Yvgenie (34 page)

‘
You shouldn't
—
’

‘
—swear around them. I know, but dammit, Sasha, we
need
their help! What's wrong with them! Where are the ones know? Where are Wiun and Misighi, and why won't they
spea
k to us?
’

Th
a
t
no harm may come of my wishes—that's the first thing I wish tonight: that my wishes be few and true, that second.
A
nd third, I wish my daughter to trust those who love her
befor
e she trusts those she loves.

Hearts are so breakable, Kavi used to say. He used to say,
They
're safer where they can't be touched. And if I could
le
nd her mine tonight I would. But I'm not sorry enough for
what
I did. I can't be. I'm not that changed from what I was. I
’ve
only a strong reason not to want things. And that's not
eno
ugh to tak
e to my daughter.

What do I wish for my daughter? To find the wisdom I
lac
k—because mine fails me. And to find
—

Ev
eshka bit her lip and decided the quill had dried in the ni
gh
t wind. She did
not
want to finish that. She put the pen in
the
case and capped the inkwell.

She sat before her small fire with her hands clasped before
her
lips and listened to the laughter out of the dark.

She thought, Wishing is so dangerous.
I’ve
never, never nice the day I died, dared wish too much.

But tonight—

Kavi, if she can't hear me, then, dammit,
you
listen—

Mouse, Eveshka, I don't know if there
is
a way back from what I've done. Take your lesson from me, mouse, and forever be careful of your choices.

Uulamets himself told me
—
a wizard's never more powerful than when he's a child; I didn't understand why that should be,
b
ut it seemed so, and now I know why: because it
t
akes patience to see your wishes come true, and if in waiting for them you lose your belief, you can't believe in your present ones the way you did the first.

And the day you make your first mistake
—
you doubt yourself.

But master Uulamets told me wrong. It's not once lifetime that a wizard can work a spell like I worked on jug. It's any moment you think you can. I might wish
you
back
here. I think I could hold you—if I was sure
it was
right
to do. It seems true too that no wizard can wish time;
or if
he can wish time, he can't wish place; or if he can wish
place
, he can't be sure of the event.

Only a child can be so absolute in all
—

Sasha ripped a page, crumpled it and cast it into the fire short burst of fire and a curling sheet of ash. Babi
hissed,
Pyetr jerked back the cooking pan in startlement—

‘
What was that?
’
Pyetr asked.

Sasha looked as if something had hit him. Scared. Tern fied. That was not Sasha's habit either.

‘
Sasha?'' If there were g
hosts or if there were more sub
stantial things he knew how to deal with them. Babi did. Bu
t
something to do with that book, that Sasha would risk his life for, writing which held things Sasha had to remember
—
and from which he had just cast a page into the fire—
‘
Sasha? What in hell happened?''

‘
I wrote something. I wrote something I shouldn't have written. Things
changed.
’

‘
What
changed?
’
The hair on his nape prickled. There was a smell of scorched oil and burned paper beneath the trees and he found the presence of mind to rescue the cakes and set the pan aside.
‘
Sasha, make sense, dammit.
’

‘
You can tell when magic works. You can feel it.
’

‘
You told me nothing can change what's written. Can fire?
’

Sasha shook his head and shut the book.
‘
But it can keep another wizard from reading it.''

‘
Reading
what?
’

Sasha looked at him—terrified, he thought. Distraught. Sasha said faintly,
‘
I—
’
and stopped.

‘
Don't
tell me,
’
he said, seeing it came hard. And he
added
, in the case it was something to do with him,
‘
Sasha, I
trust
you.
’

Sasha
put his hand over his eyes and bowed against the
book.
It scared him more than anything Sasha had ever
done—
and he had no idea whether to move, to touch him, to
say anything
—he was used to 'Veshka's fits, he had learned
the le
ssons they taught; but one from Sasha scared him. He
sat de
ad still, not moving until a tremor started that had
noth
ing to do with cold.

If h
e could wish anything, he wished for Sasha's peace of
mind
.
I
f Sasha was hearing him he truly wanted that—

And he was deaf to whatever storms might be going on
unless
Sasha wanted him to hear, absolutely could not feel hem—Sasha should remember that, too.

Sasha
lifted his head, with a fear-struck expression.
‘
I
wish
ed—wished us to find her, Pyetr. If I wish her to find
us
, we could do us all harm.
’

One asked—carefully—because it was useful to remember
so
metimes, such small things magic might make Sasha for
get:
‘
Is there that much difference? What
is
the difference?''

