Yvgenie (44 page)

—made her feel—so entirely different than poor Yvgenie, who was handsome and kind and brave and everything any reasonable girl could ever want—but no one had ever looked
at
her and made her shiver all the way to her toes the way he
di
d when she had looked him in the eyes. She had no idea even when she had begun to feel that way, except last night
sh
e had finally believed her father was telling the truth, and
the
refore that her father's friend must be everything he
se
emed to be—

It was not her idea, the god help her,
he
had done it with
his stupid, selfish wishes that had nothing to do with this girl—Pyetr's daughter, for the god's sake—had wanted for herself. He had done one damnably wrong after the other since they had left home, he had compl
etely
lost the train of his thoughts last night, blotted an entire
page
he could not recall in entirety, spilled all but a few p
ages’
worth of ink, and now with Nadya's arms about him he
could
not even remember the straight and the whole of what he
had
been thinking when he wished himself asleep. Something
to
do with the mouse—something to do with Nadya, that sim
ply
would not come clear to him,
or
that had not even been
that
urgent, only leading up to some brink he dared not cro
ss.

Dammit, he
knew
now how to do real magic, he
had
dis
covered the truth old Uulamets had hid and he could
let fly
a wish that would surely make the mouse hear him—or
bring
rains clear to Kiev.

But he could not believe in his own wisdom any
longer,
he knew the scope of h
is mistakes already, and how did one
wish belief back, when belief was central to the wish?

The great magic
s were always easy—to someone in the
right moment, at the exact moment of need—and a
lways
impossible, to someone who did not expect the result.

Make up your mind, Pyetr would shout at him. God, h
e
wanted to. But what was fair to wish, with Pyetr's
daughter
involved? Leave me alone?

Go love Yvgenie Pavlovitch?

He had no idea where that might lead her either—to harm, in this woods; to heartbreak and disaster, if Yvgenie w
as
dead; to disaster for all of them, if she provoked the mou
se
to jealousy and foolishness. Everything wrong seemed po
s
sible, and the only wish that made sense—was not fair, dammit, simply was not fair to her. What in the god's name could he do with a girl who had no idea of wizards or magic and no idea what she could expect of him?

The ground dipped and rose again. Nadya caught hold
of
his shirt, and of him, thinking of bears and wolves, of bandit and dreadful walking houses, and thinking over all it
was bett
er than the four walls of a garden in Vojvoda, if she was
eat
en by a bear out here it was better than that—she would
ne
ver go back, never, never, never live like that. She feared
fo
r Pyetr, she wished she had been worth enough to go
with hi
m, she was glad enough they were going, and if she was
an
y help she was willing to try—

(
‘
Tell me, what would you have done if your father had
deci
ded you shouldn't be on the streets, and locked you in
The
Doe's basement?
’
)

(
‘
I'd have—
’
)

Damn, it was like listening to Volkhi.

She had a knife. She had stolen it. Her father had thought
it
was stupid, but all the same it was better than having nothing. She understood her father going off the way he had. She
was
glad Pyetr was her father and not some dead old man
sh
e had never met—all in one night she had a father who
would
take his sword and go off into the dark after to rescue
a
daughter and a young man he hardly knew from rusalki
and
ghosts, and would her uncles, would her uncles ever
da
re?

(Her uncles had gathered
up the silver—knowing the killers
were coming. Her mot
her had packed her jewels, and t
old her, when she had come upstairs to announce, with a lump in her throat, that she was going with Yvgenie,
‘
Go where you please.
’
)

Damn them, Sasha tho
ught. And remembered something t
oo painful, nights in the stable when something had gone
am
iss in the tavern and he had realized his aunt and uncle were talking about being rid of him. He had tried (because he had known then that wanting things was deadly danger
ou
s) not to hav
e
an opinion about the matter. Even if he had nowhere to go. Even if he tried to love them. He only worked
t
he harder the next day to please them—

And here he had the most beautiful girl he had ever seen with her arms close about him, thinking, the way Pyetr would
jolt
him into thinking that it was all right to want things like
Pyetr's staying alive, that it was all right to want to get Pyetr's daughter back and Yvgenie back— No!

Dangerous, that thought. But
she
thought it. She want it of him, she expected him to do it, for the sake of a
brave
young man she owed her life to—no matter he had spent
the
night lying senseless and no matter he could not find thread of his thoughts—
she
believed he could do it, wrapped her arms about him and believed the way she believed in the world beyond her walls.

Dangerous for a wizard, dangerous as walking a roofl
ine
drunk, dangerous as a rusalka's kiss
—

Don't be a fool, he told himself while they rode. But for
a
few drunken instants he had believed in it, too, and thought
—
Yvgenie. Life and death. Death in life. Yvgenie's the inst
a
bility.

