Yvgenie (33 page)

‘
That I don't believe all the danger is in Ilyana.''

‘
Oh, god, that's comforting.
’

He said distractedly, staring ahead into the sunlit green:
‘
We've been listening to very few advisors. And doing everything we've done on 'Veshka's say-so. 'Veshka's
not
the most level head
in
the household. You have to admit that.
’

‘
I'll admit it. She'll even admit it, once and twice a year.
I’ll
also admit the mouse is fifteen. And Chernevog's
not
a moral guide, Sasha. I know him, god, I know him—
’

‘
She's convinced her daughter is dangerous. That someday she'd do exactly what she's done, and go—where we know not everything's been all right, for a very long time.

But so's 'Veshka dangerous.
I'm
dangerous. My misj
udg
ments certainly are. I'm only hoping I haven't made
one
’
.

‘
In what?
’

Maybe being thinner gave Pyetr that fey, remembered
face.
There was the tiny scar on his forehead, above the ey
e—he
had gotten that one the year Chernevog had died
. That
seemed fainter today. Maybe it was the light. Maybe
he was
being foolish in his worry.

‘
Sasha?
’

‘
I'm not sure Uulamets' wishes are out of this game not sure 'Veshka's right in her worries. I—
’

Birds started up, ravens, rising out of the hollow ahe
ad of
them.

Death was there. That was not unusual. There was no reason to turn aside. It only cast a solemnity on them as they rode further, into a patch of younger trees, where sunlight sifted through bright leaves. Insects buzzed here.

A deer had died. Such things happened—there were
wolves. The sick and the lame died.

But no four-footed creatur
e had hacked it in pieces, leav
ing most.

So many things were amiss with the world. Babi turned up in Ilyana's lap as they rode, and vanished again—with a hiss.

‘
Why does he do that?
’
Yvgenie asked.

‘
He's upset,
’
was all she could answer. So was she. The sun showed Yvgenie so pale, so dreadfully pale—but the kiss this morning had had nothing of chill about it. She caught a furtive, troubled glance as they rode, seeing how leaf-dapple
d
sunlight glowed on his face and shoulders, how he cast he
r
kind and shy looks when he thought she was not watching: if her uncle Sasha were in love, she thought, he would
look
at someone like that; god, she
wanted
to help him and not to have any harm come to him. He was kind, he was shy and gentle, and thoughtful, for all her father's bad opinion of boyars' sons—and even if he had had a terrible father, somebody had taught him kindness. She caught sometimes the
image o
f a fat, gentle-faced woman who had hugged him and
held him
and told him stories—

Not f
lattering stories, about wizards and magic birds; and
bears t
hat talked and wicked sorcerers who hid their hearts
in ac
orns—she supposed one could, but acorns seemed a
very da
ngerous place; and bears talked, but nothing like peo
ple.
So she told him, now that the silence was easier, about hear in the garden, about uncle Sasha and the bees,
ab
out
—

About
Owl and Kavi Chernevog, and how she had known
him
for years and years. It was hard to remember he could
not
hear her pictures, not as easily as her father could. She
had to
tell them in words, which she was not good at—

‘
How
did he die?'' he wanted to know—and that question
ec
hoed around and around in their heads, his fears, hers—

She did not, she had to admit, know that answer: he gave
her
a most vivid and grisly image of beasts and fangs and I in and she shivered and wanted not to have any more of it
rig
ht now, please—

Be
cause she had the most dreadful growing suspicion that p
a
pa was right and that Kavi had done something both wicked
an
d desperate—though, not, she thought, by intent: surely if the boy had been drowning, he could be far worse off
than
ha
ving Kavi find him and hold him among the living—and Kavi would not have made him fall in the brook.

(Mouse, uncle would say, sternly—don't hope things are so. Be sure. Know the truth, even if you don't like it
…
)

But Yvgenie reached out his hand, then, across the space between Patches and Bielitsa. A touch of his fingers, that was all it needed for that wonderful tingling to run from her arm to her heart
.
She felt warm through, as if she no longer needed the sun.

Perhaps it was Kavi reassuring her
and
Yvgenie. Perhaps, in the way of ghosts, Kavi could not get their attention during the day, with all the distractions sunlight made. Night was the time for dreams, and things one had to see with the heart—and she was
sure
that kiss this morning had been Kavi' same as the one last night—that had been—

—terribly dangerous. Don't trust him that far,
Yvgenie
said—and Yvgenie had been unfailingly, painfully
honest
with her. Yvgenie felt some sort of threat to her—

The warmth changed. The tingling became like need
les of
ice—scari
l
y different, making her dizzy. She thought, I w
on’t
be afraid, no, I won't be afraid, dammit, Kavi's touched
me
before and he's never hurt me, it's only his borrowing—

And it's
not
harmful. Uncle said it was—but papa
admitted
he'd felt it—and he's still alive. My
mother
knew when
to
stop—and wouldn't Kavi? Kavi loves me, he's loved me
for
years.

