One did not know clearly that everything was well. But there had been a moment that he felt he could breathe again.
In a bit more Missy made a soft, worried sound, and horses arrived out of the dark. They trotted up to Missy and Patches, trailing reins, glad to find friends. There had been snakes. Volkhi’s rider had ridden him straight at a snake and fallen off in front of it. Volkhi was never going near any snakes again, never, ever. Even if his favorite person wanted to be, he would not. No. and Bielitsa thought the same.
Worrisome. Exceedingly worrisome. He looked at Nadya across the fire they had made on this barren, windy hilltop, and she looked back at him, scared and staunchly not saying a word. For a moment he did not know what more he could do than he had done.
But he wanted his family back. He wanted them to meet Nadya. To have evenings together. By a nice fire. Hundreds and hundreds of thousands of evenings. One would not accept otherwise.
And of a sudden he felt very much better. Very much better.
He said, on a long sigh, “Bring them back, Babi, bring them here. Vodka, Babi.”
He unstopped the jug. He poured. Babi was immediately there to catch it, a very satisfied Babi. One could tell.
Then he heard the mouse cry “Uncle Sasha!” and saw the lostlings coming out of the dark, the mouse, hand in hand with young Yvgenie. Pyetr with Eveshka. He felt everything at once, too confused to defend himself from them until Nadya rose and stood beside him.
He put his arm about Nadya as she did and wished her well—wished ‘Veshka not to be upset, please. Nor the mouse. Yvgenie said, “Nadya?” and came and took her hand, but to a wizard’s hearing it was very clear where hearts were, and Yvgenie’s was most honestly with the mouse.
“I like her,” the mouse said, quite sure herself where Yvgenie’s heart was. And Kavi Chernevog’s as well, the god help them.
Then Eveshka wished something at Nadya quite strongly, not at him, Sasha thought, but about him—and Nadya said, hugging his arm the tighter, “Yes. I know he is,” leaving him the most distinct impression Eveshka judged him extravagantly kindly, far too kindly, considering his recent succession of mistakes…
Which he did not want to tell Eveshka yet. But he feared he had just let the worst one slip. God, they could see it for themselves: Pyetr was changed. Or the same again. Pyetr might always be the same, for all he knew, and it all was his fault, god—he wanted them not to hate him. He wanted them to love him. Nothing worse could happen to him than losing that. And wishing them not to was desperately, terribly wrong of him. So they should love each other. Not minding him and his wishes. Please.
There was a breathless hush then, in a piled-up calamity of possible wishes, wise and foolish, thick as the fallen leaves. But Pyetr said, “Sasha,” strolled over, kissed his eldest daughter on the forehead, then set a heavy hand on his shoulder and looked him straight in the eye, thinking, as if he had only chanced upon the thought—You did something, friend. Didn’t you? Like the damn teacup? The jug that won’t empty? Eveshka thinks so.
“Pyetr, forgive me, I’m—”
“—sorry?” Pyetr shook him gently. He heard a laughter in Pyetr’s voice this morning, a youthfulness that could have no patience with slow-moving wizards and their deliberations. “—Does the teacup care? It’s lasted this long: it might last longer. Who knows?—Who ever knows? Dare we even mention my seeing grandchildren?”
C. J. Cherryh, Yvgenie
Thank you for reading books on BookFrom.Net Share this book with friends