Yvgenie (46 page)

‘
Bonesss,
’
the vodyanoi said.

The whole world tottered for an instant. Breath failed. But she spun about and stalked away from him, and laid her hand on a bare white trunk.

Something whispered, slithering to the other bank: Don't
trust him, pretty bones. He's not at all nice. But there is a place that wants him, there is a place that would certainly ' trade for him, trade for something very, very nice
—

It was day. The vodyanoi could not abide the sun—except someone enabled him, except Eveshka was listening to the creature. And who was so foolish, god, who but him had ever been so foolish?

Eveshka rolled a glance at sky and woods, looked at him last, desperate, angry for all the long seasons of cold and dark he had damned her to. She hated him, for lying, for pain, for deception and his theft of her peace and her daughter
—

She
wanted
the strength he held. She took it, in one dizzy rush, that left him on his knees; and wanted him from her sight,
now,
that was the single grace she gave him, because there was a wisp of life left in him and she would not kill— from moment to moment, so long as she could, she would not kill...

‘
Run,
damn you, Kavi!
Runl
''

He found the strength somewhere. He fled the streamside, blind, raked by thorns—he stumbled and fell and ran again, mindless, until he found himself lying on dead leaves in the sunlight, watching an ant make anxious progress across a sandy, mold-eaten leaf among other leaves, and stop, and quite suddenly— Shrivel and die.

His heart gave a painful thump. A leaf fell. Another followed. He wiped his mouth with a gritty hand and tried to get up.

Green, untimely leaves showered about him. His teeth chattered with winter cold as he gathered his feet under him and kept
going
, where, he did not know, except he felt powerless against what moved him —he, Kavi, Yvgenie: the distinction was no longer exact in his thoughts.

He wiped tears that ran on his face, revolted by the chill of his own hand, and slid as much as walked down the face of the hill, gathered himself
at the bottom and stumbled fur
ther, thinking—the god help him—that if he could only
find
the horses—they could carry his failing body in more th
en
one sense.

But there was no trace of them, and from Yvgenie nothing but terror and grief. Yvgenie loved the white mare.
Il
yana loved the filly. So did he, for
Ilyana
's sake. And his living always required murder, it had before and did again, even of what trusted him.

The sun sank below the treetops. In a deeply shadowed passage Volkhi blew and shook his head, and Pyetr shivered for no reason that he could think of—a passing wish, perhaps, either good or ill, if any magic at all could reach him. Volkhi had his head up, smelling something of interest, that much was certain. Pyetr asked a little more speed of him and Volkhi picked up his pace, pricking up his ears and flattening them again, listening and worrying. The mouse? One could only hope. No, god, it was Patches, riderless, with Yvgenie's white horse behind, coming slowly down the wooded hillside. His heart said hurry; but he rode quietly so as not to startle them, and saw bloody scratches and countless welts on thei
r hides, thorns snarled in manes…

Sasha could easily have asked them the questions he most wanted to ask. All an ordinary man could learn of them was the evidence of a panic flight through thorn thickets: dirt from falls, scratches all over them, and everything Ilyana and the boy owned still bound to the saddles—god,
Ilyana
's book was there along with the rest of her belongings. She would never have parted from that—willingly.

He slid down, slipped Patches' bridle, tied it to the saddle, and sent the filly off with a whack on the rump—home, he hoped, where young Patches understood home to be; or to Sasha, or whatever refuge she could find on their own. He held on to the white mare for a change of horses, swung up onto Volkhi's back, argued Volkhi and the mare into an uphill track, and rode along their backtrail, not breakneck, but
slowly, observing an occasional print of a hoof on soft ground, a snag of white horsehair in brush. The horses had both gotten away clear: life had escaped Chernevog's grasp, and if it was Che
rn
evog's fault what had happened, the horses could not have gotten away without magic.

Which could most reasonably mean the mouse—who, being the mouse, might have driven them off for their own safety, if things were going wrong; but she would
not
have chosen to send them away with the book and their food and their blankets, not unless something had gone very wrong, very quickly, or she had some destination in mind for them. Like her uncle. Like—the god knew. The book might have every answer he needed, which he might know now if Sasha were with him, which, dammit, Sasha was not—nor could possibly be, this fast.

So he was here—for what little he could do: at least whatever he could do was sooner than he could do it at Sasha's pace; and if the mouse's wish or Sasha's was indeed guiding the horses, Sasha might yet get his hands on the book and the answers in time, and ride to the mouse's rescue.

Or his, if he was on the right track—and by all evidence he was.

Only granting, please the god, Sasha had ever waked up.

‘
Babi's left,
’
Nadya said, and Sasha looked about at her, saying,
‘
What?
’
so distractedly she was sorry she had said anything. It was getting toward dark, he insisted on walking and letting the horse follow him, and if he was working magic she might just have ruined things.