He's not very strong—he wasn't on the river shore. The first time he kissed me, he borrowed enough to speak,
that
was all. He could hardly move the froth on the river: and Yvgenie being so tired, he borrows only a little, only a very little. He's
never
threatened me. He said he'd never hurt me, that he had to do whatever I told him—he said he had no choice.

He said that he wanted it to be in this season, while he was with me—or I'd be alone—

Wanted
what
to be in this season, Kavi? What do you want of me? Is it love? Is it something else?

Suddenly she had a vision of vines and thorns, a great flat stone, and Owl lying on the ground, a real Owl, white feathers dewed with blood—at her father's feet, her father with the sword sinking to his side. She looked up at her father, grieving for Owl—caring little at that moment if he cut her head off
—

She trembled then, thinking, But Owl's already dead; and papa would never kill anything—he's never used his sword—

But memory scattered. There were gilt roofs. There were great pillars and people in fine clothing, and there was music and dancing while people whispered furtively in corners, about the Great Tsar, and murders—and betrayals she knew
and cou
ld not, except by kill
ing her own father, betray elsewhere.

Yvgenie
cast a desperate look into the branches over
them—

S
eeking Owl, no matter that Owl had not a shred of love
for
him—only habit. And the hope of mice, that Kavi could
lure
close: small murders, to win Owl's affection—but what
else
did one do, who loved Owl?

The
ground told its own story—horses, men, and the ashes
of f
ire.

P
yetr kicked at the cinders.
‘
Damn.
’

Sasha
said, from Missy's back: ''Yvgenie's father's men.''

''
L
ooking for him, Yvgenie said.'' Pyetr untied his sword
from
Volkhi's baggage and slung it on. The horses assuredly
had
as soon be away, fretting at being held, switching their
tai
ls and twitching their skins at the mere sound of insects.

Where's Babi? Is he still with us?''

‘
A moment ago.
’

‘
Hope there wasn't a
young one,
’
Pyetr muttered.
‘
A d
oe. In springtime. Damn them.
’

It was wizardry led his thought on Pyetr's track, a simple wondering that brought him to a sight of monsters, a dreadful
s
mell that meant Be absolutely still.

It knew that much. The rest was muddled in its thoughts, with blood and fear.

‘
God,
’
he muttered, and slid down from Missy's back.
H
e needed walk only a half a dozen paces to see a dappled hide beneath low hanging branches. Pyetr led Volkhi up beside him and stopped.

‘
Damn,
’
Pyetr said.

One wished—

A heaviness came down on them like sudden cloud, a feeling of menace in the sunlight that prickled the nape and constricted the breath. Missy fought the reins. Volkhi shied up and Pyetr grabbed for his bridle.

The brush shifted, and in a very slender trunk a me green eye opened.

Shout all one pleased, a leshy might be deaf to it. A le
shy
might hear instead the softest voice, might hear the break of a branch. Or the sound of a bowstring, where none
had
sounded in a hundred years.

This leshy was, as leshys reckoned, young as what it s
hel
tered—perhaps it was wild and speechless. There were su
ch.
It offered not a word, only threat and anger.

‘
Little cousin,
’
Sasha said quietly,
‘
my horse isn't
the
enemy. She's a very honest horse, and you're scaring her
.
’

The twiggy fingers
that sheltered the fawn could break
rock and break bones
—and the anger it cast at them was
extreme. But breathing seemed easier, then.

‘
Where's Misighi?
’
Pyetr asked it.
‘
Young leshy,
we
need him very desperately.
’

The brushy arms folded more tightly, screening the fawn from their eyes.

‘
There are good men downriver,
’
Sasha said.
‘
Take
the
young one there. They'll feed it. They'll know it belongs
to
the forest and they'll let it go again.''

There were both eyes now.

‘
Tell Misighi,'' Sasha began. .

One never believed a leshy's moving when one saw it. It blurred in the eye, or it seemed not to be moving at all. The
re
were suddenly a score or more such young leshys on either hillside, and the feeling of smothering grew. Rocks rumbled. The hill might have been coming down. It was a leshy voice, speaking no words that he could hear.

Come on, he wished Pyetr silently, and led Missy and reached back for Pyetr's arm, walking with Pyetr past the leshy and its fellows, and on along the cleft of the hills.

The feeling lifted slowly. He looked back as Pyetr did, and patted Missy's neck.

‘
In no good mood,
’
Pyetr breathed.
‘
Dammit!
’