Sasha wished not, told her she had done it, she was safe-down on his knees himself, and lying on Missy’s shoulder, with the whole world spinning and fading a moment.
It did not want to kill him. It had let him know that. It wanted his silence and his compliance and his heart.
No, he told it, and he was not sure what it would do, but it was not going to get any of that—no.
The babble started again, near him, and he leaned against Missy’s shoulder and tried just to hold on and not listen to it— while it told him he had to listen, it wanted Pyetr, it wanted him, it offered them a refuge where Chernevog could not reach them, and he had to see to that—do something—where his hands could reach and her magic could not.
It said, out of the confusion—he thought it sounded like Eveshka, at least it had her voice: I can stop Kavi. But not while he can use Pyetr against me. Get him out of Kavi’s hands. Get him away. Do just one thing right, damn your pigheaded arrogance, and I’ll forgive you what you’ve done.
It said, in a quiet tone: You’re nothing but my father’s wish, Sasha. You’re his last damned wish in the world, and you’ve made all his mistakes. Don’t kill Pyetr for him. Hear me? And don’t come here until you have him. Rain spattered down, a patter through the leaves, cold huge drops, that hit like blows and left numbness where they struck. But not enough. He clung to Missy’s shoulder and held on, eyes shut, with a knot of pain inside that he had to hold, had to go on thinking about—
Most of all, not go crazy with—god, not let it loose-Aunt Ilenka saying, I know who’s the bad luck in this house— A cracked teacup, that a wish still held— Missy grunted, moved one leg, another. Missy had a cramp.
She was getting wet and the ground was cold. She did not know why she was sitting here, but she had caught her breath, and this was not comfortable.
Sasha thought, himself, We can’t go any farther. He thought Missy needs help.
He got up, he got her reins untangled, he got the packs off her back and shoved hard at her rump, shoved hard a second time as she got her feet to bear. She stood, dropped her head and shook herself, a spatter of muddy water.
He hugged her neck, he said, “Good girl,” and patted her shoulder, while the rain came down. The knot had gone from his chest to his throat, and stung his eyes—pain wanting his attention, which was not going to do a damned thing useful with the rain pouring down on them and whatever that had been telling him things that upended everything he had thought he knew. A heart could hurt. He could ignore it or he could let Missy carry it, but he thought, There’s time for that: I don’t have to listen to it. He gathered up the baggage, he got into the pack with the apples and gave Missy two. He wrapped up in the canvas with a fistful of dried berries and nibbled on them, in the notion that his body had spent too much and that borrowing was also a decision he did not want to make yet.
He thought, testing his reasoning, I’ve never felt anything like what just happened.
He thought, It’s much stronger than I am.
And, carefully: It was this way and that. It wasn’t like a wizard, but it sounded like ’Veshka. It said what ’Veshka might say. She would be mad at me. I don’t doubt that. But if it is ’Veshka she’s not doing well, is she? That’s what Pyetr would say. She’s not doing well…
She says I’m a wish. So’s a rusalka. A rusalka’s a terribly strong wish. She’s her own wish. In some measure she’s her father’s. He wanted her alive. She says Uulamets didn’t know what he was doing. But the leshys never said that. The leshys said, Take Chernevog to Uulamets…
I didn’t do that, did I? Things went wrong. Things are still going wrong. And of magical things I’d trust the leshys. I’d trust Babi. Babi just doesn’t trust me right now. Why?
He thought, We’re on the forest’s side. That’s all. Maybe the leshys are gone, maybe there won’t be any help, but that’s still the side we are. It’s not wise to forget that. If I’m anyone’s, I’m Misighi’s. If he’s dead, if they’re all dead, maybe I’m the wish they made.
He felt the disturbance in the woods. He felt where the center was, he felt more than one presence there. He thought,
Draga —
Uulamets had said, Draga.
Nothing made sense. One moment riding through the woods in a light drizzle, the next waking in a pouring rain on a horse standing very still, with Chernevog’s arms locked about him, Chernevog saying, “Your friend’s in trouble. Your friend’s in deep trouble.”
“Where?” he asked, never mind the rain, never mind his ribs ached where Chernevog had been holding him—he wanted to go there, and he gathered up Volkhi’s reins.
But Chernevog said, preventing him moving, “Listen to me. Don’t argue. Listen. I want you to go to him. He’s not far from us. I want him to come back here. I don’t want to quarrel with him. You’re my offer of good faith. Do you understand me?”
“No.” He did not understand. He sat still, unable to move, unable to do anything but answer. “It’s a damn trap!”
“I want you to do this,” Chernevog said, “but I’m also explaining to you. If something goes wrong I want you to come back here, immediately.”
He had no such intention. If something went wrong he knew where he wanted to be, and he tried not to think that, because then Chernevog might never let him go. He would do as he was told. Absolutely he would.
Chernevog said, tightening his arms, “My dear friend, you are so damned poor a liar. And I want you back. I want both of you, dear Owl.”
“Damn you,” he said.
“The best have tried,” Chernevog said, and let him go and slipped from Volkhi’s back, taking the baggage with him. “I’m wishing you to find him. Follow your vaguest notions. They’ll be mine.”
He looked down at Chernevog, taking up the reins. Chernevog gave him nothing but that damnable cold smile, and the idea, he was sure it was Chernevog’s, that he had finally to let that cold spot in his heart have its way completely—that being his only guide.
He knew his directions, he turned Volkhi that way and went, and Volkhi picked up speed—whether Volkhi’s inclination, free of half his burden, or whether moving at a wizard’s wish, Pyetr did not know: god, he could not answer for himself any more why he was doing this or whose he was.
The rain diminished again. The heavy drops that splashed in the puddles now were all from the trees. Sasha listened—touching Missy’s senses as well as his own, a comforting presence, Missy stretching legs still a little uncertain, and enjoying here and now with a small measure of grain and a lump or two of honeyed cereal. Missy was not much on worry when the woods were quiet, and that was a very good way to think when a young wizard was occupying a very dangerous borderland. He had a little food to settle his own uneasy stomach, and sat wrapped in his canvas, warm against the rain-chill, simply resting and listening to the woods; and reading, to keep his thoughts from straying into noisy wishes, from the only book he had.
When I was a very little girl I used to sit and watch the people going on their travels. I wasn’t supposed to talk to them. I was supposed to stay hidden. But I didn’t. They gave me trinkets. I wished them well. I wore flower-crowns and ribbons they gave me and I hid the trinkets from Papa —
That made Papa mad when he found out and he said he’d wish the road less convenient…
And, seeking cautiously to know more recent things: Pyetr really doesn’t know a thing about gardens. He planted the beans so deep so I don’t think wishes could grow them…