‘
No,
’
he said.

It was very disconcerting to have someone answ
er her thoughts.
’

‘
I'm sorry,
’
he said, and patted Missy's neck as they walked.
‘
Pyetr and I do it. I forget. I'm dreadfully sorry.
’

‘
I shouldn't bother you when you're thinking.
’

‘
You couldn't bother me.
’

It was an odd thing to say. She was not certain whether it
was good or bad. Maybe she was too silly to bother him. Ha uncles called her a damned nuisance when they thought sin was out of earshot. They called her stupid girl—

‘
You're not,
’
he said, and stopped a moment and looked up at her.
‘
You
are
distracting me. I'm sorry. Please don't talk to me. I'm trying to think of something.
’

‘
What?
’

‘
A wise wish.
’

‘
Wish us home,
’
she said.

He had the most distressed look on his face. He stared
at
her and went on staring. He said, finally,
‘
Home.
’

She said,
‘
Mine's
not
in Vojvoda. I don't know where it is but it's not there.''

He said,
‘
Mine burned.
’

‘
I'm dreadfully sorry—
’

‘
It
wasn't
mine, really. Or it was. It didn't matter. It was just full of papers and things.''

She did not understand. She did not understand how she had troubled him, but she had. She frowned and wondered what she had said so dreadful.

He walked on, and Missy moved with his hand on her neck, at her steady patient pace. She thought, I wouldn't hurt him. I truly wouldn't.

How can a wizard's house burn? Can't they stop the fire?
’

‘
Not always,
’
he said.
‘
I'm dreadful at fires. —God, don't—
bother
me. Please! God!
’

Her breath seized up in her throat. And he shook his head furiously and laid a hand on her knee, saying,
‘
I wanted you here. I wished you. I wanted—
’

‘
What?
’

‘
A wife. And it's not fair for us to want somebody. And you shouldn't think about me and you shouldn't want to—
’
He stopped, quite suddenly, then said,
‘
I sound like 'Veshka.
’

She felt fluttery inside. She felt guilty for Yvgenie and guilty for being a wicked girl, her mother would call it, and guilty for upsetting Sasha—it was not fair for a boy to risk
his life for her and her not to love him, but it was nothing like Sasha.

‘
It's a damned
wish,
’
he said.
‘
It's magical. You can't
he
lp liking me!
’

‘
I do,
’
she said, feeling very strange inside.
‘
I
do,
and maybe it
is
magical. It feels that way. I never felt like this. I never did
…
’

He stood there staring at her. Missy had stopped quite still.

‘
What about Yvgenie?
’
he asked.

She said, hard as ft was to say,
‘
We never—
’
and stopped there, her face gone burning hot despite the evening chill. She said,
‘
I didn't love him. I said I'd try to. He's very nice.
’
The fact was, she had slept in his blanket and he had slept curled against a tree, because—

—because she had been so dreadfully afraid of strangers. Or of lasting mistakes.

‘
God,
’
he said, and shook his head and started walking again.

She did not think he was upset with her. She thought quite the opposite. Maybe it was him hearing what she was thinking again.

He stopped Missy again. He looked so dreadfully upset with her. No,
not
with her. With himself. Because he was not thinking about the things he should be thinking about, he was thinking about himself, being selfish, and a fool
—

She shook her head, refusing to believe that, upset because he was upset—

And not, again. Feelings came and went quickly as breezes. It scared her. Except it was magic, and she loved a wizard, and things like that seemed likely to happen in his company.

He sai
d
,
‘
I can't wish you not. I can't wish you away. It's not safe. God, what do I do with you?
’

She said,
‘
I don't know.
’
A nice girl would never think of looking a strange man in the eyes. But she did. She said, shakily,
‘
I'm in the way, aren't I?
’
The woods was not where she belonged. Sasha was walking because the horse
was tired. He was out of breath, he was sweating, he
looked
exasperated and worried, and she bit her lip,
not
going add her tears to his problems. Which went away, the mo
r
e she felt her eyes sting.

She said,
‘
I'm not scared of you.
’
It felt as if every
fear
she had ever had had go
ne away from her. And anything the
woods could hold was nothing to the fears she had lived w
ith
expecting murder at any instant, every day of her life, an had found her mysterious wizard and he was the answer,
not
the danger. She said, feeling very strange,
‘
I think should think about getting my father out of trouble.
’

Because that was what he was trying so desperately think about—and if she was an echo, she could at least that to help him.

She said,
‘
I'm scared of meeting Yvgenie, too, but I t
hink
you should help the people you need to help, and not wor
ry
about me meeting my half-sister,
or
my father's wife
…
’

He was afraid of that idea. She saw it in his face. He
gave
a small shake of his head and of a sudden the back-and-fo
rth
in her thinking stopped, like a sudden silence, as he st
arted
Missy moving again.