Authors: CJ Cherryh
Yvgenie (18 page)
He had that from Sasha, or from 'Veshka herself, he did not stop to ask. He scrambled up and ran headlong downhill for a horse. Patches might almost be fast enough, but she was young and fritter-brained in a crisis
—
Missy came trotting up out of the lightning-lit downpour before he reached the hedge: Sasha's horse, no question who had brought her or how he was going to track Ilyana: he
caught Missy's mane and swung up to her broad, rain-drenched back.
Missy was the other side of too many years and too many apples, his sword was back in the house, he was soaked to the skin, blinded by rain, coatless and coughing so at times he could scarcely keep upright on Missy's back. Damned poor hope for a rescue, he thought, and hoped for Sasha to make the mouse use sense—burned and shocked and coughing his gut out back at the house, as Sasha was, with no horse at all and no way to follow him: Patches was what Ilyana and Volkhi were chasing. If his own wishes were worth anything, he threw them in: Wish Volkhi to use his head, if my daughter won't! What in hell's she doing out there?
He thought he heard, then, faintly and full of pain: Pyetr, I don't know, but I swear to you I'm trying!
There
was Patches—Ilyana spied her through the brush, in the lightning flickers, with the roar of the rain-swollen brook in her ears. She was relieved to see Patches was on her feet, and terrified to see Patches had her hind feet almost in the flood: she had evidently fallen in, by the mud all down her side, and by luck or by a young lifetime of well-wishes, she must have gotten out again, if not all the way up the slippery bank. A heap of brush had partly dammed the brook there, and if Patches should step back and slip in now, Ilyana thought, that pile of brush could well trap her in the rush of water and drown her.
‘
Be calm,
’
she wished Volkhi, trying not to frighten Patches as they eased their way through the lightning-lit undergrowth.
‘
Be calm. Easy.
’
She wanted Patches to pay sober attention to the water behind her, plea
se, and use good sense and come
on to them if she had the strength to climb the slippery bank. She had heard nothing from uncle Sasha or from her mother. The familiar woods had turned scary in the dark, with the water and the wind roaring and the lightning making the trees and Patches like ghosts of themselves. She would have hoped Babi at least would have come with
her; but nothing was going right tonight, nothing she knew was working, her uncle must be hurt at the very least, and she wanted to get back to the house and know everybody had gotten out of the fire, please the god: the silence from her uncle was
wrong,
she could not understand what she had been thinking of, or understand why she was still out here chasing after a damned horse, any horse, to prove she was responsible, when her father and uncle Sasha were in danger. She had made a stupid choice, she had counted on hearing her uncle and knowing he was all right, and nothing was right, god
—
But she was so close now—and Patches could still fall in and drown, right in front of her eyes, and if the damned horse would come on, it would only take a moment and she could ride back and leave the stupid filly in the woods until morning; she would be safe, just up the bank, just a few more steps up.
‘
Come
on.
Patches, dammit! Oh,
god—
’
Lightning showed something caught in the brush pile, something the water had pushed there, not a log or even a dead animal. It looked like cloth. It looked like—
She made out a hand, a face profiled against the brush, above the white spray of the flood.
Oh, god, she thought, a
drowned
person, caught in the brush. She did not want to find someone dead—she
wanted
her uncle or her father, right now: grown-ups could deal with gruesome things—
But she was all there was, and if there was help she had to give it: she slid down from Volkhi's drenched back and wanted him and Patches to stand very still while she worked down the bank beside Patches and had a look at this person to see if he was alive. Patches gave a nervous little whicker and proved she could move by easing over for her, but she did not want Patches to do that: she grabbed a handful of Patches' black and white tail to help her footing on the mud.
‘
Hey!
’
she yelled over the roar of the flood and the rain, hoping if the person was not dead he would hear and move and reach up a hand to her so she would not have to touch
him to find out. But he did not move, so she leaned out over the rushing water, and grabbed a fistful of wet coat.
‘
Move,
Patches! Go on—dammit, no!
Up!
’
Patches gave a sudden jump and pulled so hard that both her arms were like to break. She held on until she had the
body
most of the way out of the water and that was all she could do: she let go of Patches' tail and fell on her knees in the mud, hauling on the coat and the arms and trying to get the body where it would not fall back in.
The lightning showed her a handsome young face—in which the eyes were partly open and the mouth was working to breathe. He coughed up water, choked, and she quickly rolled him over on his side so he could spit it out. Awful water, full of mud, he had been in; and carried the god only knew how far in it and under the flood. He coughed and coughed and finally caught a bubbling breath.
She shook at him then.
‘
Come on, get your legs out of the water! My uncle's house is on fire and I've got to get home! Come on! Please, try!
