He blinked the night back around him, and shoved himself up frantically on his hands and knees, uphill, with a stab of pain across his stomach as the furball hissed and snapped at him. He fell back down, sitting. It seemed to him he had never fallen into the flood. Ilyana had been riding with him, just then warning him of ghosts and wizards that lived in this woods, and he had been answering her only a moment ago that there were things much worse than ghosts.
But he could not remember how he had answered her. Kiev and the gilt pillars of his father’s house became a painted, shadowy porch, and the shadowed trunks of trees. Imaginings became wolves, wolves became Owl, and Ilyana drowned while he stood safe on the shore and wanted her to die.
God, no, that was wrong—he had been the one drowning and she had pulled him from the flood.
She said, trying to lift him by his shoulder, “We’ve got to go on. Please. Please get up.”
He tried. He shoved himself to his feet a second time and staggered upslope to catch Bielitsa’s trailing reins. He had tried a jump, in the fields near the city wall. He had fallen and hit his head—
His father, watching from horseback, leaned back in the saddle and called him a fool in front of his men.
He caught his breath, clung to Bielitsa’s neck and pressed his face against her mane, back in the dark and the woods.
I left Kiev. I had to take Bielitsa—there was nowhere safe for her.
But where are we running to? Where’s safe, anywhere, now?
He remembered leshys and madness at their hands, a woods of golden leaves—an endless succession of days, while suns and stars careered across the heavens, while autumns and springtimes sped past in torrents of leaves and wind-borne seeds. He remembered anger that shattered stones, forest-things as great as trees and very like them, with feet that were indeed backwards. He knew their names: Misighi and Wiun and Isvis and Priochni, scores of others—while he held Bielitsa’s mane to keep himself on his feet, and used Bielitsa’s strength to sustain him, knowing even while he look what was not his, that Kavi was betraying them—
But, god, he was so afraid of dying—
It needed only a little strength. Please the god and the Forest-things, too, only enough and not too much… the wizard-girl was in terrible danger of some kind, and he had come back from the grave for her sake…
But from whose grave—he was for a moment confused, Ilyana touched his sleeve. “Is something wrong? Are you all right? Yvgenie?”
He had a debt to pay. He had no choice. He turned his back to Bielitsa’s shoulder, looked into her night-shadowed eyes. “He wants—” The damnable stammer came back. He never would have thought of taking her suddenly in his arms, or of kissing her on the lips, which with his present dizziness, made all breath fail.
He thought, while he was holding her, god, it isn’t me doing this, it’s him, it’s Chernevog doing it—
But the whole night spun about them. He lost his breath, with all of life within his reach. The forest was full of it. Nothing could withstand them, nothing would be strong enough if he reached out and took it.
He wanted to warn her. He wanted to say—don’t trust him, Ilyana—because he truly was Yvgenie Pavlovitch, no matter whose wish had brought him to this place. He remembered drowning Ilyana, he remembered dying by fire and by water, and nothing could make sense to him. He thought that he would faint, he grew so dizzy, but life came with it, her life, life from the trees and the woods—from something vastly powerful—
God, stop it. Stop it, don’t do this, it’s wrong to do this—
Even if—god, even if it was the source of his next breath.
Ilyana fainted in his arms. He wanted to let her go. He fought for the will to do that. And the thing within him whispered, faintly, “Death’s so long, boy, and so damnably cold.”
Down one hill and up another, with, Pyetr was sure, his daughter’s wishes earnestly trying to mislead him and Eveshka’s and Sasha’s fighting to guide him. In that toss of the magical dice, the god only knew which would win, but distance did make a difference, every experience he had ever had with wizardry assured him that that was so, and as long as Volkhi could bear the pace he was narrowing that interval-Mouse, he intended to say when he found her and the boy—mouse, if you’re going to be a scoundrel, you shouldn’t leave your pursuers a horse to come after you—if, that is, you didn’t truly want to be caught.