‘
It isn't strength. It's inevitability. It's sliding down the
s
lope of what is.
She's
the one in motion. All things follow her.
’

Nonsense, it sounded to be; but Sasha saw things Sasha could not describe in words. Sasha called them currents. Or
d
rifts. Or whirlwinds.

‘
What—?
’
One ought to question—but one ought not to jostle upset wizards—no. One should keep one's questions behind one's teeth and tend to supper or something ordinary
that
might let Sasha climb back up off that slope himself, before someone slipped.

He carefully poured two cups of vodka from the jug. Looked for Babi to give him his, but there was no Babi. He took a sip and offered Sasha his cup. Sasha took it gently, steadily from his fingers, and Pyetr avoided his glance, not to disturb him.

Sasha nudged his arm with the cup, said faintly,
‘
Don’t
do that.
’

He looked up—met Sasha's eyes in the flickering of
the
firelight; honest brown, they were, dark flickering on the s
ur
face with firelight, but one
could not see past that surface—
could not now, could not for years past see past it, to
what
Sasha did not want him to know. Sasha was not the
stableboy
any longer, not the boy who had looked to him for advice

‘
But I do,
’
Sasha said.
‘
I still do. I rely on it.
’

‘
Then the god help us.
’
He had not meant his voice in shake.
‘
I got us into this. I don
't know why in hell the leshys
won't answer us—
’

‘
There's reason.
’
Sasha's eyes wandered to the firelit trees about them.
‘
I've felt a change in the woods over the years. Misighi said—old wood and young. You rarely see the old ones now.
’

‘
Trees we planted—all up and down the damn riverside. Even the young ones should know we aren't any harm here.''

‘
Will the fawn? Or should it? Its rules are different, that's all.
’
He glanced above them.
‘
They never quite trust us, Pyetr. Maybe they shouldn't.
’

‘
What's this, maybe they shouldn't?
’

‘
'Veshka's in the woods tonight.
’

‘
In the woods. Where in the woods? Does she know where Ilyana is? Can you talk to her?''

‘
I—don't know. I don't think I should right now.
’

‘
Why?
’

‘
I could change things. Maybe that's not a good idea.
’

‘
God. —Maybe your house was afire! Maybe you should have run for the damn
door,
Sasha! Remember the world, remember your uncle, remember the town gate, for the god's sake! There are times you just make up your mind and do something!''

‘
This isn't Vojvoda, Pyetr.
’

Fool, he figured that meant. So he shut his mouth and shook his head, hoping—hoping his friend had some intention to move soon. Please.

‘
Pyetr
—you're all of the ordinary world I can understand
. You’re
not the only one I can hear. But you're the only one run answer me. —And forgive me for eavesdropping
just then
. You're not a fool, you're absolutely not a fool.
’

‘
Only twice a day.
’

‘
Nor afraid of things. I envy that.
’

‘
Not afraid of things. Damned right
l'm scared. I'm scared
of sitti
ng here too long. I'm scared what else is wrong.
’

‘
B
ut not afraid of us. You never think I'd harm you.
’

‘
No, I
don't
think that. But the fact is, Sasha—I don't
care
if you do.—And you
know how I mean that. Stop worrying.
’

S
asha's lips trembled.
‘
Dammit, Pyetr.
’

‘
Don't do that on me. God.
’
Wrong thing to have said
. He
knew nothing else to do. He grabbed Sasha the way he
would
'Veshka and held him tight. Eventually Sasha held on
to
him.

He heard the horses give alarm, thought, For the god's mike, Sasha, be sensible, don't frighten Missy—

Then he heard the rising of a wind in the woods. Or not a wind.

He thought—Misighi?—because it might be leshys—
they
had a sound like that, when the great old ones were traveling.

One of the horses thundered away. The other followed.

His thoughts started scattering like the sparks from the lire, going out in the wind, one by one, and he fought it, thinking—I can't go out, I can't—dammit, no
…

9

Wolves came on his trail, soft-footed,
golden-eyed, and there was no escaping
them or the memory of the house, and of Draga. There was no breath left to run, except in short, desperate bursts of failing strength, and the woods closed in among winding bramble hedges, high walls of leaves and hidden thorns.

The green maze branched. The left-hand corridor looked lightest and longest, and he took it, but it rapidly became more ominous than the last, shadowed and leafless and wild. He thought, This is foolish. I should never have taken this path, I should go back now—it leads nowhere I want to go— I might get back before they find the entry to this path—