Yvgenie (10 page)

‘
Can't you let him have Owl back?
’

‘
Mouse, he's
dead.
Owl's
dead.
They have no place in
this
world. Where they're buried,
if they're
buried, shouldn't matter to them. Owl held his heart once. That kind of crea
ture
’
s
as
tenacious as any wizard. Like your grandfather and
his
one-eyed raven. They're gone. Wherever they are, they
do
n
't belong here, and if you
are
in love with Kavi Chernevog
then believe this: what he has right now is not life, it's
a he
ll I saw your mother go through. She
loved
your father
—
and
in spite of her absolute best intentions, she would have
kille
d him, she would have killed him just as surely as rain
fa
lls and fire burns. If you do love Chernevog and if, god
help
you both, he loves you—there's only one hope for him,
and
that's for you yourself to banish him from this earth.''

‘
No!
’

^‘
Mouseling, that's not kind to him. That's the most selfish
thi
ng you can do. And if he kills you, you understand, you
won
't be the last he'll get. You listen to me:
listen
!
Your
gra
ndfather and your grandmother and your mother were all
wizar
ds. That
never
should have happened. Your mother is,
so t
o say,
twice-born:
her mother and her father both were
wiz
ards; and you're thank the
god
Pyetr's daughter and not
mine
and not Chernevog's, or I don't know what you'd have
bee
n, do you understand me? Wizard-blood is far,
far
better
diluted
: you already have it in too large a measure to handle
easily, and we've done everything we could to see you grow up without killing your father or calling up something no young wizard would know how to deal with. That's still a danger. You have a very good heart, and hurt as you surely are, if I've taught you anything, you'll hold back what you
can
do about what's happened and think instead about what you
ought
to do. If we haven't taught you that—then we're
all
of us in trouble.''

Her hands gave a little twitch in his, but that was all. They remained limp and cold. Finally she looked into his eyes, really looked at him, as if she were searching for something, and said, ever so faintly,
‘
Do you really love me, uncle? Do any of you really love me?''

‘
With all our hearts, mouseling. No wizard
has
to have a child. No wizard can have one against her will. You were the most terrible risk your mother could take. And we had to get your father away from you, both of us, when your temper made you dangerous. He'd have held you, god, yes, Pyetr's held you while your mother and I just held our breaths. People do love you. You don't have to want us to.
And I doubt you had to want Kavi Chernevog to, either. Someday when it hurts less I'll tell you about him.''

‘
Tell me now.
’

‘
No, mousekin. There's too much that's dark in that story, that you don't need to hear today. But there's a lot that's not dark at all, and I'll tell you both parts when I do.
’

‘
I can't wish him away until I know, can I? —Because you're telling me to do something I'm not sure of; and magic won't work when I doubt. Will it?
’

She had him on that one, fair and hard. But there
was
too much of that story to tell here, perched on a rail in the st
a
bleyard, and with Eveshka as upset as she was.

‘
First we'd better make sure your mother's all right.
’

‘
She didn't have to be so cruel. I don't feel the least b
it
sorry for her.
’

‘
You don't know what she felt, either—finding him with you, in that particular place? Part of that was pain, child.
Part of that was remembering; and part of that was the shock of learning he wasn't as peacefully dead as she thought he was. Chernevog went through hell in his life. I assure you, he's going through it now. And your mother more than saw it—she felt it. It wasn't just her child she wanted to save. It
was him.
’

She was
listening,
she was listening very hard now. The color was back in her face. Her hands were no longer lifeless. They were clenched in his.

‘
Your mother,
’
Sasha told her,
‘
is one of the bravest people I know, and she has a kinder heart than you could imagine. But she would never give you her heart the way I just did—not to a child. And that's true in several senses. She doesn't want you to know her. She specifically wants you
not
to know her until you're grown. And even then—she may doubt it's good for you.
’

‘
Why?
’
There was indignation in that question. And pain.

He said,
‘
Because she's afraid you'll think too much about her mistakes, and maybe, by thinking about them, fall into them.
’

‘
How can I avoid them if no one tells me what they are? Kavi Chernevog was her big mistake, wasn't he? And she never told me, no one ever told me except my father, the other day—and he didn't tell me what that mistake was! How am I to know anything?
’

He laid a finger on her forehead.
‘
With that, mouseling. With your own intelligence. There aren't any right answers lo certain questions. There are best answers. But if you've left anything unconsidered in what you do, that's the thing
t
hat
will most surely haunt your sleep at night. Do you understand me?
’

Very softly, after a moment of looking into his eyes:
‘
Yes, uncle.
’

‘
Good,'' he said, and stood up and pulled her to her feet.
‘
Good for all of us.
’

3

The whole house felt charged with lightnings, which called to mind what her father had said about mother and thunderstorms. Ilyana made herself very quiet, coming through the door with uncle Sasha, and found her mother sitting on the bench in front of the hearth, her father sitting on the floor next to her. Her father's worried glance tried to warn her; but she knew. She knew. She kept all but the most shallow, immediate thoughts out of J her head, and carefully bent and kissed her mother on the side of the face.

