Chernevog had used him to reach Sasha, that was what he had just done, Chernevog was lying to him and he hoped to the god he had not just put Sasha in more danger than he was already in.
“Hardly possible,” Chernevog said. “But the danger’s not from me. It’s not even from your wife, if that gives you any ease of mind.”
He felt too calm, too much at ease, considering what he was hearing. He hated it. He hated Chernevog for doing it to him, and he thought of breaking Chernevog’s skull—if he could so much as lift a finger toward that purpose.
Chernevog said, “Owl had no pity. He never understood my fondness for him. He did like the mice.”
It had come on him suddenly while he read, without warning… this presence of Pyetr’s-and he should have known then, Sasha thought, in one blink of an eye he should have realized that Pyetr could never have caught his attention without magic, and magic never could have gotten to him through his own precautions without Pyetr’s need to drive it.
Which meant—if he had had any forethought—Chernevog.
He leaned his elbows against Eveshka’s book, thinking—god, he had told Chernevog too much of that as it was, especially the part about the baby. He had thought of that news the instant he had felt he was truly dealing with Pyetr, it was part of his reasons and his heart had led him to admit that without so much as thinking. Now he asked himself what he had done and what he might have agreed to.
II you want to bargain, Chernevog had said, first off—don’t take anything the vodyanoi might offer: he’s easily any shapeshifter’s master, but there are things so far beyond the vodyanoi’s reach.
They’ll waste no time, Chernevog had said, gobbling him down to get you. If you’re going to want magic, young friend, don’t be modest: deal only with real power… me, for a first instance.
After which Chernevog had added, so slyly and smugly he could almost see the smile, After all, if you think I’m a bastard, what do you think my rivals are?
Deal with me or deal with them—and remember we have at least one interest very much in common. Do you want him free of me? I’m certainly willing to talk about that.
And he, perhaps foolishly: Help me at a distance. I’m not ready to bargain with anything. Keep Pyetr safe, hear me? Don’t let him follow me.
—Because he knew, he knew beyond a doubt Pyetr would bo off toward Eveshka if he had the chance; and he was, himself, so scared, so scared for ’Veshka and of Veshka—
Don’t deal with Hwiuur, Chernevog had said. Certainly he’s not my master. He may act completely on his own—I involved him once and it’s only natural he take an interest, but how fur that interest goes, or if it might involve someone else… take a lesson from me, young friend, never ask for help from subordinates. Some Things are hell to get rid of—…
Something was leaning over his shoulder of a sudden. He turned and looked, heart thumping, virtually sure it was Uulamets, terrified that the ghost had been eavesdropping.
God, the old man had hated Chernevog; and more—he had hated Pyetr… had feuded with him constantly—Uulamets was angry, he knew that he was.
Cold blasted through him like a winter gale, bringing memories of the house, memories of the lightning, the fire, the vodyanoi, muddy bones, a puddle of weed—dark, deep dark, echoing with crazed voices. He felt his knee hit the deck, felt the deckhouse slide past his arm and snag his sleeve—he was on the boat and the boat went back and form across the river, travelers came in numbers, and he was running, hiding among them, while something across the river wanted him—
There were too many memories. They tumbled one over the other, shrieking for his attention. He wanted his own, only his own, he tucked down with his arms over his ears and held on to what was Sasha Misurov with the barest awareness of where he was or when or why.
He thought, when, after a long time, the flood had subsided… Chernevog is right: he’s fragmented, he’s not sane—god, he’s remembering things all out of order—he can’t make sense, he hates Pyetr, he’ll never accept any compromise…
Bargain with what has power, Chernevog had said. Bargain with me…
He wanted sense out of it. He wanted the ghost to find the pieces in right order, the way he remembered them—Malenkova’s house, Draga, the river house— It howled at him, it whirled about him and tumbled all the pieces out of order again in rage, frustration, fear— He cried aloud into that gale:
“Master Uulamets, I’ve no choice—you can’t help me and I’ve no damn choice, have I?”
He felt as if master Uulamets had gathered him up and hit him in the face—repeatedly. He felt cold, and weaker, and weaker.
It was theft—he knew what Uulamets was doing, the same deadly robbery that he had done to the trees, the same that a rusalka did to her victims. He wished it to stop—but he felt the cold deepen, until his jaws locked and his teeth were chattering, the lamp flame making wild shadows about the deck as the wind swirled about him.
“Don’t,” he said, “master Uulamets, stop… stop it!”
The book fell open in his lap, wind blew at its pages.
It wanted him to look at it. He could hardly hold the book, he hugged it in his arms and braced it against his knee, cramped up to turn it to the light. A second time the wind whipped the pages, driving the lamp flame in giddy shadows.
He read, I’m not sure this is the best thing to do—but something’s terribly wrong. I’ve dreamed about water. I dream constantly about water and something wanting me. I know Pyetr’s safe now, at least. This time it was so close to taking him, so close — I don’t know where, I don’t know for what purpose, I only know I can’t stop it without going there myself…
The cold grew worse. Pages escaped his hands, and the wind died. He could scarcely hold the book, his fingers were so cold. The first word his eye fell on now was—
Draga.
24
Volkhi should have been exhausted and footsore by now, carrying two men’s weight through this damnable bog. Pyetr thought so—so far as he could think at all—but Volkhi showed no signs of tiring, and that unnatural endurance began to scare him, so for as he could stay awake to worry. He tried—damn it all, he tried to move, if only to inconvenience Chernevog, but every time he succeeded in moving he abruptly fell asleep again in Chernevog’s arms—while Volkhi kept traveling and for all he knew, killing himself. Little Chernevog cared for that.
But finally Chernevog said, “No. I’m doing no harm to him. None to us either: blackest sorcery as old Uulamets would have it. Or magic—it’s all one. I haven’t your young friend’s limitations.”
“A horse can’t go on forever!” he cried.
“While I wish it, he can. And be none the worse for it, I promise you.”
He thought about that a moment, in the haze his thoughts occupied, thought about it and began to worry about where they were going, and where Sasha was, and whether Sasha and Missy had a chance of staying ahead of them—
“But I want them to,” Chernevog said. “Remember?”
He did not remember. He thought, it’s another damn trap. He’s playing games again.
“All he’d have to do,” Chernevog said, “is he reasonable and deal with me. Remember that, too.”