He felt a deep chill. He was no longer riding through young trees, he was seeing the fireside last night, he was remembering Sasha hitting the stone floor like a sack of flour and himself standing there wondering whether he should want to do something about that. That was how it had hit him: a small dead spot that could see his best friend lying on the ground and ask himself if he really wanted to do something that was going to get him hurt—
Because for a moment it had seemed nobody ever looked out for anybody…
As if the last several years had never happened, as if he was the same ragged boy who had had nobody—nobody but a father who sometimes fed him and sometimes got drunk or went off somewhere for days.
Though he had cared, dammit: he remembered hunting for his father and wishing—god, wishing his father would die so he would never have to spend another night scared he was dead in some damned alley—
His father had died, murdered one midsummer’s eve. And he had had that same cold dark spot in the middle of him. He had gotten drunk for the first time in his young life, gotten drunk and walked The Doe’s roof ridge with a vodka jug, while drunken grown-ups cheered and clapped below—but they cheered their loudest when he almost fell.
They had given him drinks, perhaps out of kindness, until he fell on his face. He had missed the funeral, such as there was for Ilya Kochevikov: the town watch had dumped him in a shallow grave and nobody even marked it.
Not even he had. He had come there the next afternoon to see where it was, and just walked off from it—because his father was through scaring him: that was all he had managed to feel while he was standing there: his father would never scare him anymore.
He still dreamed about searching for his father. Then the terror would be real again, and he would think, god, he can’t be dead, he can’t be dead—for reasons he did not to this day understand.
That was where he was this morning—remembering teetering
drunk on that damn roof—he had done it on three memorable occasions since, for sizable bets—and watching the blurry roof ridge ahead of him swaying back and forth, in his numbness that said there was only that narrow a track to walk, and if he fell the whole world would watch and cheer him down—Walk it with me, Kavi Chernevog? Think you’re brave? Think you’re good?…
He stood in winter woods, called to Owl, and Owl came out of the snowy sky, white against white, Owl settled on his arm and took the mouse he had for him.
He could not love Owl now, he could not love anything, he only understood what life and death were. He could know fear, he could know hate, which was tangled with it—he could know his own advantage when he saw it, so it really was not so very different, being without a heart. It was still comfortable to be with Owl. Owl’s needs were simple, a mouse or two—no trouble to catch them, wish them still, wish them dead.
Owl when he killed was quick. Owl never thought about killing. Owl just did.
He could wish Owl were free—but he was not: Owl was bound to him and he was bound to Draga. He could escape for an hour or so, he could go out hi the white and the cold and call Owl to him and for a while he could forget… No good to run, her voice said. You can try. No good to wish, she said. You can try that, too. And one night by the hearth she said, this woman standing in front of the fire, Do you want me to call Owl here? No, he said, and insofar as he was still Pyetr, he saw her pale hair and thought, as one would in a dream, Chernevog’s being a fool, it’s Eveshka—not Draga. He doesn’t know what he’s dealing with.
But things seemed to blur then, and he thought, panicked, No, it isn’t ’Veshka, it isn’t her—before the woman turned her head and looked him in the eyes.
He wanted out of this dream. He wanted out of it, because he knew where it was going. He heard Owl battering at the windows, he felt his heart beating in panic-Not Eveshka, he kept saying to himself. There was no likeness, none but the hair, none but the shape of the face, he did not know how he could mistake that even from the back. The chin was cleft, the eyes were not Eveshka’s eyes—they were ice, they were winter.
She came close and touched him under the chin—she was so much taller than he; and lifted his face and kissed him on the mouth while Owl battered himself frantically against the shutters and his heart beat in fear. He had no idea now what right was, or where he could go if he ran. She kissed him twice more and said he had never had a secret she did not know, and never would have a purpose but what she set him.
He wanted not to go into that room with her… and Chernevog gave him back the daylight and the forest, abhorring his own recollections. Chernevog did not want to be a servant again, he would never be in that position again…
He walked up the path to the ferryman’s cottage, passed a gate Pyetr knew, in front of trees long dead—he came up the familiar walk-up and onto the porch and knocked fearfully, guarding his thoughts—or Uulamets might know instantly why he was there, and kill him.
But it was a girl in blond braids that answered the door—the hair was so like Draga’s it made his heart jump with fright; but it could only be Draga’s daughter—a girl no more than thirteen.
He took off his cap. He knew who she was and dimly knew he was dealing with someone very dangerous to him. He said, in a boy’s young voice, “I’m Kavi Chernevog. I’ve come to see master Uulamets. Is he at home?”
Eveshka let him in.
No! Pyetr thought, wanting desperately not to see this; and Chernevog said, silently, at his shoulder, She’s very clever, if she used her good sense—but you can reason with her, can’t you? Persuade her to join us: then there’s nothing can threaten us, nothing will ever threaten us again.
“No,” he muttered. It was hard to think at all. Chernevog’s thoughts kept coming at him, clinging like spiderweb. He heard Missy behind them, and wanted help, desperately wanted it. He wanted to rein back, and his hands would not move.
Of a sudden there was a quick thump of hooves, Volkhi spun, all but unseating him and Chernevog, then stopped—as Pyetr saw a flash of Missy’s retreating rump, green birches, Sasha’s white shirt in the sunlight—
He kicked Volkhi hard then: Volkhi jumped and Chernevog slid, dragging him off, while his fistful of mane kept him and Chernevog upright against Volkhi’s side. He let that go and bashed his elbow into Chernevog’s ribs, spun around and hit him in the jaw—after which he could not hit him again— could not: his arm would not answer and the will to act just would not form itself.
Volkhi had stopped and side-stepped, trod on one of their fallen packs. Pottery crunched like old bone. Pyetr gazed helplessly out over the sea of young birches, saw nothing but sunlight glancing off the leaves. The boy and the horse were well out of sight in the taller growth now—going somewhere with something in mind, he told himself. Sasha had not just run out on him: the boy had suddenly thought of an answer and he would do something clever and get him out of this.
Even if the feeling at the pit of his stomach recalled with disquieting immediacy how other friends had run out on him… like ‘Mitri Venedikov backing away from him, refusing to help him, while he was bleeding his life out…
His own father saying, when he was in trouble for stealing, Boy, you’re not my responsibility…
Chernevog laid a hand on his shoulder, pulled him around face to face with him. Chernevog’s lip was cut, blood was smeared on his chin, and Pyetr could no more lift a hand than he could a moment ago. He had a long, long moment to realize Chernevog was very put out with him.
Chernevog said, “Is that all it’s worth? He’s left you.”
He said, “He’s not left. You’d better worry, Snake.”