Her mother suddenly reached and caught her skirt. She panicked, then remembered uncle Sasha was there to protect her and made no effort to escape, while her mother hugged her so hard it hurt.

She knew she ought to feel sorry for her mother. She knew she should think about he
r mother's unhappiness, but she
could not, right now. She found only pity enough to do the dutiful thing and put her arms about her mother's shoulders. Her mother's hair still had tiny twigs caught in it, the braids were coming undone; she had lost the kerchief somewhere, and torn her sleeve, and scratched her cheek on some branch, us it looked: she had run down to the bank, her mother actually must have run, when she could hardly remember her mother running in her life—

Which was one of the problems with her mother, dammit, and it did not make her feel any sorrier for her, it made her feel nothing but angrier, if she let herself think about it, and she did not want to do that. She sat, quietly, smoothing her mother's hair, wishing her thoughts to herself.

‘
Mother, I'm upset. I'm thinking about it.
’
Without her intending it, it turned out to be a recitation, word for word her mother's own example to her what to say when things got out of hand; she decided her mother's exact words could hardly upset her, since her mother did not approve the things she thought on her own. She tried not to want her mother to let her go, she tried not to want anything, which with nothing right, was hard. So she just wanted all of them to feel better, instead, and for her father not to be upset. After a moment her mother let her go, took hold of her hands and looked up at her with eyelashes damp and tear trails on her face.

‘
Ilyana. Child—
’

(I'm not, mother, not as much as you think.)

‘
—I didn't aim at you.''

Her mother was holding out for an answer. Ilyana said, as steadily as she could,
‘
Uncle explained that.
’
She thought maybe she could get the breath and the wit to go on and explain things of her own, how long she had known her friend, how he had never hurt her, but she could not get it out in time.

‘
He's not safe, Ilyana. He's not what you saw.
’

‘
I know. Uncle said he was a hundred years old. At least. He said you—
’
—died, she almost said, but that was not something to talk about with her mother upset as she was. She meant to say: Mother, he grew up with me—

But her mother squeezed her hands till the bones ground together and said,
‘
Ilyana, don't ever call him back. Do you hear me? You
don't
know him. He's not anything you possibly understand right now.
’

She thought, You don't think I understand anything. But I do, mother. Things like getting half the truth. And lies.

Like things you shouldn't have done.

Father has to be upset with her. With him. With me.
God,
what can he think, seeing me with this same man—

Who's not really fifteen years old at all.

Of a sudden she could not bear to face any of them, could not think how to get free of her mother's hold: she just said:
‘
Let me go. Please let me go—
’
and thought she was going to be sick at her stomach.

Her mother wished not, her
mother
was wanting to know what she was thinking, and she jerked her hands from her mother's and backed away, hitting the table so it screeched behind her. The whole house creaked, the domovoi complaining.

Her father grabbed her and hugged her so hard she could scarcely breathe. She said,
‘
I'm sorry, papa,
’
the word she had used for him when she was small; and stopped thinking and let him hold her until she was dizzy.

‘
Pyetr.
’
Uncle's voice. Uncle's touch lighted on her shoulder, and her father let her go.
‘
Pyetr, let me take her up the hill tonight. I think it will be better.
’

Like a baby, she thought, sent up the hill to stay in uncle's house till her tantrum stopped. She drew herself free and lifted her chin, as grown-up as she knew how to be,
‘
No, no, I don't need to, it's all right. I'm sorry. I'd like my supper. Then I'd like just to be quiet a while.
’

Her mother touched her shoulder, said,
‘
I'll get your supper. Sit down, dear. Sit down.
’

She did not know how she could face her father across the table. She winced as her mother wished something, but it was not at her.

Her father smoothed the hai
r at her temple, and said, in a
voice so shaken it hurt to hear,
‘
Mouse, I knew him. We, were enemies and we weren't, and you saw him the way he was when your mother met him.''

‘
Every year since—
’
Now it came out. She caught her breath, thinking, God, I shouldn't have said anything, I don't want to talk about that—

Her mother said,
‘
Ilyana—every year—since when?
’

Damn it, she was
eavesdropping,
her mother was probably passing everything to her father and her uncle, every private thought she had.

She wanted not to talk to them. She wanted to faint away and not deal with any of it.