who that someone might be.

  He slipped on a root, caught his backpack on a branch that bent and all but flung him in, after which he clung, panting, to a second low-hanging limb—and staring at Uulamets with a thought: Is it you?

  CHAPTER 29

  NO STOPPING to search for food, no time even to rest since afternoon, only an occasional drink from the stream he followed, for a throat gone dry with hard breathing—and the sense of Eveshka’s presence grew steadily fainter: he did not know why, whether it was distance or Eveshka’s own strength fading, or whether it was some other thing; but he saw the oncoming night with increasing apprehension.

  “Veshka,” he said to her, under his breath, “ ‘Veshka, you really don’t want to leave me to this—”

  He had not done as well as he might. Perhaps there never had been a real chance for any of them in the first place—

  Second thoughts again. No, he said to himself, no and no.

  The ghosts would come back after dark. And she intended to keep traveling.

  “’Veshka, dammit!”

  There was only that dim, fading sense of her somewhere ahead, her magic slipping from him, leaving him with nothing but the river for direction.

  No, he told himself. It was another trick; it was Eveshka or it was Chernevog trying to discourage him, no different than shape-shifting.—Just keep walking, just keep walking, follow the stream, she has a heart even if it’s with Chernevog.

  “Eveshka!” he shouted, his voice quite hoarse now. “It’s getting dark! What are you going to do, leave me with the bandits?”

  He stopped cold then, as if for a moment he could not remember what to do with his legs, or what direction he was facing.

  Then he was able to remember faintly why he was here in this woods, but not where, or what his direction was.

  “’Veshka!”

  She was all but gone now, but he thought—he thought that it was the direction he was facing. He walked, sucking at the back of his hand a moment, and finally thinking that that was ominous.

  “’Veshka,”
he called out finally, and in the darkening woods his voice seemed very small and lonely, the ache in his hand more painful, “Veshka, for the god’s sake do something, I don’t like snakes, Veshka, I really don’t like snakes—”

  He felt a decided impulse to stop and look to his left, then, and stopped with a bent branch in his hands, his foot on a massive root, and glanced with apprehension toward the tree-shaded water.

  “Is it you?” he asked.

  He felt it was. He felt the pull again all from his left, nothing at all ahead of him.

  “’Veshka?”

  She wanted him to come down to the streamside.

  “Can’t you,” he asked from a dry throat, “just sort of show me it’s you?”

  Come, was all it said. He felt after his sword, thinking of snakes, and heard her—perhaps it was not a sound at all—saying, “Pyetr, Pyetr, listen to my voice, not my wishes. Go away, go back, it’s too late—oh, god, you should have stayed with my father—”

  She was irresistible as curiosity. No, she said; but the pull was constantly yes, and he wanted to see her, he wanted to walk down to the edge…

  “Just—show me,” he said, standing where he was. Stopping, he had caught a chill. His muscles began a shiver here and mere, and his hands and feet were numb. “From there, ‘Veshka. I can’t trust you.”

  “Don’t look at me! Go away! Please!”

  Something was wrong with her. He knew that it was. He had no idea what he would see, whether there was anything to see any longer, whether, like the thing that had been with Uulamets, there were only bones and weed—

  “’Veshka, I’ll help you—”

  “No!”

  “Listen to me.” The shivering involved one leg entirely now and trying to spread to the other. “You’re going to Chernevog. So am I. At the rate you’re forgetting things you’re not going to be worth much; neither’s your father, neither’s Sasha. But I’ve this—” He touched the sword at his side.

  “It’s hopeless!”

  “Nothing’s hopeless except never trying. I’m coming down there. Is that all right?”

  There was no answer. The shivering became a spasm, then shivering again.

  “’Veshka?”

  “I should have died. I should have died. I’m trying to die, Pyetr, if I can’t do anything else right! Don’t come near me!”

  “You’d better get hold of yourself,” he said, and worked closer to the edge, his arm resting on a limb for balance as he looked down into the reed-rimmed water.

  A mist formed on the surface of the stream, faint, so very faint as it swirled up in threads and rapidly spun and spun into Eveshka’s self, holding up warning hands, threads of which streamed toward him and vanished in thin air. It felt as though pieces of himself were doing the same toward her, he wanted so much to come that little bit closer.

  “He’ll beat you,” he said, “without me. A plain fool and a sword, ‘Veshka, either one’s hard to magic, isn’t that so?”

  He wanted nothing to do with Chernevog, he wanted to be nowhere but close to her and nothing else but hers. But he clung to the branch between them as the only barrier he could rely on, and said, while the streamers from her hands began to touch him and send little jolts through his arms and down his spine, “ ‘Veshka, as much as you need, as much as you need, take, until you can stop—”

  The streamers touching him grew more and more, the little shocks, from head to foot now, matched the flutter of his heart, faster and faster until they sped past its beats and it slowed, laboring. The touch ran all through him, the most intense sensation he had ever felt, would ever feel, a moment that, if it stopped, would never come back—

  Color shimmered soft and imageless as the winter lights, growing green and flowing in curtains through his vision.

  Greener still, green as spring leaves, the light flowing through him now, no pain, nothing at all—

  The sun was all but gone, the ghostly cold spots whirling and diving at them, whispering malice and warnings.

  “We know where he is—” one hissed against his ear. “Too late. You won’t find him…”

  Another: “The night’s coming…”

  “Too late, too late now—”

  “Master Uulamets!” Sasha said, clambering among the roots and the low branches. He caught his balance as the jug swung at his shoulder and caught it again against a tree, as he snatched at Uulamets’ sleeve. “Master Uulamets, do something!”