But he believed she did in fact want that, in her heart, if only she could be assured he would not harm the boy. She would talk to him at safe distance, far from other wizardly interference. He had not heard a word or a stray thought from Sasha since they had parted company; and he hoped to come within Ilyana’s influence before the night was out. But they were past Volkhi’s first wind now, and he set a pace to hold as long as had to be.
But on the down side of a hill Volkhi began to shake his neck and object to the direction they were going, snorting and dancing about as if he had something entirely unpleasant in his nostrils.
“Whoa,” he said. On a vagary of the breeze he caught a whiff of it himself: river water where none belonged—
And snake.
Something heavy moved in the brush. A voice hissed, “Well, well, well, what have we? Is it the man with the sword? How extremely nice. We’re so pleased to find old friends.”
It spoke so softly. And it struck so suddenly, out of the dark brush. Volkhi shied across the slope as Pyetr spied a glistening dark body coming at them across the leaves and signaled Volkhi to jump over it.
A snaky shadow whipped out of the trees, hit his shoulder a numbing blow—that was his only startled realization as his loot raked across Volkhi’s back and he left the saddle.
Missy was doing her best, poor horse, and for far too long there had been no answer from Pyetr—not a wisp of an impression where Pyetr was now. Nothing had passed the smothering silence from the moment Pyetr had ridden away, exactly what Sasha had feared would be the case. Pyetr had salt and sulfur with him, against noxious and magical creatures: he had given Pyetr that before he left the house.
But what with their arguing, and Pyetr rushing off, not hearing his warning—the god only hope, Sasha thought, that it was Ilyana’s doing and that Pyetr had in fact found her, because for all his wishing he got now a fleeting sense of fright—which gave him no ease either.
“Misighi!” he called from time to time—but there was nothing from their old friend—and from the young leshys no answer, unless the Forest-things were contributing to the uneasy feeling in the night. The creatures abhorred magic and wizards: they were never easy neighbors to sorcery, and it was certainly an uncomfortably unpredictable lot of wishes I hat had gotten loose in the woods tonight.
Worse, there was a distressing feeling of self-will about it all, an irrational lack of forethought, or thought at all, and it was all too easy for a young wizard to make that mistake: Chernevog had made that mistake in his own youth, and that the mouse had run away made him fear that Eveshka was right, that they were not dealing with the mouse in her right senses. That the mouse had left her father lying bleeding on the floor, never mind the pillow, gave him no confidence at all tonight.
In cold truth, he was scared, he was terrified of the mouse’s inexperience and her quick assumptions of persecution where none existed: Think, mouse, he wished her. Is it reasonable that everyone who loves you has turned against you? I’m worried about your decisions, mouse. I want to talk to you. I promise I won’t harm your young man.
But he feared his wishes died in the silence and he could not breach it. He was not the naive boy who had bespelled the vodka jug: the years had worn away his certainties; and now a day removed from the fire that had taken his house and so many of his notes, he could not shut his eyes without seeing the flames; and knowing the books were worth his life, knowing now that they had almost cost Pyetr’s, the more he thought about it the more he was, stupidly, belatedly, panicked.
Dammit, Pyetr, doesn’t the silence mean something to y
ou?
Doesn’t the fact that you aren’t hearing from me—mean something?
Pyetr, dammit, notice that I’m not talking to you! Stop and wait! I don’t like what I’m feeling right now.
Misighi, do you hear me? Please hear me.
Then a faint, far thought did come to him.
“Pyetr?” he asked softly, and did not like—did not like the uneasiness he felt in the air. He suddenly wondered what Volkhi was up to: that seemed the safest question—
Volkhi was angry, his saddle was empty and he was frightened, exhausted and lost, in a place where Volkhi was sure there were snakes—which was, emphatically, Not His Fault.
“Misighi, dammit! Wake up!”
He wanted, oh, god Missy to hurry, please! because he could hear a very quiet voice now that he knew beyond a doubt what to listen for, a sibilant and mocking voice, wholly untrustworthy.
7
“Does its head hurt?” the vodyanoi asked out of the dark. It slithered over Pyetr’s leg, and back again, up against his cheek, wet and smelling of river water. Something unpleasant flickered lightly against his ear, inside it, and Pyetr could not move, not so much as lo case the arm that had gone numb under him.
