Europa (63 page)

Wren looked away but the witched grabbed her chin and yanked her gaze back to the old woman’s face.

“And you’ll go on feeding him, day after exhausting day. Feeding him, washing him, protecting him from the world, protecting him even from himself.” Yaga released Wren’s arms and pushed the girl back against the wall. “You’ll endure the tantrums and the nightmares and all the pains and fears and failures he’ll have as he grows. And you’ll go on giving, and giving, and giving to him. All of your strength, every last shred of strength in your body and soul, all to keep him alive, to see him grow into a man. And for what?”

The tall witched smiled a hideous smile of crooked yellow teeth. “All to watch him leave. To go off into the world, to find some other woman to give him his own screaming little monsters.”

Yaga backed away but kept her eyes fixed on Wren. “That is love, girl. It isn’t pretty or kind or fair. It’s a madness all to itself. But don’t worry if you don’t understand it yet. You will. One day, you’ll hold your own screaming monster in your arms, and you’ll understand.”

Wren nodded, and for a moment her voice failed and she couldn’t speak at all. “Maybe. But right now, all I know is that there are other mothers and other sons out there tonight and they’re all trapped in their own nightmares. They’re suffering, not because the world is cruel, but because of you. And you can stop it with a word. Please stop it, now.”

The tall woman folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall to gaze out at the sea again. “Not tonight. Tonight, let them scream.”

“How can you say that? There are babies down there shaking in agony, and starving because their mothers can’t feed them,” Wren spoke faster and faster. “It’s the dead of winter, but no one can light their evening fire in the hearth. How many children will freeze to death tonight, Yaga? There are old grandmothers curled up in their beds, with their hearts bursting from the strain of this. And every soldier in the city will soon be lying helpless on the ground, leaving Constantia undefended. How long until the Turks realize their enemy is vulnerable? How long until they start firing their cannons, hurling their shells, and setting fire to the city? By morning all of Constantia could be rubble and ash, and countless thousands of people, innocent people, will be dead!”

“Let them die.”

Wren curled her hands into fists and felt her rinegold ring pressing against the edge of her palm.

Damn you, Gudrun, and all the rest of you. What good are the souls of the valas of Denveller if you won’t help me stop this witch? We’re supposed to save lives, not ruin them!

The faces of three shriveled crones appeared dimly before her, and Wren glared at the ghosts, but they only cackled in silence and faded back into the shadows.

“Two months ago.” Wren looked up. “You said the Turks captured Koschei two months ago, right? That’s when it happened?”

“Yes.”

“Well, from what I’ve heard, that’s the same time the dead started to rise from their graves all over Vlachia.” Wren swallowed and wrapped her arms across her belly to stop them from fidgeting and shaking. “And that can’t be a coincidence. Are you making the dead rise? Are you making their souls cling to their bodies?”

Yaga turned her head with agonizing deliberation, slowly shifting her gaze away from the sea to return to the girl’s face. The old witch’s long white hair fluttered on the dark breeze, and a murder of crows cackled and screamed as they flew past the open balcony. Wren flinched away from the black birds, but they were already gone, already winging away into the night.

“In Rus, the dead do rise from time to time,” Yaga said softly. “It’s only natural. The buried bodies freeze, and the aether in their blood freezes too. And sometimes, if the death is sudden enough, if the soul is angry enough, or crazed enough, that soul will drag its own body up out of the ground and walk the earth again.”

Wren nodded. “How often?”

Yaga shrugged. “Maybe one or two in a decade.”

The girl frowned. “That’s all?”

“And when word reaches me that there is a dead man walking about, I send my son to settle the matter. The body is broken and burned, and the soul flies free, usually to haunt the aether mists as just one more sorry little ghost.”

“But now, what’s changed? Why so many? What did you do?”

“Nothing.” Yaga’s wrinkled face hung grim and slack upon her skull. She still bore a strong echo of the beauty of her youth, but in the shadows of the tower, with her hair flying about her, with her voice rasping in the dark, all Wren could see was the dim reflection of her own mistress Gudrun, ancient and insane, cackling and drooling in the long black night.

“Nothing?”