’
He tried: he got a knee under him, and slid immediately back toward the stream.
She grabbed him and pulled his limp body up against her, both of them sliding until she dug a heel into the mud. He weighed more than she did; he had fainted and she could pull him no further without chancing going in herself.
‘
Wake up!
’
She shook at him, he moved, and she shouted into his ear,
‘
Get higher, get something to hold on to!
’
Suddenly a Thing popped up right in their faces with a hiss and an appalling row of white teeth: the boy yelled and flinched back against her.
Babi, thank the god. Missy was beyond the screen of brush, her lather was jumping down and running to reach her—
The breath went out of her. Her arms were numb, the leg that was bracing both of them began to tremble. She was soaked through, and cold, but all at once she could hear her uncle wanting her to answer him, and he could hear her,
telling him she was safe, everybody was safe, her father w
a
s here with Missy and Babi, and she had found a half-drowned boy
…
Her mother said, without warning, Oh, god—
Her mother—
—wanting this boy to slip back
in—
‘
No!
’
she cried, wanting her mother
not
! n
ot
!
to think
of
killing.
The feeling stopped. Her father had her arm, pulled her by that and the boy by the collar and said, in a voice as shaky as she felt,
‘
It's all right, mouse, steady, I've
got you both.
’
The boy certainly explained something, magic not working, Sasha's house burning, everything going wrong at once. Pye
tr
did
not
like this, he wanted Sasha to know, if Sasha wa
s
listening.
Sasha was not. Sasha was busy or Sasha was not doing, well, or magic had failed again, for some reason, none of I which possibilities made him feel any better at all.
‘
Your uncle's not answering me,
’
he said to Ilyana,
and Ilyana
:
‘
He's probably holding mother
off.
She's—oh,
god,
papa, she wants—wants to kill him—
’
He got the gist of that, grabbed her and hugged the breath out of the mouse, trusting Babi to go for the boy's throat if he made a single hostile move. Ilyana was soaked, cold, exhausted, he was no better; and getting her back to the house was all he cared about at the moment. A man could never count on winning with magic running wild like this— wishes stacked up like so much old pottery, Sasha described it, a whole place heavy with an unstable stack of wishes, all waiting for some reasonable thing to satisfy the impossible condition
—
Like a girl desperately wanting a boy. A
wizard
desperately wanting someone—
Damned right Eveshka was upset.
He
was upset, and he could not feel magic happening around him.
Il
yana said, against his shoulder,
‘
Did uncle's house all
bu
rn?
’
‘
I'm afraid there's not much lef
t of it. At least the sparks are
all drowned.
’
The rain was pouring down again, soaking
th
em to the skin.
‘
Who is he?
’
‘
I don't know.
’
She let go of him to kneel and look at
the
boy—handsome lad, Pyetr saw. Damn the luck. Older
tha
n Ilyana, maybe by several years. And that collar under
th
e sodden coat glittered very expensively.
No farmer lad, that was sure. He dropped to one knee and
gen
tly slapped the boy's cold face.
‘
Who are you, lad? Do
yo
u have a name?
’
Eyes slitted open while he thought uncomfortably of shape-
shi
fters.
Lips said, faintly,
‘
Yvgenie. Yvgenie Pavlovitch.
’
‘
Where are you from?
’
‘
Kiev.
’
‘
You're rather far from Kiev. The river washed you backwards, did it? Spat you out upriver. How did you get here?
’
The eyes rolled, showed white. The boy had fainted away.
Didn't at all like that question, did it?
‘
We've got to build a fire,
’
Ilyana said, through chattering teeth.
‘
We've got to get him dry, he's freezing.
’
He thought—Hell if I want us alone out here with him. Get him to Sasha, is what we've got to do, and the faster, the better.
Aloud, he said,
‘
In this rain, mouse? A horse's back is
t
he warmest place we can put him; and your uncle needs our help. Let's just bundle him up and get him on a horse. You ride Missy back, you're lightest.
’
He got his arms around whatever-it-was and pulled him up against him, the most dangerous position he could think of to be in with something magical, but he aimed him for Volkhi, as, after Missy, the most mannered horse they had.
In the small chance that this was truly the only shape young
Yvgenie Pavlovitch owned.
* * *
Eveshka shoved at the tiller and the boat's sail slatted and thundered above the rain. Way fell off immediately, and the boat began to toss as she brought the bow on about, holding with both arms and all her strength against the jolt as the sail came over. The boat reeled at the deepest slack to a sudden, violent gust, and only a wish and the ferry's good trim kept her from rolling over in that instant before the wind slammed into the sail on a new tack and the tiller bucked against her arms. She
hated
the dark water, she hated the storm; she fought the river and the weather for her life and safely damned what could feel no possible danger from her.
