Chernevog looked at him as if he had lost his mind. He expected Chernevog would do something very painful, and on that account it was stupid to have said anything, but it was like kicking the horse—it kept Chernevog busy and let Sasha get that much further.
Chernevog walked off from him, stood with his back to him, looking off in the direction Sasha had taken, and when Pyetr thought of going for Chernevog again his thoughts slid away from him like water off a roof. He tried to speak, but he could not do that either; and that small dark spot in his mind slithered around stirring up that bitter, pain-ridden memory of ‘Mitri walking away from him in a dark tavern-yard, starting to run, he was so anxious to avoid a friend in trouble—
Sasha would not desert him. Sasha would be back—in time, he did most earnestly hope. He stood there—he could do little else—until Chernevog turned a cold face toward him and said, “Get up on the horse.”
Then he wondered—he could not help it—whether Chernevog had reached Sasha with some spell… whether Sasha was even alive.
Chernevog said, “Move, dammit,” and had him turning and catching up Volkhi’s reins before he even thought about it. He looked back with the sudden remembrance that he was armed, that Chernevog had never taken the sword from him: that was how thoroughly Chernevog had him. He simply could not think of things when they mattered; and Chernevog wanted the sword now. Chernevog said very quietly, “Your friend is being a fool. Give me the sword. Take off the belt and give it to me.”
He did that, moving as it seemed in a dream, watching his own actions from some remote place. It seemed to him that there was some reason Chernevog wanted the weapon now—that perhaps Chernevog thought Sasha might indeed reach him and, through him, use it.
It left his fingers. Chernevog said, slinging the belt from his shoulder, “There are creatures that will offer him everything he needs. He has protection I can’t break, and I’m not entirely sure he’s acting on his own. Do you understand me, Pyetr Ilyitch?”
He tried not to listen. He thought, doggedly, Sasha’s not stupid, he wouldn’t resort to magic, he swore he wouldn’t, Chernevog’s lying—but Chernevog said, catching his arm with a painful grip:
“Pyetr Ilyitch, listen to me… “
They sat in the open doorway, facing each other on benches pulled into the sunlight. Draga’s needle flew in and out the blue wool, making flowers, stitching a chain of red. Draga said, “You shouldn’t think about going home until the baby’s born. Two young men—I’ll warrant neither one’s ever seen a baby born. Have they?”
“I don’t think so,” Eveshka said, hands on knees—in her own dress, with which her mother’s pale blue ribbons clashed. She thought, I’m not sure this one’s going to be born at all. But he kept that quiet: mama seemed definite and stubborn in her says: papa had certainly had that description right.
“So you should stay here.”
One could ask mama to come south and stay, but Eveshka did not find that an attractive thought—bringing mama near Pyetr.
Not even near Sasha, who would be patient and try to get along with anyone, but mama seemed all too definite in her opinions even for Sasha’s goodwill.
Not to mention mama’s companion, Brodyachi, who lay at the foot of the old oak, watching every move she made with yellow, suspicious eyes.
The needle flickered, eclipsed by the wool, sparkling in the sun. “There is no chance that Sasha’s the father?”
“No!”
A good many more stitches, before her mother said, without looking up, “Forgive me. But it’s very important.”
“Damned right it’s important!”
“I don’t know if there’s ever been any wizard with the gift on both sides. Carrying it to a second generation… “ Her mother promised to tie a knot and bite a thread. “You were difficult enough. A wizard-child of still another degree… the god only knows.”
That thought led terrible places. Papa used to say…
“…Things sometimes seem to want themselves to happen,” her mother said, and sent a chill down her spine, because it was what papa used to say, that she had dismissed with other of her father’s improvable ideas. “It’s troublesome, it’s certainly troublesome. Your father and I used to talk about it—when we were speaking to each other, when we actually thought—well, your father was very anxious about your birth, your father and I quarreled—I suppose he’s told you this.”
“I don’t know, until I know what it is.”
“Well—” Draga threaded her needle with white. “Your father was very upset when I conceived you. It wasn’t supposed to happen. Retried to make me lose you; I fought him on it, that much I could do.” She made the center of a flower, a quick series of knots, and Eveshka waited, biting her lip, because papa had never said anything except that she was her mother’s idea and had her mother’s bad habits. “I’d have run off. But he was the stronger, in those days. He couldn’t make me lose you, but he wouldn’t let me leave, either, till you’d been born. Then—” Her mother looked up at her, a troubled, pained sort of look “The truth is, dear, your father tried to kill me the day you were born. He almost did, but I got away across the river. And I wanted you—oh, I wanted you so badly. But I never could cross the river again.”
It filled in gaps, it made plausible sense. It might be at least one side of the truth, she thought—though papa had said her mother had tried to kill him, too—in more than one way.
So she asked, hardening her heart, “And Kavi, mama?”
“Kavi was a very gifted boy, a boatman’s son, so the story goes, from a village downriver. The mother died—Kavi was quite precocious, very dangerous. The father left him with a wizard named Lenki—I heard all this from her—a nasty old creature, really, not particularly gifted, entirely unreasonable, the sort of person one hates to see a child with. But she wouldn’t give him up: she treated him like a rag doll when he was little, doted on him, spoiled him; kicked him about and worked him like a dog once he’d gotten beyond a baby. One day evidently he’d had enough, and she died. I caught him—caught is the word—months later. He’d been living in the woods, alone, like a wild thing. Poor boy, I thought when I found him. I’d lost you… I was very foolish just then.” Another knot. Draga bit the thread and reknotted it. “Well, well, I knew what he’d done to Lenki, but of course I could civilize him. Pretty lad, such lovely, lovely eyes, and very well-spoken… but you know that.”
“Thanks to you, mama!”
“He has the morals of a stoat. I did very quickly know he was no child; and of course he swears now I bewitched him into my bed.” Another nip at the thread, another knot, a quick flash of the needle in the sun. “Kavi lies to himself on certain points: in fact he was terrified of me; I made him behave, you see, I could make him behave in those days, and anyone who could do that frightened him. So he became quite charming, quite persistent, quite—well, well, I was foolish, what can I say? And I certainly regretted it. —You see, what Kavi fears becomes evil to him. I became evil. He doesn’t see it that way, of course, he denies there’s any such thing as evil—but I’m certain your father became very evil to him; and possibly you did.”
“And you sent him to us!”
“My dear, I didn’t know all this then. I certainly didn’t know he’ll come back and try to kill me. I once thought your father might have done something to him—that was my instant judgment. But over the years I’ve come to understand the way Kavi thinks—and everything is very reasonable, if you stand where he does. He’s the only one right; anything that protects him is right; any position is right if it serves him at the moment. Do you want him to be moral? He will be, as quickly as he can understand what you want—he won’t feel safe until he’s modeled himself quite on your design. And he’ll use it to destroy you. Do you know—” She tied off, replaced the needle in its cushion, looked up with a frown. “I never was disposed to believe a child could be born the way he is. I always thought Lenki mishandled him—and perhaps being pushed to the point he’d killed her—broke something in him; or maybe something essential to humanity fell away from him while he was living like an animal in the woods. But over the years I’ve come to believe something got to him while he was still a baby, something found him—I don’t know how, I don’t know what—”