Pyetr rested a hand on Sasha’s shoulder, said, in a low voice: “ I don’t know what he’s up to. He’s got his book, he’s got yours and Uulamets’, and I couldn’t stop him. I’m sorry.” Pyetr sounded terribly distraught, as if it were his fault—and that was in no wise just.
Sasha asked, “Are you all right?”
“So far.”
He made the effort to sit up, winced as the ache in his head became stabbing pain and found himself leaning on Pyetr’s arm, everything gone dim again.
“You hit the ground hard.” Pyetr said, continuing to support him, which, the way everything was spinning, was more than welcome. But the ache eased when he wished it: it should not have, Chernevog being free—and free of what… his addled wits suddenly realized. He looked into Pyetr’s anxious face, saw lines of pain unlike him.
God, no! he thought, and he wished Chernevog’s heart back where it belonged.
But he felt no change at all; and Chernevog said, with a stinging rebuke, I haven’t hurt him, I’ve no wish to, without taking back what I don’t want, personally, to carry. You won’t do my heart any harm—not where it sits. So just do what I tell you-no different than with Uulamets, is it?
Damn you, Sasha thought, and quickly restrained his anger, seeing Chernevog smile at him—affording him a moment to think what he might do to Pyetr to teach him a lesson.
Chernevog said, I have no need to. Do I?
No, he agreed, earnestly trying to turn his thoughts to cooperation, at least for the while.
Chernevog said aloud, to Pyetr: “Let’s dispense with grudges. Shall we? They do so little good. I won’t blame you, you won’t blame me, we won’t quarreclass="underline" that’s best, isn’t it, Pyetr Ilyitch?”
Careful, Sasha wished Pyetr.
“Isn’t it?” Chernevog asked.
“Yes,” Pyetr said faintly.
“That’s your friend bespelling you, not me. He’s very much afraid for you, Pyetr Ilyitch. But we have an agreement, and I’m not sorry for it, I’m truly not. Be agreeable, is that so much to ask?”
“No,” Pyetr answered, a mere movement of the lips: Say anything he wants, Sasha wished him, never mind the truth.
Chernevog said, “I really, really have come to envy you two. I don’t know I’ve ever seen two people trust each other.”
“You wouldn’t,” Pyetr said, before Sasha could stop him.
“No,” Chernevog said, “I wouldn’t. I really wouldn’t. But it’s comfortable just being with people like you—even if I am a snake.” He smiled at them, and shrugged. “This snake can do very well for you, you understand, if you’ll only let him.”
“He’s lost his damn mind,” Pyetr muttered under his breath.
“No, no, no,” Chernevog said. “I’m very serious. The leshys did teach me something—patience, for one thing. Waiting for things instead of forcing them. They do come. This one did.”
“I think I’ll have a nap,” Pyetr said. “It’s late. We’re in the hands of a crazy man.”
Sasha’s heart turned over. He wished Chernevog not to do anything about that; and Chernevog only said, gently, “I wouldn’t change him. —We’ll talk about ’Veshka tomorrow.”
II was a trap, of course. Sasha bit his lip and knew Pyetr knew it, and knew Pyetr had not the constitution to ignore a challenge.
Pyetr just sat there and stared at Chernevog, that was as far as he went; and Chernevog sat there a moment before saying, with no trace of mockery, “Something’s seriously wrong. I’ve as much magic as I need—but I feel limits I didn’t have before. I don’t know whether it’s something the leshys did to me or whether it’s something altogether different. I do know that Veshka’s north of us, I know she’s left the boat, I know old Hwiuur’s about…”
“Let’s get to the point,” Pyetr said.
“That is the point. Hwiuur’s being—pardon me—a snake. Very difficult to catch. Possibly it’s a little last rebellion: he’s like that. But it’s not the only uneasy feeling I have, and it doesn’t, as you say, answer the question what’s happened to the leshys, a very major question, in my position. So I do think it’s just as well we go north, and find ’Veshka, and explain to her you’re with me—because if we don’t, she’s very likely to fall Into the hands of some other crazy person, do you see, and none of us wants that.”
Pyetr said nothing. Sasha thought of flowers, thought of bread baking, thought of the garden at home and wondered if it needed weeding. He wished the weeds at least not to prosper.
Chernevog said, “Prudent, but let’s all admit she might try to free you, and I’ve no doubt there are things that will fly straight to her to help her. That’s why I want to find her first. That’s why I’m sure you do.”
Flowers, Sasha thought. Birches and a fieldmouse by the hearth.
Pyetr, don’t listen to him.
Chernevog said, “Your friend is speaking to you again. He’s trying to advise you be careful. So would I. I’d give him the same advice, of course, but he’s trying not to listen to me. — I’ll warrant his head’s not hurting now.”
The pain had gone. Sasha had no recollection when.
“See?” Chernevog said softly. “A safe camp, a safe rest. I can be very easy to get along with, if people are agreeable. — Put some wood on the fire, will you?”
The house seemed larger inside than out—the log walls were trimmed and polished and other rooms were curtained with fine needlework at which one had no wish to gaze overlong, the patterns so caught the eye. Fire blazed up in a hearth of river stone, an oak mantel held silver plates, and herbs hung in chains and bunches beside it.
This was Draga’s house.
And the mother Eveshka had not seen from her birth a hundred years ago was young and beautiful, her mother’s hair was long and pale, freshly brushed and tied up with ribbons, her nightgown embroidered with blue flowers very like those Eveshka had thought she had made up, to sew about her hems.
It was her nose, her mouth, her chin, except a little cleft. The resemblances both fascinated and terrified her.
Her mother said, “Do come in, Eveshka,” and, “Let me take your coat, dear, do sit down, god, your hair’s all over leaves…”
Eveshka set her pack down by the hearthside bench her mother offered her, and kept her coat on, and stayed standing.
But her mother slipped on a robe, drawing her braids over one shoulder, said, looking at her, “Would you like some water to wash?” —implying, Eveshka supposed, that her face must be dirty. Her hands certainly were. Her boots were muddy from the rain. She would never have let anyone so disreputable besmirch her own well-swept floors, she would scold Pyetr or Sasha or her father right out the door to shed the boots, but she suddenly found herself defending her dirt as her right to be out that door again tonight, very soon, and sooner, if she found reason.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“Well, do sit,” her mother said, beginning to fuss about the kitchen. “Do.”
“You needn’t go to any trouble,” Eveshka said. “Why did you call me here?”
“Because I wanted to see my daughter. Because you’re in danger.”
“From whom? From you?”
Draga drew tea from the samovar, set silver cups on a silver plate and slipped a honey-cake onto a small dish to set beside it.
Eveshka repeated, wanting a truthful answer: “From you, mother?”
Draga brought the tray to the fireside, set it on the end of the bench.”Your father told you terrible things about me. I know.”
“My father’s been dead for three years,” she said shortly. “Why now, mother? What do you want?”
“To protect you. And my grandchild.”
She wanted no wishes about the baby one way or the other until she was sure what she wanted, and she was surrounded by wishes, everyone’s damned interference in something happening inside her.