  Uulamets frowned at him and gnawed his lip. “If they’re together—” Uulamets’ voice trailed off as he looked upstream and back again. “The vodyanoi,” he said. “Damn the creature.”

  Sasha shivered as cold dived through him and a ghostly voice whispered,

  “Too late, too late, she’s found him…”

  He plunged his face into his hands and wished, absolutely, nothing more than Pyetr’s safety—but even that he doubted, thinking, Aren’t the dead—safe?

  “God,” he cried, and sank down where he was, not sure of Uulamets, not sure of himself, not sure there was any help to be had.

  And by that unsureness knew absolutely that there was no help in him, that everything was gone, all hope, that Pyetr was surely dead-He wished—

  —wished with all his heart that there were hope.

  And opened his eyes, saw eyes staring back at him in the shadow, eyes in a fat black ball of fur.

  “Babi!” he cried, “find Pyetr!”

  Babi vanished again, quick as a thought.

  And Sasha dropped his head into his hands a second time, wishing, urgently wishing Babi to help Pyetr, and not sure Babi could do that—against Eveshka.

  He’s her dog, he remembered Pyetr saying.

  And Uulamets offered nothing, wishing only, Sasha was sure, that his daughter survive.

  Something he was lying on was poking him, that was the first thing Pyetr knew: he was lying in brush, must have fallen, he thought dimly, and remembering Eveshka, decided his most desperate hopes had come true: she had found strength enough to stop, was surely waiting for him to rest—thank the god he had not fallen unconscious in the water.

  Time to move, he thought, and tried, his vision clearing on something alarmingly too dark to be Eveshka—

  A tree, he realized, heart pounding, he was only looking at a tree.

  Then it blinked at him, and the brush under him moved and carried it closer to its eyes.

  “Time you waked, foolish man.”

  His heart thumped, once, painfully, and he thought—”Eveshka! Where’s Eveshka?”

  “I ‘m here,” she said, and whisked into his view, leaning over him, anxious and beautiful.

  “God,” he murmured, and looked past her to the leshy that was holding him. “Wiun? Is it you?”

  Solemn eyes blinked. A second tree bent close and peered at him, a leprous thing of moss and peeling bark that made him feel far less secure.

  “Kill it,” that one said, and Eveshka cried, “No, it’s not his fault!”

  “Not Wiun,” Pyetr muttered, and got breath enough to cry out, as twigs moved and closed fast about his limbs, “Wiun’s a friend of ours! He said we had permission!”

  “Permission,” a third one said in a voice like branches creaking.

  “Kill him,” said the leprous one. “Better dead than feeding this creature.” It reached out a twiggy hand and touched him. Eveshka cried out; Pyetr flinched and tried to break free, but more and more twigs wrapped about his limbs while this terrible mossy thing poked and prodded at him and stared at him with one filmy eye. “Break his bones, I would, crack them and scatter them—”

  “Let him go!” Eveshka cried. “Please let him go! It was my doing, not his.”

  “My forest is dead“ the leprous one said, canting its filmy eye at her. “And there’s no touching the one responsible—is there? Give him to me!”

  The twigs relaxed as others tightened, drawing him into another grip. “Now, wait,” Pyetr said, heart thumping, trying to remain calm, w
it being all he had left. “Wait! There’s a leshy named Wiun—God! that hurts, dammit!”

  “Gently,” the other said, and a curtain of twigs folded about him from the other side, pulling while the other hung on. “Misighi, be gentle.”

  “Gentle with this thing!” the leprous one said, but its grip eased, even opened, and Pyetr lay there panting and wondering if there was a chance in the world of running, if Eveshka wished with everything she had. It poked him in the stomach, fingered him all over, held its twiggy fingers quivering between its mad eyes and his face. They wiggled. The great eyes blinked. “Wiun, is it? Wiun the upstart, Wiun the lunatic—”

  “We don’t want to hurt anything,” Pyetr said, “just get back something that belongs to her from the wizard that stole it.”

  “From Chernevog,” it said darkly. “That’s what Wiun said.”

  “You’ve talked to him—”

  “I am talking to him, we’re always talking to him, deaf little Man, just like the woods are always talking, can’t you hear it?”

  One could hear nothing but the leaves. In all that stillness Pyetr tried not to move at all and shivered with the strain.

  “You want Chernevog,” it said. “That’s very ambitious. Do you know Chernevog?”

  “She does,” Pyetr said, and Eveshka slipped her arms back about his neck, stroked his hair with a cold, gentle hand, kissed him on the temple.

  “I know him,” she said to the leshys. “And Pyetr’s a great fool. Please hold him here.”

  “No!” he said. “No such thing!”

  “Wiun also disagrees,” the one said; and leprous Misighi: “I’ve never felt sorry for a Man…”

  Something growled at them, far below. And hissed. Pyetr turned his head ever so slightly, trying to look at the ground and afraid to see how far it was.

  “A dvorovoi,” the one leshy said. “Who would think it?”

  “Babi?” Pyetr asked, tentatively, and felt the leshy’s grip shift.

  Then he did get a look at how far down it was, and grabbed its twiggy fingers and its arm in panic.

  Misighi made a thunderous sound that might be anger, held him snugly with both hands about his middle and said, face to face with him, “Health. But our gift will take you only so far. If our power sufficed in his woods, Chernevog would not live the hour.”