She could not think now. She should not think now. Rain and tears blurred the shoreline as old River tried to take her a second time. The cold water wanted her back, and the deadliest thought of all was that for everyone she loved it might be the best answer.
Sasha insisted: The river's
not the way, 'Veshka! You can't
leave us. You
couldn't
leave your daughter or Pyetr if you died, and you know that—you know what you'd become!
Do you hear me, 'Veshka?
She had heard. She knew. They feared her: Sasha did, Ilyana did—even Pyetr would not trust her help or her opinions.
She completed the turn and the wind sank. Having done its best to capsize her, the storm settled down to a cold, drenching rain.
Sasha shoved logs into the bathhouse furnace, slogged back out in the rain to the woodpile and carried his next armload of wood up to the porch and into the house, never minding the mud on Eveshka's floors. Pyetr and Ilyana were coming in with the boy, all of them half-frozen and covered with mud: he had water for washing, he had a stack of towels, clean clothes, dry boots, blankets, water was boiling in the house and in the bathhouse—
He had hidden all the books in the cellar with the domovoi, the safest and driest place he
could think of under the circumsta
nces, and he hoped to the
god to be mistaken about what P
yetr and the mouse were bringing home.
Thorns. Thorns and golden leaves and blood
—
Owl dying
—
No magery. Memory. His mind conjured him that nightmare of Chernevog, the warning dreams—the dreadful stone—
Pyetr lying in the brush, in the dark, white shirt—dark branches
—
He shuddered at that one. It
had
come true. Everything had come true, fifteen years ago. It was over with and he did not want to see those things again, or remember their so
—
l bought bannik—
Not tonight.
Himself on a white horse, something clinging to his back—
But that had only been Missy. Missy had saved his life and saved all of them, thank the god. That dream had come true, and nothing but good had issued from it
—
Patches had come of it. The mouse had. All these things. Chernevog was buried however restless his ghost. No bannik had ever come to the bathhouse to replace that strayed fragment of Chernevog's soul. And if all of it should have strayed back tonight—
—in whatever form
—
But by the sounds of horses coming along the hedge outside, there was an answer forthcoming, very quickly now.
He changed to a dry coat at the door (one of Pyetr's old coats, as happened, a little long in the sleeves for him) figuring he was about to do a great deal more trekking about in the rain before he saw any rest tonight. He took down Ilyana's coat from the pegs, picked up a bundle of blankets and opened the door just as the front gate banged, and he spied Pyetr afoot, holdi
n
g the yard gate open for three very tired, very sore horses.
‘
The stable gate's open,
’
Sasha shouted, on his way down.
‘
Just let them go.
’
Ilyana was riding Missy, and they had the boy slung over
Volkhi's back, with Volkhi walking free. Patches broke into a jog for the stable, and Pyetr called out,
‘
Stop Volkhi, for the god's sake, before he dumps the boy on his head.
’
Sasha wanted Volkhi to head sedately for the bathhouse while he was about it, and met them in the yard.
‘
Warm water inside, mouse, once you've rubbed the horses down. Pyetr, here, two blankets. I've got Ilyana's coat. The bath house is fired up and ready for the boy.''
‘
Good,
’
Pyetr said, and trudged after Volkhi, wrapping one blanket about his shoulders as he went. He called back:
‘
Ilyana, warm water for their legs, and a rubbing down. I'll help you as soon as I can. Don't over-water or over-feed, mind, a quarter measure of the grain, no more than that.''
A very tired, very sore mouse slid down as Missy walked for the stableyard gate. Sasha caught her arms and steadied her, and flung her coat around her as Babi ran off after Missy
‘
Sorry,
’
he said, then, on his own way to the bathhouse
‘
Help you when we can, there's a good girl.
’
‘
I'm all right,
’
she panted, and overtook him, struggli
ng
in the mud, trying the while to put the coat on.
‘
Is the ho
use
all gone, uncle?
’
She desperately wanted him to be all right and not to sad about his things. The truth was, and he let her know weak-kneed though he was from the scare and with his hand burned and his chest hurting from the smoke, his books w
ere
safe and the rest of it was actually a relief: there were
no
stacks of clutter in his house anymore.
‘
Spring cleaning
’
he said, and coughed.
‘
Finally got around to it.
’
The mouse grinned, the flash of a sidelong glance in tin light from the shutters. He tousled her wet hair as their
ways
parted at the stable gate.
‘
Brave mouse. Watch yours
elf.
Magic's certainly loose tonight.
’
At the bathhouse, Pyetr had pulled the unconscious
boy
off Volkhi and hauled him in a trailing tangle of blankets
for
the door.