It whispered within his ear, “Is it sorry now, is the man sorry now for his discourtesies?”
Get away from me, he wanted to say; but breath failed him. The vodyanoi’s serpent shape loomed up and up across the visible sky, and lowered, to nudge his chin familiarly with its blunt nose.
Salt and sulfur, he thought desperately. Salt and sulfur— in my pocket if I could reach it—
Did Volkhi get away?
“The horse ran, oh, yes, off into the woods. Maybe we can find him.” A coil fell across his chest, and grew heavier, crushing the breath out of him. “Or maybe not. You’re so fond of him. Maybe I’d rather eat him later. And no, you can’t reach it, nasty man.”
Sasha! He shut his eyes, thinking as sanely as he could: I’m in deep trouble, friend. Can you possibly hear me?— ‘Veshka? Then, on another, calculating thought:—Mouse, your father’s in a damned lot of difficulty. Could we have some help, mouse? You could make things up with your mother... so much easier if I wasn’t this thing’s supper—
‘Veshka! God, do something!
Heavier and heavier. He felt his ribs bending, felt the world turning around and around, dark shot through with colored fire. Hwiuur said, tongue flickering maddeningly against his ear, “No one’s listening. Perhaps it would be polite if I let it breathe a moment?”
He would. Yes. Anything to get feeling into his hand and find the salt, or his sword—not clever of him to think of that in the vodyanoi’s hearing, no. But Hwiuur’s weight eased all the same, and he gasped after the promised breath, thinking, What does he want? Whose is he this time, if not Chernevog’s?
—Who’s off in the woods with my daughter—
Oh, god, mouse, where are you?
The vodyanoi rose up and up, huge, darkening the night over him. “Is it polite now?”
“It’s very polite,” he whispered to that shadow, discovering he had a voice. “What do you want, Hwiuur?”
“Pretty bones is on the river tonight. And in my cave. What do you think about that?”
‘Veshka. The god only knew what the snake meant about the cave. He risked another, deeper breath. “My wife’s not so easy to catch.”
The vodyanoi hissed and bent lower, sharp teeth looming above his face. “Very dangerous, very, very dangerous. Foolish man, to get a young one with pretty bones. Life in death. Death in life. Her bones are still in my cave, foolish man, and she hears the river every night in her dreams.”
“What about my daughter?”
“Such pretty, pretty bones. Tell Sasha, tell my dear, my sweet Sasha, that he’s been as much a fool as you have.”
“I’ll be happy to tell him. Make him hear me.”
“Oh, can’t he, now? Too, too bad. Then perhaps we can make a bargain without him, you and I?”
“Maybe.”
“Dangerous, dangerous man. What will you give me?”
“What are we dealing for?”
“Bonesss.” The vodyanoi slithered across his chest, beneath a numb leg and over it, under his back and around and around his body and still he could not move, not so much as n linger. “Bones, of course. What will you offer for them? What have you got to trade?”
He felt pain in his shoulder, apart from the general ache in his limbs. Another in his right hand, thinking of which, he tried to move if only a single finger—thinking, The damned snake’s bitten me—that’s what it’s done. Come on, dammit—god—
“Will you trade?” Hwiuur asked. “Nice, fresh bonesss, I wonder?”
He might have his sword by him, if starting with that ache in his shoulder, he could move at all. There was the salt—
The vodyanoi moved across him and weighed his arms. “Nasssty man. Don’t do that. Your daughter’s run off with fine rusalka. With our old friend Chernevog. Aren’t you interested?”
“Sasha!” he yelled. The vodyanoi chuckled softly and caressed his cheek with a scaly jaw.
“Oh, Sasha should have done something by now. So should pretty bones. So might your daughter—but she’s sleeping with Chernevog tonight. Such a dutiful child you’ve made. You should be so very proud.”
Coils went around and around him. He shut his eyes, trying to move that hand, or to make someone hear him, without magic, without anyone in earshot—
“Misighi!” he breathed, because there were things that were magical as the vodyanoi, that needed no spells to hear their names invoked—
Breath stopped. There was no room for it. Then something snarled and spat and rushed, hissing and spitting, across the dead leaves toward him. The vodyanoi reared up and hissed like water on hot iron, carrying him in its coils.
