It was a most uneasy feeling Sasha had as they rode into view of the ruin, and he wondered if Chernevog was somehow to blame for that uneasiness: Chernevog had scared him terribly, going at Pyetr as he had a while back, and he had no idea what was the matter with him since, that had his hands trembling with anger and his heart racing—whether it was Chernevog that disturbed him or whether it was some other abrading influence in this place.
He was not one to let feelings get away from him, no matter Pyetr’s advice to let his temper go—no matter Pyetr thought him weak and indecisive… he was not Pyetr, he had all but panicked with Chernevog, and he could not ride into this place as Pyetr did, looking as if trouble had better watch out for him and not the other way around. He was frightened, he was angry at Chernevog, and most of all-Most of all he did not really want the meeting they were here to get, which might well prevent it happening at all. He kept thinking, What do I do if the old man does want me?
“Not much of the place left,” Pyetr said. It was true—ordinary luck might easily have missed the house entirely in the almost-dark, the planting of trees was so thorough. Only the burned beams above the trees showed them where the old building had stood, fire-charred timbers standing stark and washed with rain.
I’ve seen this, too, Sasha thought, uncomfortably aware of Chernevog’s presence brushing his back. Missy moved at her deliberate pace, constant movement of muscle and bone beneath him: Missy was smelling rain and young leaves and old fire— nothing in the way of dangers that horses understood.
“Looks as if the leshys flattened what was standing,” Pyetr said. “The big tree in the yard is gone. Trees must be planted right over the grave.”
“We’ll find it,” Sasha murmured distractedly. He felt nothing precisely amiss about the place, but it seemed far more haunted than the woods, full of memories and old wishes. He said to Uulamets’ ghost, if it chanced to be listening, Master Uulamets, it’s me, Sasha. We’ve got Chernevog with us: don’t be startled—
“Sasha,” Chernevog said. Chernevog had not held to him in their riding together, had avoided him as much as two people could avoid each other on the same horse, but of a sudden Chernevog touched his arm. “For the god’s sake we’re close enough!”
“Shut up!” he said.
The ruin stood in seedlings that made a deep green deception In the twilight, level as if it were some knee-deep lake the horses waded. The dead tree that had stood in the yard was indeed gone, there were only scant traces of a wall and the tumbled foundations, except one wing. They passed the remains of a wall, a charred round ruin where the bathhouse had stood, all half-drowned in infant birch trees.
He stopped Missy, bade Chernevog get down, and slid off as
Pyetr did. They were virtually over the grave, as best he recalled it. The light was fast leaving them, the green birches faded to faint, moist gray, the edges of the forest lost in rain, the burned timbers black against the clouds. The only sound was their breathing.
“Master Uulamets,” he said aloud, defying all that silence. “Master Uulamets?”
He waited. He wished earnestly for the old man’s good will, he tried earnestly to remember that Uulamets had also saved their lives, and not to hold Uulamets’ motives against him.
“Damn stubborn old man,” Pyetr muttered after a fruitless time of standing there, during which the horses stamped and shifted and idly pulled leaves off the young birches. “It’s wet, it’s nasty, and he doesn’t like the company. —Come on, grandfather, dammit, ’Veshka’s in trouble and there’s something using your shape. I’d think you’d like to know that.”
There was a sudden chill in the air. A wind sighed along the sea of leaves.
That passed. Sasha let go the bream he had been holding, stood a moment in the quiet trying again to convince himself he truly wanted the old man to speak to him personally.
He trusted Misighi. That was the only advice he was willing to take where it regarded the welfare of the woods—which was their welfare, too: he trusted that the way he trusted the ground they walked on and the food they ate and the water they drank.
What harmed it, harmed them; when it was well, they were: that was the bargain they had made—using nature kindly, working with what magic agreed with it—like the Forest-things themselves.
That was where he had to stand. That was the safe magic.
“Watch him,” he told Pyetr, and got down his pack from Missy’s back, knelt down and bent back a couple of seedlings to give himself room, searching after rosemary and the herbs he recollected Uulamets using in his spells.
Chernevog wanted him to stop—a weak, a desperately frightened wish for his attention and his patience to hear him. “For the god’s sake,” Chernevog said, and Pyetr grabbed him by the shoulder, “—it may not be only Uulamets that answers.”
Doubt, Sasha thought, and stood up and looked Chernevog on the face with an angry suspicion what Chernevog was trying to do to them.
“Sasha,” Chernevog said, “Sasha, —oh, god—”
Dark and fire…
Hoof beats in the dark… inexorable as a heartbeat…
Eveshka, sitting at a hearth, drinking a cup of tea.
Sasha felt that sense of presence that had haunted him from home. He turned his head toward it and saw, like a bad dream, the bannik squatting in the charred skeleton of the bathhouse doorway, a dusky, spiky-haired shadow, like a sullen, bored child, staring at the steps beside his feet.
One did not want it to look up. One did not want to look it in the eyes.
Sasha thought with a chill. —It lied… it was always his…
But Chernevog tried to retreat behind them, fighting Pyetr’s help on his arm.
“No!” Chernevog cried.
The bannik stood up, frowning at them with eyes like dying ambers. Then it looked skyward, lifted its hand as something filmy white swept down on broad wings to settle on its wrist. The creature folded its wings and stared at them in its own moment of sharp attention. Then ghostly owl and ragged shadow of a boy faded together into the dark.
19
“What in hell was that?” Pyetr asked of Sasha. “That was the bannik! Wasn’t that the bannik?”
“It’s what showed up at the house,” Sasha said.
“It’s him,” Pyetr said. “Is it my eyes, or what’s it doing with the owl?”
“I don’t know,” Sasha said.
“He damned well does,” Pyetr said, and took a new grip on Chernevog’s shirt, wanting answers. “What kind of tricks are you up to, Snake?”
Chernevog said on a ragged breath, “I told you, I told you, and you won’t listen—”
Pyetr shook him. “Told us, damn right you’ve told us—one damned lie after another! Sound asleep, were you? Innocent as morning snow, are you?”
“I’m not lying!” Chernevog cried, and it sounded both desperate and fully in earnest.
Which meant nothing, with wizards. Pyetr shook him a second time, saying, “Bannik, hell! Call it back!”
“I can’t!” Chernevog said.
“Can’t, hell! That’s you. That spook’s you, Snake, don’t tell me it’s not.”
“It’s a shadow,” Chernevog said faintly. “A piece. A part. A fragment…” Chernevog shivered, put a hand on his arm, eye to eye with him in a twilight so deep that his eyes had no center, only dark. “The dead can fragment… That’s what ghosts are: pieces, fragments, sometimes a single notion—”
“You’re not dead!”
“I don’t know what made it, I don’t know why it happened, I didn’t know it could happen and I don’t know where I lost it—”
“Damned careless of you!”
“It’s the truth, Pyetr Ilyitch!”