‘
Go on,
’
Sasha told Volkhi, slapping him on It side.
‘
Good fellow, Volkhi. Warm rags and a rub in
the
stable.''
H
e followed Pyetr into warmth and light, in time to pull the door to behind them.
‘
She seems all right,
’
he said to Pyetr, as he took the boy's feet and helped lay him on his back on the bench.
‘
Thank the god for that.'' Pyetr unfastened the boy's sodden coat.
‘
Patches brought her right to this boy. I wish we had another place to put him.''
Gold thread. Silk. Sasha whistled softly, helping Pyetr rid
the boy of his sleeves.
‘
No farmer and no fisher, whoever
h
e was.
’
‘
You think he's dead?
’
‘
Not quite sure. He's certainly breathing.'' He picked up a chill white hand, and laid it on the boy's middle, put his hand on the side of the boy's neck and felt the beat.
‘
Cold
a
s last winter, though. There's hot water and towels over by
th
e fire. He's already soaked to the skin. I'd say just pile them on him and let him and the towels and all dry in the heat. The fire's good till morning.
’
‘
Good enough.'' Pyetr went and soaked the towels while S
a
sha pulled the boy's boots off. He came back with an arm
f
ul and began spreading them over the boy.
The boy opened his eyes, lifted his head and promptly fell back with a thump on the bench. Pyetr slipped a hand under his neck and shoved a hot towel under his hair. Dark hair, it w
a
s. Pale blue eyes that wandered this way and that in con
f
usion.
‘
This is a bathhouse.
’
‘
Our bathhouse,
’
Pyetr said, setting his foot on the end
of
the bench and resting his arms against his knee.
‘
As
ha
ppens. He's Sasha, I'm
Pyetr, and you're Yvgenie
Pavlovitch
, the last I heard, who swam all the way up from Kiev
to
drown in our woods.
’
‘
I
rode a horse,
’
the boy said, faintly,
‘
from Kiev. I—
’
There was a complete muddle in the boy's thoughts: run
ning
afoot through the woods, the rain coming down—
Someone or something chasing him, something to do with
his
father.
A fabulous palace, gold and gilt everywhere, a gray-haired,
frowning man, not happy with him, no: his father would
beat
him, and kill the men who had lost him if they did not him back.
Sasha put a hand on the boy's forehead, wished him calm and the wish fluttered this w
ay and that of an anxious heart.
He looked through the boy's eyes and saw two sooted, wild-haired strangers hovering over him, who might intend to rob him or worse. His thoughts leapt around like a landed fish: death, and a demand for ran
som, which his father might well
pay—if only to have him in his hands.
Impossible to say whether he was what he seemed. A shapeshifter believed wha
t it was and would not seem oth
erwise until one managed to find its single essential flaw.
He said, gently,
‘
Yvgenie Pavlovitch, you're in safe hands if you're what you look to be. But this forest is full of tricks and tricksters. We don't dare ourselves trust everything to be what it seems.
’
Yvgenie said,
‘
There was a girl—
’
‘
My daughter,
’
Pyetr said.
‘
She pulled you out of the water: What were you doing in the woods?''
‘
I—don't—don't remember.
’
‘
Where did you come from?
’
The boy thought (Sasha eavesdropped shamelessly): How
did
I get to this place? Aloud, he said,
‘
Kiev.
’
But there were black pits
everywhere in his remembering.
‘
What's your father's name?
’
‘
Pavel...
’
The father's features ran like wax, eluding the boy's recollection, and the thoughts began jumping again. Dark places multiplied.
‘
He doesn't remember,
’
Sasha said, laying his hand on Yvgenie's chest, the better to gather up stray thoughts or hostile intentions. He wished the boy's body well, at
least
: wished it warmth and ease of the aches and bruises it had suffered.
‘
Is that better?
’
he asked.
Wizard, the boy thought in sudden fright, fe
aring what he felt happening to
him, and not daring protest it.
‘
Yes,
’
Sasha said,
‘
I am what you're thinking—which is a good thing for you. Pyetr, put some water on the stones. He's cold through.
’
Pyetr dipped up water and flung it onto the hot stones. The water hissed, fire-shadows jumped, and wind whirled curtains of steam and shadow about the walls. The lad at least could not suffer chill in here—fainting now from the heat, perhaps. Sasha wiped the hair out of the boy's face and slapped his cheek gently to bring him back, but the boy's eyes kept going shut, and his breath was rattling.
Not good, not at all good.
‘
Come on, boy,'' he said, and put his hands on either side of the boy's face, wishing warmth and well-being and easy breath, thinking only about that, and not his doubts of the boy's nature.
‘
Listen to me, Yvgenie Pavlovitch, you're not
to
die, do you hear me?
’