He had a view of the ground. Far below. Then came a sickening drop. Something attached to his leg—he thought, Hell—what is it?
Pain got through the numbness. The coils slipped away from him and let him go.
For what good that did.
Missy was exhausted. Missy trampled down the undergrowth in her path and simply plowed straight ahead, her breath coming hard—far too many apples and sweets from the kitchen over the years—she could not keep such a pace as she took now.
But she smelled something familiar and friendly. Her ears went up and she lifted her head for a look as she went, on a last reserve of strength. It was Volkhi she was thinking of, in Missy’s way, nothing to do with names: but Sasha knew what she smelled, he had wished Volkhi to come to them, and thank the god, Volkhi, alone of everything in the forest, seemed to have heard—Missy, if not him.
But where was Pyetr, he wondered of Volkhi, where had he left him, how long ago?
It was a thoroughly upset, thoroughly tired Volkhi, who did not know where his rider was, and who was sure he was in trouble for it. He arrived out of the brush like a piece of night, distraught, angry, his thoughts scattering every which way—
But he was willing to stand while Sasha slid off Missy and climbed up on his back. Volkhi thought it was stupid to go back where he knew there were snakes, but he would go, if everybody else was going. Volkhi was going to kick hell out of anything that moved back there.
Sasha agreed with him. He wanted leshys, he wanted the mouse’s attention, he wanted Pyetr’s, if he could reach him; and most urgently, knowing the name Volkhi did not, he the vodyanoi sliced and fried, if it harmed a hair on Pyetr’s head—
Hwiuur, you’re being a fool. Hurt him and I’ll get you for it, I’ll get you, Hwiuur, there’ll never be a day I’ll be off our track.
Then he was certain of a sudden where he was going—the slack of Missy’s reins taking up all but pulled him off Volkhi’s neck as Volkhi pricked up his ears and jolted into a brisker pace. Volkhi shook his head and protested with an I-know-you sound as Sasha reined him down to a pace Missy could keep. He wanted to go where Volkhi wanted to go, fast, and
it was not helping hold Volkhi in at all.
Babi was the thought he began to sort out of Volkhi’s thoughts. Babi was no easy creature to wish and Babi would not tolerate eavesdropping—but the horses both could hear him. The horses had an idea of Babi that a man had trouble holding; but Volkhi was definitely answering him, in Volkhi’s way: Volkhi launched himself straight up a hill with a drive of his hindquarters, wanting more rein as Sasha tried to hold on to Missy and stay in the saddle, while if ever a horse could swear, Volkhi was swearing, fighting the reins all the way to hp crest, into a thin growth of saplings.
Something shone pale in the dark thicket below, a white scrap of cloth gleaming through interlaced branches—a body lying on the ground.
“Oh, god—” He almost let go of Missy’s reins, then recalled that all their medicines were on Missy’s back, and held on to Volkhi’s saddle and to her, begging her to hurry, please! While Volkhi fought him all the way down the hill.
He wanted Pyetr to be all right, he wanted the whole woods to know they were in trouble as he slid down from Volkhi’s back and shoved his way through the interlaced twigs of saplings. Babi was curled at Pyetr’s side, a very small, very black ball of fur that growled and hissed at him as he fell his knees.
Pyetr was lying on his stomach, one arm beneath him, his shirt stained dark on his right shoulder, and, god, he had bled enough for three men. He was still breathing—but only just.
His hands were shaking as he peeled Pyetr’s collar down and discovered a wound a sword might have made: a vodyanoi’s bite, he was sure of it. On both sides of the shoulder-and blood was still coming.
Nothing had been going right: nothing of his magic had worked, and he was never good at doctoring; he believed in pain more than he believed in his own magic, ‘Veshka always said so. Uulamets might have dealt with a wound like this, ‘Veshka could, little as she worked magic; even the mouse was better than he was—if it was baby birds or a wounded fox—