Damned dirty trick the boy had, Pyetr thought, opening his eyes in the sunrise. But he was, all the same, grateful.
21
Eveshka waked facedown in a comfortable nest of pillows and blankets and felt a moment of cold fear, having no memory of railing asleep, or having lain down in this bed which was clearly in her mother’s house. Somehow she was in a clean white gown, somehow she was washed and barefoot, and with her hair braided with pale blue ribbons. And someone was stirring about beyond the curtains, clattering pottery. The house smelled of breakfast.
“Mother!” she cried, irate. She flung her feet out of bed, looked in vain for her pack, her boots and the clothes she had been wearing. There was only a light robe on a peg and she put it on and stormed out into the kitchen.
Her mother looked at her, mixing bowl and spoon in hand, and said, “Set the table, dear.”
“Mother, where’s my bag?”
“Breakfast first.”
Eveshka walked about the room, peering under benches and behind curtains.
“The dishes are in the cupboard,” Draga said.
“Where are my clothes, dammit? Where are my belongings?”
“You sound like your rather.” Draga nodded toward the other curtain. “Your baggage is there, your boots are clean, outside the door, your clothes are drying. You’re quite the slugabed, my dear.”
Eveshka went to the curtained closet, drew out her bag and her coat and laid them on the bench by the fire, where her mother was putting cakes on a griddle. She walked to the door, opened it and retrieved her boots, standing in the open door to pull them on.
“Eveshka, dear, you’re making a draft in the fireplace.”
“I want my clothes,” she said, and closed the door and walked out across the clearing in a nightrobe and her boots to collect her clothes off the oak that stood at the edge of the woods.
Thank the god, she thought, her book was on the boat. She could remember nothing of how she had gotten to bed—sleeping like the very dead last night, since she supposed it was her mother who had washed her and braided her hair and dressed her like a ribboned doll.
She reached up to get her clothes from off the tree and heard a loud grunt, looked, still standing on tiptoe, and saw the bear get up from behind the oak and look at her.
“Nice Brodyachi,” she said, wishing absolutely nothing at him, knowing how touchy a wizard’s companion could be. “That’s a good fellow.”
She gathered the clothes, backed carefully away, one eye to the bear. It walked with a sullen swing of its head, faster and faster. Moaned in a bear’s warning voice.
“Mother!” she yelled.
And dashed for the door and slammed it as Brodyachi charged. She braced her shoulder against it and dropped the latch as he flapped the wood.
Her mother was taking up the cakes.
“Brodyachi,” Draga said, rising to her feet, and Eveshka could hear the bear’s harsh sigh, hear the boards of the door creak as it sat down against it. Her mother said, “After breakfast, you can feed him a cake or two. That may win him. —Do get the dishes, dear. I’m standing here with nowhere to put these.”
They packed up, they picked up the bags and the bedrolls to take out to the horses. Chernevog took the bag with the books and the herb-pots, which answered the question whether Chernevog would turn a hand himself, and certainly what he wanted to keep out of Sasha’s reach, Pyetr reckoned bitterly.
He also reckoned very well which horse Chernevog would want for himself, and when Chernevog wanted to walk out to the horses, Pyetr kept his mouth shut and planned to keep it that way, wishing at the bottom of his heart that Volkhi would have the discrimination to give a sudden pitch and break Chernevog’s neck—but the very thought that Chernevog might harm Volkhi or magic the spirit out of him made him sure he wanted to do nothing to provoke him. Volkhi came wandering up to them, and he attached the reins, trying to think nothing at all.
“Pyetr,” Sasha said, and he thought, probably not on his own initiative, that Sasha wanted him to ride double with him on Missy; but, “No,” he said, shaking his head, and went on tying his knots. He knew bullies, he had met them aplenty in Vojvoda, and if he was the target Chernevog picked this morning, then so be it: better one of them than both and better to keep his head down and take it than challenge the scoundrel to find one and the next and the next soft spot until he felt out where all the telling ones were.
So he finished his knot and lapped the rein-ends over Volkhi’s neck, turned to offer Chernevog a lift up. But he thought men that he was supposed to get on and pull Chernevog up, and he found himself eye to eye with Chernevog, not sure what the man wanted.
“Go on,” Chernevog said.
He gave a doubtful shake of his head, turned and took a handful of Volkhi’s mane.
Fear stopped him men, a cold sudden thought of Chernevog at his back. And something very strong wanted him to go ahead, now, before Chernevog lost his patience.
He turned against Volkhi’s side and looked Chernevog in the face, sure that one of these conflicting impulses was Sasha’s, one was Chernevog’s, and all he could do was stand there with go and stay chasing around his own cold apprehension.
“Can’t you just say what you want?” he asked, the way he would ask Sasha, and feared he might be tilting some balance in this silent, rapid warfare… might just have done something very stupid, and dangerous to Sasha, and he wanted Chernevog to think about him, not Sasha. He gave Chernevog a sudden
Chernevog turned and looked him in the face and he not draw the next breath, absolutely could not get rid of one he had.
“Stop it!” Sasha cried.
Breath went out of him. He gasped after the next. Chernevog said, “Don’t do that again,” and Pyetr turned perforce and with his knees shaking under him, found enough strength to get up to Volkhi’s back.
Chernevog passed him the baggage Volkhi carried, the bag with the books, too, and wanted his hand then, to pull him up.
Pyetr gave it, leaned, braced his leg, and let Chernevog climb on, with a grip on his arm and his shirt, Volkhi shifting weight from one hind foot to the other. Chernevog settled, and again he felt that queasiness in his stomach that meant two wizards wanted conflicting things of him.
He bit his lip, he did not ask Sasha to stop, the boy knew what he was doing, if it killed him, the boy knew what he was doing…
Chernevog’s arms came around his waist, Volkhi turned his head and started moving in a direction he supposed Chernevog wanted, all of which passed in a kind of fog. He wanted Chernevog not to hold so closely, he wanted not to have Chernevog up against his back, he wanted not to feel the dark spot he had felt since last night waking up and slithering about in the middle of him.
He thought, It’s his heart, whatever that means. It’s his damned, shriveled heart—
“Let him go!” Sasha was saying, pulling Missy alongside, hut Missy suddenly pitched and shied off. “Pyetr!” Sasha cried and he saw Sasha hauling on the reins, trying to reason with the mare. “Dammit, don’t do that to him!”
—but that dark spot just wandered about where it wanted to, and finally found itself a place to rest, after which the acute fear passed, and the dizziness passed, and Pyetr only knew something was still there, so close to where he was that he could no longer see it.
“He’s perfectly safe,” Chernevog said, which echoed strangely in his hearing, and Volkhi, who had jolted them a bit when Missy shied, walked steadily now. “No reason to worry,”
Chernevog whispered behind his ear. “I won’t hurt you, I’ve no intention at all of harming you… “