“I did nothing. How could I do anything when my precious Koschei was gone?” Yaga bowed her head and looked back toward the sea. “I did not eat, which is nothing for our kind. I need no food to go on living, if that is my choice. But also, I did not sleep. Not since that night, the night they came to tell me that my Koschei was gone, lost to the enemy, taken away. So I didn’t sleep. And I haven’t slept since that night.”

“Two months without sleeping?” Wren furrowed her brow as she tried to remember Omar or Gudrun ever telling her about how much sleep a person needed. “And you can do that? Not sleep?”

The old witch grinned out at the dark outlines of Constantia, and in the distance the faint screams and cries of mothers and fathers and children echoed in the streets. “It is possible for me to go on living without sleep. But I suppose I have paid a price for that, too. The nightmares that taunt me at the borders of my sleep, the fears that I ran away from…” The old woman shook her head. “…they found me all the same. All of the horrors that I could ever imagine, all of the torments my tired head could conjure up, are here.” She placed her hand over her eyes for a moment.

Wren gaped. “You’re having nightmares? While you’re awake?”

Yaga nodded. As she leaned forward, her heavy bracelets clanked around her wrists.

The girl watched the woman’s unsteady hands clutching the railing of the balcony. “And your rinegold, I mean, your sun-steel bracelets, they’re always on your arms, and you, you’re always having nightmares. It is you. Your whole body is resonating with fear and sorrow, and it’s all flying out into the world through the aether.”

Yaga said nothing.

“You’re waking the dead.”

Yaga grinned.

“You have to stop.”

“I can’t stop!” Yaga snarled and held up one clawing hand as though poised to tear her own heart from her chest. “The nightmares are never-ending. I can see them now. Koschei burning on a pyre, his face reduced to melted black wax around his white, staring eyes. Koschei on the rack, his bones cracking, his breast bursting. Koschei with a nest of vipers in his bowels, wriggling out through his skin and shredding his flesh with their fangs. My boy, again and again and again, with his face white and red and black, screaming and screaming!”

Wren lurched forward and wrapped her arms around the woman. “It’s all right. It’s not real. None of it is real.”

Yaga shoved her away. “But it is real!” She pointed out across the palace grounds to the three huge ships still sitting at anchor in the channel, surrounded by the smoking remains of the Hellan destroyers. “He’s there! He’s shrieking and gasping, all alone on a rope in the dark. And tomorrow they’ll do it all over again, and I’ll see it all over again!”

“You need to sleep, Yaga,” Wren grabbed the woman’s hands and tried to make her focus. “Are you listening to me? You need to sleep, right now.”

“Don’t you think I know that?” Again she pulled out of Wren’s grasp and stumbled to the railing. “I’ve been trying to sleep for weeks. I lie in the dark, all alone, in the quiet, and I close my eyes and try to think of nothing, try to rest, to slip away. But my mind never rests. The nightmares churn on and on and on!”

“Drugs! What about drugs? I can make something to make you sleep. I know a dozen plants that can put you to sleep in a heartbeat,” Wren said breathlessly. “Take me to your herb cellar, or to the palace kitchens. I can do this, I can help you sleep!”

“No! Not now. I can’t, I can’t.” The old woman clutched her head and leaned back. “How can I sleep when my baby is screaming in agony right in front of me? How could I forgive myself? How could I ever face him again, knowing that while he was in hell I was resting in my own bed?”

Woden, give me strength!

Wren swept her right hand across the balcony, hurling a great fist of aether out of the maelstrom beyond the railing and sending it into the witch’s chest. But Yaga merely raised an arm and the wave of aether burst apart into glimmering motes in the cold air.

“I’m trying to help you, Yaga,” Wren said slowly. “I want to help you, I do. I want to give you peace. I want to end your suffering, end your nightmares, end your pain. But if you won’t let me help you, then I’ll just have to stop you, because I’ll be damned if I’ll let you kill everyone in this city for your grief, no matter how much you love your son.”

Gudrun, Kara, this is your last chance. I swear to the good lord Woden that if you don’t help me now I will throw this ring of yours into the sea and leave your souls trapped in the dark until Ragnarok comes!

Wren made a fist, and a shape appeared in the air before her.

“Kara,” Wren whispered.

