There was thunder in the distance. The wolves heard it, and pricked up their ears, though her own ears could not hear it. She tought, That’s Kavi’s working. Kavi wants Sasha to come here and confuse us. Kavi’s calling on whatever will listen to him.
She wanted what was hers, that was all, she wanted everything that was hers to be where she could see it and watch it— everything she loved, in one place, in her keeping, never scaring her again. That was what she wanted.
No more foolishness. None from Sasha, and none from Pyetr. They would do what she told them, she would take care of them and they would be happy.
And for Kavi, who threatened what was hers—
The anger turned over and over in her, paced on multiple paws, looked through multiple eyes, anger with no limits and no conscience at all. Draga looked at her with a satisfying tear, wanted things of her, wanted certain things of no interest to her, but that was very well, she sensed a clear direction in Draga, interests which made one thing more important than other things. Draga wanted her to listen and understand, but Draga was only one more voice clamoring for her attention, and her consent, and her intent, which had many feet and many directions.
She wanted things of Draga, all in her own interest, and Draga would do them: Draga had tried to escape many times, but Draga was a fragment not much more than the wolves, more determined than the rest, perhaps—able to compel a direction. Otherwise the pieces came together by chance, or when a few purposes coincided. In Draga’s presence things did come together. She said, “Go on,” because Draga knew what to do, Draga and she quite well agreed on certain things and the rest absolutely did not interest her.
26
Rain drizzled down through the canopy, glistened in gray daylight on forest mold and living leaves, a grim, soggy kind of morning that sneaked through the trees without the cheer of sunlight. Sasha walked, Missy being by now very sore and very tired: Babi rested among the packs she carried, a small black ball with unhappy, wary eyes. Babi weighed very little in that form; and Missy liked his presence there: Yard-things she had known would stay close by stables, and horses outside their yards were outside their watching—but this one stayed right with her, and combed her mane and tail and warmed her back.
Sasha knew this, riding Missy’s thoughts, clinging to a lock of Missy’s mane for balance, his two feet and Missy’s four being damnably difficult to manage at once, not mentioning that Missy thought a great deal about what she was seeing on the ground and around and behind her, and about how her legs ached and her stomach was truly, awfully empty, even considering there had indeed been apples and grain a while ago. Missy was unhappy and worried in this deep tangle of woods, in which anything might hide. She could hear the rain sneaking up on them.
Sasha worried for other reasons, and dared not stay overlong listening to Missy, because there were things he feared Missy’s nose might not smell nor her ears and eyes detect.
Babi would be aware of them. And when Babi suddenly growled and lifted his head from his paws Sasha wished Missy to stop and to stand still for a moment.
He put out his hand to comfort Babi, to reassure him.
Babi hissed, scrambled up and bristled, and before Sasha could draw his hand back, Babi snapped at him and vanished into thin air.
Not that Babi had not hissed at him before—Babi hissed and growled at all his friends—but never with such anger.
And never offered to bite. God!
“Babi?” he said, more shaken now he thought of it than in the instant he was saving his hand. “Babi, what’s wrong?”
As if—he thought—it might have been him Babi was growling at, as if Babi had suddenly failed to recognize him, or to recognize him as a friend.
He could not recall now what he had just been thinking, or whether he had done anything that might have offended Babi; or whether—
Whether something had just gone wrong in a way Babi could not accept, something to do with things he had done—like leaving Pyetr.
God, no, he must not think of that, he dared not think about that, dared not, for Pyetr’s own sake, and his, and ’Veshka’s. “Come on,” he said, “Missy, there’s a girl, let’s just keep going.”
Missy was so tired, so very tired and making her go on was Not Fair. The bang-thumps were coming, and the wind, and she was wet and shivery and too tired to run when they got here. It was Not Fair. She had rather stand here and rest till they did. She saw no grabby-things. Was there an apple?
Later, he promised her. “There’s no time,” he said, and pulled on her reins and led her, promising her apples, promising her a currying if she would only keep going and watch her feet, god… “Please, Missy.”
She liked him. It was a good thing for him.
There was nothing left in either of them but aches. He had fed Missy, gathered what he could, not forgetting the salt, which he had dumped in a bag to itself and kept slung from his shoulder. Damn, he wanted Babi back. He did not count the vodyanoi gone in any reckoning; bright sun drove it deep under water or earth, but there was none, and dry land inconvenienced it, but there was damned little dry this morning.
Damn, damn! he did not like the feeling he was having, as if something was out there, pacing him—and ahead of him—
Just ahead was a place that did not match the rest of the forest. He could not decide how it was different: it felt like forest, it felt almost like this one, but it—moved toward him—like a cloud boundary coming across the ground: but this was nothing visible: it was a sound, a feeling of coolth or earthiness. He had time to think: I don’t like this, —and to take Missy’s bridle and to wish them both well before it broke over them like a sudden dizziness, a sudden lack of breath—
“Oh, god!” he cried, wishing not, but it widened, sweeping over them and rolling through the woods, well past them before it stopped and held. He wanted to keep breathing, he wanted himself and Missy safe from it, and when he wondered, he could not help it, who was doing this—
Eveshka wanted him, right now, Eveshka was—
It felt like echoes, as if Eveshka was talking to him from the bottom of a well and echoing so he could not make out what she was saying, the sense of her presence and her wanting him doing the same thing, wanting the way a horde of ghosts wanted—it felt like that; and Missy started to sink down, her legs buckling.
“No,” he wished her, pulled on the bridle and drew up strength out of her body and his, pulled her around and kept pulling at her, step after faltering step. “Come on, girl, come on, keep going, ’Veshka’s being a fool—we don’t want to talk to her.”
Anger echoed around him, a change in the sense of things, at least. His head spun, his heart skipped beats, he had no idea what Eveshka wanted.
But there was the edge in the woods ahead. He pulled violently at Missy’s halter, wanted her, dammit! to keep going, he was not going to leave her on this side of the trouble, not going to let her die here. He could feel the edge coming, the place where the magic stopped—but he was so tired, and what swirled around them offered all the answers and all the strength he needed, if he would take it—
The strength it was taking it would give back—it promised.
“Come on!” he wished Missy, pleaded with her, being only Missy then, only Missy, who, suddenly understanding a way out, called up something on her own, remembering town and the hill and her person shouting to her. She drew up her own strength and shoved with her legs, one heave and another, hauling against the heaviest load and the steepest hill she had ever known-She went down, not on stone, on soft dirt—threw her head up and tried to get up again.