Then quite as suddenly all such thinking would seem completely unreasonable to him: they were riding up north simply, grandly, to deal with wizardry matters Sasha and Eveshka would realize quickly how to deal with: then all his fears seemed ignorant and foolish.
“Are you wishing me?” he asked Sasha suddenly.
“Sometimes,” Sasha admitted.
“Thank the god. I thought I was losing my mind.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he said. But he began to shiver then—want of sleep, perhaps, or the sense that in one way or the other—he was constantly being lied to.
“Pyetr?” Sasha said.
It kept coming and going… extreme despair and foolish, unreasonable hope.
“Are you still doing it? Stop it!”
“I’m not. Things keep shifting. Do you feel it?”
“What in hell is it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not doing it. I—god!”
They came through a curtain of young trees and the afternoon sun hit the young woods ahead of them in a blaze of transparent gold—green-veined gold on sapling boughs, all shot through with sunlight, gold leaves covering the ground…
Pyetr was struck dumb as Sasha, first by the color and the beauty of it—as if they had ridden magically from spring into a golden autumn.
Then he thought with a chill, It’s not a healthy color. The trees are dying here…
Sasha said, in a hushed voice: “I’ve seen this place. I’ve been seeing it for days, in my dreams.”
Something strong and heavy hit Pyetr’s boot and climbed. He caught his breath and realized it was only Babi, clambering up not to sit on Volkhi’s rump this time—but to cling to his side like a frightened child.
“I don’t like this,” Pyetr said, for what it mattered to anyone.
13
Falling leaves, trampled under the horses’ hooves — Dream of riders in a golden wood, nearer and nearer — Dream of a boat, where another sleeper lay, arm over the swinging tiller, pale hair like a veil — Dream of blood, a dark wall of thorns — Wolves… whose eyes were gold as the falling leaves…
Every brash against a branch, every gust of wind loosed leaves about them, a constant drift against the sunlight, both beautiful and dreadful.
This is the way the old woods must have died, Sasha thought. But it’s not Eveshka’s doing this time—surely not.
He said to Pyetr, “I think we’re going straight to the heart of this.”
“Fine,” Pyetr said with an anxious look, and patted Babi, who clung to him. “Fine. How far, and what’s there, and do we go on going straight to it?”
“I don’t know. I’m not sure what we ought to do.”
“Babi’s not happy with this, you know.” There was an unwonted pitch of anxiousness in Pyetr’s voice. “It’s not many things make Babi afraid…”
A sudden spate of golden leaves where the riders passed… Light faded, the gold dimmed… cloud drew across the sun. Time moved now—the heart beat, faster and faster.
“God!” Pyetr said as a sudden gale hit their backs. The horses snorted and ducked their heads, leaves and twigs pelting them. Grit of some kind went down Pyetr’s neck, Babi hissed and vanished out of this sudden inclemency, and Sasha said,
“He’s waking. I’m terribly afraid he is.”
“Wish him not to!”
“I am!” Sasha said. “I’m just not sure it’s doing any good!”
“Don’t doubt, dammit!” The blizzard of golden leaves dimmed suddenly with a shadow over the sun. Pyetr looked up and back, shielding his eyes from the wind-borne debris. A single rain-dark cloud loomed over the treetops in the west.
“Rain and thorns,” Sasha said faintly—which made no sense, but a man got used to that.
“I’m very tired of rain,” Pyetr said, set his cap securely on his head, and looked about him for wherever Babi might have gotten to—but there was that Place that Babi could go when the going got unreasonably uncomfortable; and at the moment he wished he were there, too, if it was out of the coming rain and whatever worse they were going into. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”
“Don’t swear,” Sasha chided him, and he kept his mouth shut, hoping Sasha was wishing something such as Chernevog staying where he was, such as them living to see the river again-such as ’Veshka and the boat safely waiting for them on that shore.
Thunder rumbled. The sky went to iron gray, not unlikely weather for spring: storms came whisking up over the forest horizon, spat a bit and swept on again—and one did truly hope this one was that sort, and not someone else’s wishing. Wizards had a knack with lightning—at least the real ones did—and the rumblings and flashes overhead could make a man very uneasy.
“I do hope,” Pyetr said, “you’re noticing the sky. And the thunder.”
“I do,” Sasha murmured, “I have,” —as if a thousand other things were more important. Sasha pointed ahead of them, where, if one squinted through the rain, one could see a gathering of leafless trees far taller and stouter than the saplings they had been seeing.
That seemed strange, on a second thought, that the leshys should have cleared and replanted these woods so completely— and left such a grove standing.
Tall, aged trees, Pyetr thought as they rode closer—old trees of that generation that had died with the south woods, all standing in thorn brakes and weeds, dead and dry, in springtime…
Volkhi viewed it askance, pulling at the rein; but that was the way they had to go, and Volkhi settled with a snort, shaking his head—while poor Missy kept her steady, wizard-wished pace.
Pyetr was about to lodge his own objection when it came to him what they were seeing in the peeling, brushy trunks ahead of them. A chill went through him.
“Leshys!” he said on half a breath. “God, what’s happened to them?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha murmured. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Leshys can’t die!”
“They’re not dead.”
“They’re not doing damn well, are they?” They came to the last edge of the gold, in among thorn thickets, thorns and vines twining round leshys standing so very still, in this desolation—
The horses stopped suddenly, and stood— Sasha’s doing, Pyetr was sure; and he looked around with the strongest, most uncomfortable feeling of something ominous all about them.
A whisper of brush surrounded them. He saw the stirring of twiglike fingers, the slow opening of vast, strange eyes in trunks all around them.
“Wizard,” a voice rumbled, deep as the grinding of millstones.
And another, deeper still, “Promises broken…”
Twigs rustled, thorns bent and snapped as that leshy slowly stretched out its arm toward Sasha. It grasped Sasha’s coat and dragged him from the mare’s back, Sasha holding desperately to its twiglike fingers.
“Be careful!” Pyetr shouted at it. Misighi had warned them of the wild ones, leshys from woods unaccustomed to visitors— leshys which had no appreciation at all what discomfort flesh and bone might suffer in a stone-breaking grip. “Be careful of him!”
Foolish, he thought in the next breath. Of course Sasha was quite capable of taking care of himself—a fool going after a leshy with a sword sheathed or unsheathed was only likely to annoy the creature.
But: “Promises,” the leshy said, and Sasha said, in a voice which clearly said he was in pain:
“Pyetr, Pyetr, don’t do anything—don’t argue with them— please!”