Yvgenie (30 page)

H
e leaned his head back and
looked about at the trees, at t
he
first
glimmer of light on the branches, at the horses making a breakfast off spring leaves
, and tried not to recall that t
oo vivid sense of life that had driven sense from him.

Fatal, ultimately, the ghost whispered to him. I lend you pleasure I daren't feel. I'd lose all sanity, else. You're all the protection we have, Ily
ana and I
...

He bit his lip, looked desperately up at the branches and thought
—

Sanity?

He shifted his legs without thinking, and Ilyana stirred in his arms, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed back from him, eyes wide.

‘
I'm sorry,
’
he said, but Chernevog said, softly,
‘
Good morning, Ilyana.
’

She looked alarmed and struggled against him to be free. He wanted to let her go, but the ghost pulled her against him and kissed her long and passionately, wanting—

Oh, god, no!

The world went dizzy. He forgot to breathe, until she had to, and fought for breath and reason. He made a clumsy reach for the tree behind him and purchase on the leaf-strewn ground, wanting to straighten his legs. He felt—

—not angry, no—shaken inside and out, and tingling with a feeling he had never had. He did not want the ghost doing
that
again, or anything else it had in mind. He struggled to stand up, to little avail, and found himself trapped with
Ily
ana staring at him as if trying to decide which of them was responsible.

He whispered,
‘
I'm terribly sorry,
’
then thought that he could have said something more flattering. He tried to amend that—and it still came out,
‘
Be careful, please be more careful, miss,
’
or something as foolish, as she took his hand, which was filthy with bits of leaf and dirt, and tried to help him.

Strength came flooding back to his legs, numbness easing unnaturally quickly. He stood up, he disengaged his hand and wiped it clean as something cold whisked through him, something of more substance than a passing chill.

Owl, he thought.

‘
Are you all right?
’
Ilyana asked him.

He
answered
,
‘
He's very well, thank you, miss.
’
And
adde
d, with an effort,
‘
Please—you oughtn't to trust him
that far
—
’

He
wanted to take her in his arms himself.
Instead he shoved
away fro
m the tree and staggered off toward the horses, while
the gh
ost inside him—he was sure it was the ghost—said,
without words
.

Yv
g
enie Pavlovitch, you're a fool.

The
boat scraped something and shuddered aside. Eveshka
waked
with a star
t
as the tiller bucked beneath her arm, saw
trees in
front of the sail, shoved over hard, and hauled on the
sheets,
heart pounding as the old ferry skimmed the shore
line. Its
hull rubbing its length along some barrier.

She
had not intended to sleep. The wind had carried the
boat the
god only knew how far—she felt grinding scrapes
that t
hreatened to take the side out, and wished desperately
for a
breeze to touch the sail and give her way to steer away
from t
he shore. None was at hand. The trees were too tall
and t
oo near, shadowing her from the wind.

The
boat scraped rock, as the shore wound outward across
the
bow. She leaned on the tiller.

T
he
hull glided over sand. Hard. And cleared.

A breeze. Any breeze, god—no matter the direction.

The boat glided into calm water, between the shore and
t
he bar, where a small stream joined the river. She worked
‘
franti
cally to bring the bow around, to catch whatever breeze
the st
ream course might let escape to bear on the sail, but
th
e breeze there was scarcely stirred the canvas. Only rain
and gale
, she feared, might free the boat from this trap.

She struck the tiller bar with her hand.

Not
an accident. Not by any means an accident.

Something different rubbed against the hull, then splashed
the
surface and chuckled with a familiar sound. She left the tiller in its loop of rope and strode to the rail.
‘
Damn you,
H
wiuur!
’

Another splash. The vodyanoi could not bear the rising
sun. There was no chance it meant to put itself in her reac
h
at the edge of daylight: it kept to the shadow of the boat, th
e
deep water, and only soft laughter and a spreading ring
of
ripples told where it skimmed the sandbar on its way to the open river.

Something dark red floated i
n
the shadow of the boat, scarcely visible in this change between dawn and day: a scrap of embroidered cloth.

She had stitched that design herself, sew
n wishes into the
cloth, to keep Pyetr safe and warm—his coat, that was what! Hwiuur had brought her—

‘
Hwiuur!
’
she shouted.
‘
Come back here!
’

But it had the edge it wanted. It spread doubt like poison, it scattered her wishes like leaves on the water. And i
t
laughed, somewhere out of wizardry reach,
in
that place sh
e
remembered how to enter—but dared not, living.

