Pyetr took another drink, while Volkhi and Missy fretted quietly. The approaching storm had them disturbed. The god hope there was no other reason in the woods around them. He had them tied. He did not trust Sasha’s attention to details at the moment. He very much wished for Babi, he even wished for Uulamets. But the cold touch that swept past him from time to time did not seem to have anything to do with the old man, unless it was that damned raven of his—because whatever was bothering him glided in and out again with that kind of feeling; and as the light faded from the sky, when less and less detail distracted a man’s eye from what his mind saw—he imagined a wide, winged shape…
Continually now, from the direction of the fire, he felt the disturbance of Chernevog’s heart, he saw the frowns and felt there was a quarrel of some sort going on over there, a very dangerous quarrel.
Sasha had said very little to him on the short ride to this place: he had talked about the vodyanoi, and how the rail had gotten broken on the boat. About having found Uulamets, and how Uulamets had moved the pages in the book, how he was certain that Uulamets had done the most he could do—
He’s not like ’Veshka was, Sasha had said. I don’t know if an old man could do what she did—I don’t know if Uulamets would. He protected these woods. What she did to it upset him terribly. I don’t know that he could have made himself do what she did, no matter how he needed it.
Then Sasha had said, And I don’t know if an old man could believe in his own life the way she did. It’s not enough not to disbelieve your own death, I think—that only makes a ghost. What makes a rusalka is a kind of believing I’m not sure one can even do past fifteen or sixteen…
Like the jug, he had said, inelegant comparison.
Exactly like the jug, Sasha had said, and said nothing else for a few moments.
Then: —I think, dead, Uulamets has found so many doubts, so much that wasn’t the way he thought—
Another silence. And:
What I have to tell Chernevog isn’t going to make him happy either. He’s been tricked—unless he’s lied to us all along.
He had said, distressed at that thought: Lied to us—about Draga? He wouldn’t have to. If he was hers, he could have turned us both over to her. He could have done it that night at the house—
Sasha had said: Not necessarily. And gone on to say: I’m stronger than might seem. I know that I am.
Somehow that had failed to comfort him. Are you as strong as he is? he had asked.
And Sasha, a very soft voice, very faint, What’s happened to Chernevog is doubt. What’s happened to me is certainty. I know certain things, I know what I want. That’s why I won’t give up my heart. That’s why I can’t give it up. That’s exactly what he’ll want and I won’t give it.
He had asked, carefully, scared Chernevog was listening: Can you want me free?
And Sasha, equally carefully: I don’t dare. You have his protection. That’s not inconsiderable.
That had upset him. It still did. He thought, Dammit, don’t I have a choice? He doesn’t have to live with this. He doesn’t have Snake putting him to sleep any time it suits him. I hate this! What’s ’Veshka to think if she does reach me? All she’ll touch is Kavi Chernevog…
—Maybe she thinks that already—maybe she thinks we’ve just gone over to Chernevog, that we’re his creatures…
And aren’t we? Aren’t we now? We’re fighting his damn fight, we’re keeping him alive, we’re going right down the track of his wishes, and ’Veshka’s his enemy the same as Draga is.
I shouldn’t have gone after Sasha. I should have fought him on that point. Snake’s using me, exactly the way he said he would. Sasha’s over there in a damn dice game—and at any moment Snake’s going to switch the dice, I know he is. I know that damned slithery heart of his. He’s not done with us… he’s not done with being what he is, he’s only learned how to want us, and want company, and want us—
God, he wants us with him, wants us to be his the way Sasha and I have been together, his to keep—to damn well own, down to the breaths we take. Only he’s not Sasha. He’s not any good-hearted stableboy.
That cold touch brushed his face again. He saw it glide away this time, broad wings, broad, pale wings-Owl.
And beyond the light, a shadow-shape with glowing eyes.
Wolves and tearing jaws—
Eveshka’s face, cold and calm—
He snatched up his sword and scrambled to his feet, while the horses snorted in alarm, pulling at their tethers.
Draga’s face…
And a pull at his heart, so fierce it took his breath away.
“Pyetr!” he heard Sasha cry, a thin and distant voice. He caught a breath, heard a maelstrom of voices, calling to him—
’Veshka’s voice among them, saying, Pyetr, Pyetr, I need you — oh god, I need you —
The bannik pulled the other way. He felt the pain, felt Snake’s heart stirring in wild panic. The bannik flew from where it was and turned up face-to-face with him, wild eyes glaring, hands reaching, nails like claws, teeth like a rat’s—
He struck at it, he tore himself away, with Eveshka shrieking at him, wishing it away from him.
Thunder cracked. Lightning burst a tree in the woods beside him.
He could not hear, then, he could not see—except Volkhi’s rearing shape seared into his sight. He thought, My wife, dammit! ’Veshka’s doing this! Damn her, she’s our hope—she’s the only hope. He ran, blind for that black shape his vision still held, he grabbed the tight-stretched tether Volkhi was fighting, slung the sheath off his sword and cut it.
He dropped the sword. He needed both hands to get a hold on Volkhi. He wrapped his hand in the tether and hauled himself for Volkhi’s neck, Volkhi’s shoulder, grabbed a fistful of mane and flung himself in the direction Volkhi was bolting, landing astride.
He had a little vision in his streaming eyes, he ducked low on Volkhi’s back as branches raked over them and hoped to the god Volkhi was not as blind.
He knew where she was. Volkhi was going that direction. He heard ’Veshka’s voice, he knew she was in trouble and he wished to the god he had the sword—but he had enough on his hands, keeping Volkhi on his feet in the dark-hazed woods and telling his wife, the while he did it, Dammit, ’Veshka, stop it— listen to me, hear?
28
“Pyetr!” Sasha cried, “Pyetr!” Thunder cracked. Wind howled through the trees, pelting them with leaves, and Chernevog caught Sasha’s arm, wanting him to stop, wait, use his head—
“You’ve no choice!” Chernevog yelled at him, “you’ve no more time for dithering, boy! Make a choice—join me or join that! If he puts my heart in her hands we’ve neither of us got a choice at all! Help me!”
Sasha spun on one foot and tore from his grip, raced through the lightning-seared dusk toward the remaining horse, and Chernevog wished not—
Sasha stopped and swung about, in the gibbering chaos about them, the horse struggling and screaming in fright—Sasha wished, fighting his attempt to reason with him…
Chaos and magic — wild wishes racketing about the walls in physical form-Wanting him —
“God!” Chernevog cried, as a white shape flew in his face, buffeted him with icy wings.
Sasha had caught up the fallen sword, beckoned him with it, shouting. “Come help me! Help me, for the god’s sake!”