The ancient vala glared, her long black braids clattering with tiny bones. “You’re a fool of a child. How dare you threaten us? How dare you!”

All around her, the dim shades of the eight valas of Denveller appeared, short and tall and crippled, hissing at the girl in black.

Damn them all. I can do it alone!

Wren thrust out her hand and the aether obeyed her. The mist rose and smashed across the room into the old witch, sending her reeling against the far wall.

Yaga straightened up and pushed her long silvery hair back from her face. “I’m tired of this.” She pointed her hand at the girl and the aether rushed back across the room.

Wren dove to the floor and swept her hand over her head, guiding the aether up and away from her as she scrambled behind the wall at the edge of the stairs that led back down to the ground level. The aether swelled and flooded past her, racing and racing through the wall and out into the night, and when it finally stopped she dropped her arm to her side, gasping for breath and drenched in sweat.

Wren scrambled to her feet and dashed across the room. Yaga glared at her and raised both arms, but the girl crashed into her waist and knocked her to the ground before she could summon up another wave of freezing mist. The two women collided with the wall and then toppled to the floor in a tangle of skirts and hair and bones.

Huffing and straining, Wren grabbed the old witch’s wrists and wrestled her arms down to her sides as she rolled over. After a moment’s quiet struggle, Wren sat up on top of Yaga’s chest with the older woman’s arms pinned at her sides under Wren’s knees.

Wren leaned back and blew a curling lock of red hair out of her face as she paused to catch her breath.

Well, that wasn’t so hard after all.

“Now what?” Yaga grunted through her clenched teeth. “Are you going to sit on me forever? I am immortal, you stupid little girl. I will never grow tired, but you are already exhausted. Soon I’ll throw you to the ground, and crush your heart with my bare hands.”

“She’s right,” Gudrun muttered in Wren’s ear. “If you don’t think of something soon, you’ll be a corpse before midnight comes.”

“Help me or shut up!” Wren shouted.

Gudrun’s presence vanished and Wren looked down at Yaga’s smug grin.

“Having trouble, girl?” Yaga asked. “Are the souls in your little ring too much for you to master? How many are there, again? Nine, ten? Heh. There are dozens of souls in each of my bracelets, and you don’t hear me crying out for them to be silent.” The witch laughed.

Wren frowned down at her. “I’m sorry about this, but it should only hurt for a minute.” Wren folded her fingers together, turning her two hands into one bony hammer, raised her arms above her head, and brought them down as hard as she could on the old woman’s cackling face.

Yaga instantly went limp.

Wren leapt up and rolled the woman onto her stomach and whipped off her own belt. Then she stripped the clanking bracelets off the witch’s arms and bound her wrists together with the belt. She was still struggling to fit the ends of the belt together when the old woman groaned and twitched.

Done.

Wren stepped away with the bracelets cradled in her arm.

Yaga rolled onto her side and looked up with a trickle of dark blood on her lip. “You stupid child.”

Wren shook her head. “No, I’m not stupid. I know exactly what I’m doing, sister. I had a very good teacher.” She sat down on the floor a few paces away and let the bracelets fall into her lap. “His name is Omar Bakhoum. You might remember him. A middle-aged gentleman from Alexandria. Friendly, clever, and just a little bit immortal.”

Yaga’s eyes went wide. “Grigori? He’s here?”

“Omar, Grigori. He’s had a lot of names over the years.” Wren nodded seriously. She could feel the heat and panic of the last few minutes fading away, leaving her even more tired than before. “I see I have your attention now. That’s good. Maybe now we can start talking like civilized witches.”

“Damn it.” Lycus pointed up the road. “More aether.”

Tycho nodded. He could see the pale tendrils of the mist snaking over the rooftops and around the corners all around them.

It’s everywhere, draining down every street. We’re never going to make it to the barracks at this rate.

He stood in the middle of the dark road with the six young marines, and they listened to the cries and moans and shrieks of the people in the houses all around them.

“All right, boys, we need to—”

“Major!” Lycus pointed down a side alley with his knife in his hand.

Tycho jogged up beside him and peered into the deep shadows between the two houses. In the stillness, he heard footsteps coming closer, but moving in a limping, shuffling manner. He called out, “Hello?”