He thought, muzzily, Have anything you want, as long as you want, any time you want? It’s hell on Sasha—hell on ’Veshka— the god knows Volkhi and I aren’t damn happy right now, either.
He felt himself going out again, abruptly, dizzying as a fall. “No,” he said, fighting it. But it never did any good.
Perhaps he did sleep. Perhaps it was immediately afterward that Volkhi stopped and Chernevog said, shoving him upright, “You can get down now.”
Something vast and pale shone through the trees. His eyes could not make sense of it until he realized it for the flapping sail of the boat.
Chernevog wanted him to find out what the situation was. He needed no order to do that. He flung a leg over Volkhi’s neck and slid off to a landing steadier than it had any right to be and a well-being greater than it sanely ought to be. He let the reins talclass="underline" Chernevog could fish for them if he wanted to stay ahorse; himself, he was very willing to board the old ferry, hoping—
—hoping for rescue if the boy was there and had his wits about him; and fearing the god knew what kind of terrible discovery aboard; but he tried not to think of that.
Chernevog said, above him on Volkhi’s back, “The boy’s slippery, if nothing else. Damned difficult to track, but I don’t think he’s here. Catch!”
Chernevog flung the sword at him. He snatched it by the hilt in surprise, and had instant and uncharitable thoughts of slinging the sheath off and running Chernevog through.
His breath came suddenly short. Chernevog said, “Go on. You haven’t all night.”
“Damn you,” he muttered, clenched the sword in his hand and turned and went toward the boat, where Chernevog wanted him to go. Anger choked him, while that dark cold spot stirred in the middle of him and wanted his attention, now, sharply, to what regarded their mutual survival.
There was ample evidence of a horse on the open ground near the water—Missy, he was well sure. Sasha had gotten this far, Chernevog thought so, too, but when he stood and called
Sasha’s name there was no answer from the boat. He saw a way to get to the deck, hauled himself up onto a low limb, grabbed a handful of willow-wands and jumped for the boards.
The thump would have waked any sleeper. His shouting certainly should have. He saw the deckhouse door open, and the far rail splintered with a very large piece missing. That was not at all encouraging.
“Sasha?” he called. And in remotest, most painful hope: “ ’Veshka?”
The sail filled and flapped, boards creaked and the water lapped at the hull, but of a single sound of any living presence-there was none.
He gave a perfunctory look into the deckhouse, he saw only the expected baskets, he walked around to the stern and saw the securing loop of rope over the tiller bar—that was better news, At least the hand that had last had the tiller had left it in good order, no matter that nothing short of cutting the forward stay might ever get that spar down and nothing but loosing the rest of the stays and unstepping the mast might make it possible to haul the boat free: it felt grounded, rocking on the water, but not quite floating free.
One only hoped… god, one hoped that that splintered rail and the boat having come to such a predicament did not mean Eveshka had left the boat before it ever came to rest. That break in the rail was twice Volkhi’s girth, at least.
He dropped to his heels, wiped a finger across the boards underfoot—carried it to his tongue. He tasted salt and dust.
There had been a defense.
Chernevog wanted him back, Chernevog thought the questions answered, he had looked, there was no likelihood anyone had hidden and the fact that the horse was gone meant Sasha had left along the shore.
He wished he were utterly as sure of that. He walked to the broken rail, looked over the side there—saw ripples and a sudden roiling of the water, a fish perhaps.
Perhaps not. There was no scarring of the hull to evidence any impact with the other shore. He looked out as far as he could see, and felt Chernevog’s insistence pulling at him—worried, not forcing him—but about to.
Only good sense, he thought. Sasha had gone. If Sasha was riding into trouble, and trouble of the sort that had broken that rail, he was willing to follow. He crossed the deck, snatched a handful of willow-wands and vaulted off to a landing on the spongy ground where Chernevog stood with Volkhi.
“Do you know where he’s gone?” he asked Chernevog.
“I know which direction he’s gone. I’m relatively sure of that.”
Perhaps he was losing his last sane thought, perhaps he was terribly misled even to think of finding Sasha when he had no wish to be found—perhaps the thought that the boy was into more than he could handle was entirely from Chernevog, deceiving him. But he offered the sword to Chernevog on what he reasonably believed was his own impulse, saying, “If you can use it, Snake. Or if you can’t—”
“Keep it, if you’ll refrain from using it on me. Do we agree?”
“I want to find him. I don’t like the look of this.” He gathered up Volkhi’s reins and looked around at Chernevog, wondering and trying not to wonder… what was going on with Eveshka and whether—
Whether there was any hope for her—or ever had been—or whether he had loved her enough while there was a chance; or what he had done and not done to bring her and all of them to this.
It was not a confidence he wanted to share with Chernevog. He would have balked at sharing it with Sasha; and now he was not even sure whether his doubts in that intimate matter came from his own heart or Chernevog’s at work in him.
She had a baby?
All he could feel was fear.
“You’re right,” Chernevog said. “You’re very right. I’d no notion why this might be happening. Now I do. —Are you absolutely certain that baby’s not Sasha’s?”
That dark spot wrapped all about his heart. He actually considered that possibility, actually considered it, in one black moment—appalled to realize he would not be utterly surprised nor even irrevocably upset with either one of them— hurt, yes; but he would understand it—the boy becoming a painfully lonely young man, and Eveshka frustrated with a husband who was (the folk in Vojvoda had quite well agreed with Ilya Uulamets’ opinion) no fit match for her.
Chernevog said, “If it is his—”
Chernevog tried to make him know something. All it made him was afraid.
Chernevog said, quietly, “If it is his, Pyetr Ilyitch, there’d certainly be a reason he’s avoiding us.”
“Damn you, it isn’t, and you don’t know him!”
“If it is—none of us will see it grow up. That’s the truth Pyetr Ilyitch. I lie as a matter of course—but this is the plain truth. I killed Eveshka because I’d gotten myself in a trap because she’d have killed me if I hadn’t.”
“ ’Veshka never killed anything—” —in her life, he started to say, like a fool. But that was the ’Veshka who saved fieldmice. In death, she had killed, the god knew she had killed.
“Her mother sent me,” Chernevog said. “A child like his. doubly born—that’s power… until she grows up. Draga wanted her dead when she couldn’t get her away from her father. Draga tried to kill her when she was born. I tried to find her father’s hold over her. I got caught in his book; I had to get away and I had to kill her. I had her heart. I thought I might hold her—but I couldn’t and you know what happened. Now we’re here—and she’s carrying a child that I hope to hell is yours.”
“Why?” Pyetr cried. “What’s the threat in a baby?”
But he thought of Sasha saying, ’Veshka’s mother was a wizard, her father was, she got her gift from both sides…
Sasha saying, Chernevog himself was scared of her…
Chernevog did not answer that. Chernevog wanted him on the horse, Chernevog wanted them on their way with no more questions. Pyetr threw the reins over Volkhi’s neck and thought with anguish that if Chernevog was lying, he no longer knew his way out of the maze of Chernevog’s reasons. If Chernevog was lying, he feared the last thing he would lose would be himself, Chernevog’s, ultimately, like Owl, no damn bit more than that. The god only knew but what ’Veshka was going to fight Chernevog— and he was going to be with him, where Sasha had put him, the god help him.