Sunrise in the deep woo
ds brought scant relief from the
clammy chill of earth and air which long since had
dampened
their clothing and their blankets. Sasha folded up his book quietly searched their packs for food and stirred up
breakfast.

Pyetr opened his eyes hi the midst of
this, felt of the blan
ket across his chest and looked hi his direction.

‘
Pain?
’
Sasha asked him.

‘
No.
’
Pyetr struggled
up on his elbows, filthy, bloody
and ghastly pale between the beginning dawn and the
fire
light. He pulled the stiffened cloth away from his shoulder took a look and murmured,
‘
God.
’

‘
No argument out of you. Breakfast is just about ready
.
Hot tea. You're not going off this time by yourself.''

‘
Don't wish at me!
’
Pyetr sat upright too quickly a
nd
leaned his head into his hands.
‘
I'm sorry. You're right.
You
were right in the first place. Everything I've done has cost
us
time.
’

So he
did
remember. Sasha poured a cup of tea, wishin
g
his hands not to shake with cold and sleeplessness.
‘
We
do
as much as we can do. Despair is never our friend. And we
’re not re
ally behind Missy's pace, as happens, though I'd have
a
bit more sleep.—Here.
’

Pyet
r edged over and took the tea, held the cup in both
hands to
drink it. Sasha turned the
cakes and poured his own
cup.

Acr
oss the fire, Babi waited, black eyes glittering with his of cakes, one could be sure. There was certainly
one fo
r Babi, yes, indeed there was, especially for him.

‘
Ha
d the salt in my coat pocket,
’
Pyetr said.
‘
Lot of that did. Damned snake's gotten clever. Where
is
my
coat?
’

‘
I
don't know. Gone, I fear. I looked, but the god only
knows
how far it dragged you. Have mine: it's yours, anyway;
and I c
an wish myself warm.
’

‘
W
e
have blankets. A cloak's all I need.
’
All I deserve—
was the
thought in Pyetr's mind.
‘
—Have you
heard
any
thing sin
ce last night?
’

Sasha
slid a cake onto a leaf and set it down for Babi, all
his ow
n.
‘
No.
’
He slipped the other two onto plates and
offered
one to Pyetr.
‘
But we're not going to go breakneck
into this
.
’

Pyetr
scowled at his caution, then said, looking glumly to
his breakfast
,
‘
If I hadn't been so damned stupid—
’

‘
Do
n't—
’
he started to say—stopped himself; but think
ing it was
enough.

‘
It’s
my
f-fault,
’
Pyetr declared fiercely, piece by piece,
painful
concentration against his wish.
‘
If you could
just for
god's sake t-tell her—
’

‘
I
can’t
.
I can't make her hear me. So you listen to me,
please, Pyetr
.
’

‘
I’ve
no damn ch-choice, have I?
’

That c
ut deep. Pyetr's look did. But he said as coldly and
rationa
lly as he could:
‘
I don't
like
you taking the blame for
things. Give
me time to think.
’

‘
That’
s
fine,
Sasha. But
d-
do
something!
’

He wanted
Pyetr not to have to struggle like that. He had
not meant
that wish for silence, he simply wanted not to be
argued with right now, which meant Pyetr had to fight him to talk at all.
‘
Pyetr, believe me, the mouse doesn't hate us. She'd have come flying back here if she'd known you were in trouble. She isn't Draga and she's not her mother: I don't believe it, I never believed it, no matter what 'Veshka says—
’

‘
The hell with what 'Veshka says! It isn't the mouse's fault what happened. She thinks she's doing right. I don't have to be a wizard to know that. She's not against us.
’

‘
It's not her fault, and if you want the plain truth, I don't think it was 'Veshka's either. She was in Draga's house before the mouse was born. I honestly believe Draga wanted something that made trouble for us.
’

Pyetr stopped with the cup halfway to his mouth.
‘
Draga—
’
But the thought escaped him and escaped his eavesdropping as well. Something about Eveshka's mother, about the time Eveshka had spent in her mother's house under the hill, about Chernevog and Draga's wishes
—

Wishes could make a man think all around a matter. Wishes could defend themselves, the same as the mouse wishing them off her track. They could well be missing something essential.