Yvgenie's the stone that moves the hillside. Wish him
to
our side while his life lasts. Is that wishing against nature?

Thorns stood like walls on either hand, braced by tall dea
d
trees, and Yvgenie walked, following Ilyana, following
Owl
who glided in bands of sunlight and shadow on gossam
er
white wings. Owl was back, since the leshy ring, and Yvge
nie
told himself that should be a hopeful sign, but his heart
could
not quite believe it: I dreamed this, he thought. Or I've bee
n
here before. And from time to time he glanced over his shoulder, expecting the wolves of his dream.

‘
This is wrong,
’
he said.
‘
Ilyana, this isn't the way to go. Ilyana, we're losing the horses—
’

‘
They'll follow,
’
she said.
‘
Come on! They'll follow us once we get through.
’

‘
Through
where?'
' he protested. But his voice came from faint and far away, and the daylight seemed colder and grayer with every step.
‘
Ilyana, look ahead of us. There's nothing living.
’

‘
It's further to go back,
’
she protested.
‘
It can't be that much further through—I can
feel
something ahead of us—
’

He reached for her hand, to compel her if there was no other way—take the strength she had and carry her back to the horses; but she evaded his touch, wishing
no
so strongly it stung.
‘
Kavi, I can help you, there's a way back, I know there is, my mother died and she's alive again, she had
me,
didn't she?
’

‘
At whose cost?
’
The ghost wrapped itself about him, cold, wary, and protective against her magic.
‘
And what will we be then? Come back, don't go any further.
’

‘
Kavi, Kavi, come on!
’

He flinched as a sudden cold spot swept through his middle. Another grazed his shoulder, and became a wolf and a second wolf, walking tamely ahead of them, creatures of gossamer and pallor, like Owl, wending their way through thorny hedges mat parted, simply
moved,
to let them through. White wisps streamed and wove through the thorns of the hedge like serpents, and he began to hear a voice saying, Ahead is where you belong. Here's the rest you've deserved. Here are all the answers to all the questions you ever asked
…

Another cold wisp swept through him, and another, stealing life and warmth.
‘
Ilyana!
’
He caught a branch to hold the hedge apart, scarcely feeling the thorns.
‘
Ilyana!
’

But more branches closed between them as she turned to look at him.

‘
Kavi!
’
she cried, trying with bare hands and wishes to unweave the tangled thorn boughs. Ghosts streamed like snakes about them, thicker and thicker. He shoved his arm through the thorns to draw her back through, leaned against the branches, almost touching the tips of her fingers—but the cold spots shot through him more rapid t
han his heartbeats, and the weakn
ess he felt now was its own warning that he dared not touch her if he could.

‘
Kavi!
’
she cried. But he clenched his hand just short of her fingers and drew his arm back.
‘
Kavi, stay with me, we'll find a way through—
’

‘
I can't,'' he cried, and tore and fought through the thicket
away from her, blind and breathless. He would have
killed
her just then, the way he would kill the horses if he fou
nd
them in this desolation: he would draw the last life from
the
ground, draw it from anything in his path. He drew it instead from the stubborn thorns, fended brittle branches away from his arms and ran, fainting from cold and weakness—heard the voices of wolves amid the wailing of the ghosts, and, glancing over his shoulder, saw them coursing after him, slow and pitiless as nightmare.

Something had shifted. Sasha felt that much: an essential pebble had moved, somewhere. But as to how things were falling now—he was blind and numb with terror, resolved
not
to let his fear reach beyond him, or do more harm than he might already have wrought with his wishes.

God, Pyetr, hear me. The boy's in trouble. Chernevog is. I
did
something I don't understand—

Nadya whispered,
‘
What's wrong?
’
Missy had stopped, abruptly, standing with her ears pricked and a shiver going through her shoulders. Within his awareness, Nadya was trying not to be afraid: she had known the world outside her walls must be dangerous, but she had chosen her course, she was with a wizard she was sure could fight the invisible dangers and on a horse with strength to carry them through the tangible ones. Dear fool, Sasha thought, feeling her arms about him, dear young fool, nothing of the sort-But it made him sure all the same that he had imminently to do something. Pyetr would tell him so exactly that way. Though he did not have Pyetr and his sword and his good sense at his back, he had a lost boyarevna armed with a kitchen knife and a faith only the young could have, a faith he so desperately—

—O god!—wanted for himself.

Thickets gave way to green again, to scantly leaved trees struggling for life, and sunlight that blinded and did not warm. Yvgenie slid on a muddy edge, sat down hard on a
bank of a cold spring-fed rill with his heart pounding for fright, as if a mouse could drown in that water that soaked his leg—but it seemed to him he had been on the verge of another fall, and drowning, and that the bank where he lay and the sunlight shining down on him were less real than the other shore.