Past one set of braces, like a shattered forest on either side of him, the pale ribbon of wood stretching in front of them into nowhere. He was all in gray now. Gray to either side, gray below and above, and on the bridge ahead of him, Chernevog, walking faster than he was. The wind blew. The span creaked.
God…
I’m losing him, he’s getting ahead of us…
“Sasha!” he yelled, risking a look back past Volkhi’s shoulder, where Sasha and Missy followed at a distance. “He’s getting too far ahead of us—”
Another gust, cold and wet. He suddenly lost his sense of up and down, felt Volkhi stop behind him, while the bridge quaked and swayed perhaps a finger-breadth, but it felt like it was going for a moment.
He got a breath, got his balance, started Volkhi forward and look a hasty look ahead to be sure where he was going.
Chernevog was gone, vanished in the mist.
God, god, god…
“Easy, lad, there’s a good lad, nice grain and honey-lumps when we get off this damned thing—god!”
A cold spot went through him, left to right—a ghost, a haunt, Hitting across the arch of the bridge.
“Seen Uulamets?” he asked it, while his heart fluttered like a trapped bird. In daylight, something as pale as a ghost seldom showed. “We’re looking for him. Lost a wizard up ahead of us just now. Named Chernevog. You might want him. We certainly won’t object.”
Wherever it went, it did not come back. He kept going, nerved against more such encounters, and watched Volkhi’s feet and his, taking his own time.
One could finally see the other shore, at least, stealing a quick glance ahead: it showed as a hazy green in the gray.
“At least it’s alive over there. That’s—”
A joint in the logs. Down to one width, here, knotty and uneven. Sweat was running down his neck, while his hands and loot were numb from the wind.
“—encouraging, isn’t it? Lots of green things, I promise you, stay calm, lad, easy, easy—watch the feet, god, don’t rush me—”
He could see the end of the bridge. He could see the other shore—
And a figure waiting in the mist where the bridge ended.
Chernevog. The god only knew his reasons.
A shelter against the misting rain, fire to boil up something edible—that was Sasha’s job. A few sips of vodka to settle the stomach and Pyetr paid off the promised honey-lumps, curried Volkhi and Missy until his arms ached and his knees were shakier than they had been coming off the bridge. They worked— while Chernevog sat at his leisure and idly, with his fingernails, stripped a leaf down to its skeleton.
That reminded him of that damned bridge out there.
Pyetr wiped his hands on his breeches, put the straw curry brush away in the proper bag, came wobbling back to the fire for a cup of hot tea fortified with vodka.
He sat down next the fire, shut his eyes a moment to rest them and kept seeing gray, empty space and feeling the ground sway. He had done crazier things, he told himself he had: walked The Doe’s rooftree on a bet—climbed any number of balconies in Vojvoda—with no wizard to steady him. It had been a sure thing, this time. Absolutely. Even with Chernevog involved. Leshys had built it.
God.
He shivered, let go his breath and took another drink. Sasha nudged his arm and passed him a plate: pancake and a bit of sausage.
There was a helping for Chernevog.
“Damn waste of good sausages,” Pyetr muttered, in no mood for charity.
Chernevog accepted it, and the cup of tea—held the cup out to him, saying, pleasantly enough, “A little vodka if you please.”
Choke, Pyetr thought. But outrageous behavior moved him to outrageous courtesies: a gambler’s son, among rich young gentlemen, learned their manner in self-defense. He gave Chernevog his falsest smile, added vodka to his cup, saying: “Personally, I wish it were aconite.”
Chernevog said, “Your health,” and lifted the cup to Sasha. “Is it?”
“No,” Sasha said quietly. “I promise you.”
Chernevog smiled, ate his supper, drank his tea and vodka along with them, said, somberly, “I miss Owl. I truly do. You’re very cruel, Alexander Vasilyevitch.”
“How do you know my name?”
Chernevog shrugged, took a deep drink.”I have my sources. I did, at least. Now I’m content to be your prisoner.”
“Liar,” Pyetr said.
Chernevog looked him in the eyes, over the cup rim. “Your health, too, Pyetr Ilyitch.”
“You were talking about Owl,” Sasha said.
Chernevog’s gaze went distant. Finally it dropped to the cup in his hands.
“I’ll sleep now,” he said in a subdued voice.”—Good night, Pyetr Ilyitch.”
Pyetr did not look at him; he drank another sip of his tea and vodka, and listened to Chernevog settle down next the fire.
For a good long while afterward he held his peace, listening to Chernevog’s breathing grow more regular. He thought how Sasha could as easily have poisoned the wretch.
Sasha saying—I’m not Uulamets—
Himself: Thank the god—
Sasha said, “He’s probably asleep.”
“ Don’t depend on it.”
“I’m not. Tea and wishes. And a little something extra. He’ll probably have a headache.”
“Good.” He remembered the muddy yard of Chernevog’s house, none so far away, remembered unnumbered hours of hell. Eveshka crying: Kavi, don’t! He made a face and took another drink, but he thought that should be his last, fearing too deep a sleep on this darkening, drizzly shore. The ground still felt as if it were swaying, every time he shut his eyes. “We should give him another one in the morning. I’ll just put him on the horse like a sack of turnips. If we need him at all.”
“The leshys had a reason.”
“Doubling’s my one small talent, remember? I doubt the leshys know that much what they’re doing, where it doesn’t regard trees. They don’t understand us. For some reason he’s waked up. For some reason something’s wrong over here that has the leshys scared. —For some damn reason we haven’t cut that scoundrel’s head off!”
“I know, I know, I’m thinking about that. But he’s worried, loo.”
“He’s worried. Thank the god he’s worried, I’m so glad to know that. I’m scared out of my skin. I’m worried about my wife, dammit!”
“I know, I know, Pyetr.”
“No word, nothing.”
“Nothing.”
He shook his head, took another drink without thinking about the jug in his hands. He was thinking about Eveshka out there
alone in the dark tonight, somewhere on this shore, if the leshys were right; and he thought of Uulamets in his grave, as strong as he had ever been—wanting to come back, wanting his daughter, every wish and want a spell to reach out into other people’s lives.
The old man had passed some kind of legacy to Sasha—too much, Eveshka was wont to say. He sat here drinking himself to helplessness, like Chernevog, and the boy was under some damn spell.
The bridge is safe, Pyetr, leshys made it—
Two cat eyes opened in the dusk, in empty air—right in front of his knees.
“God!” He scrambled back against the canvas, before he recognized the small shadowy nose that appeared next, with the outline of a round belly.
“Babi!” Sasha said. “Thank the god—Babi. Come on, Babi… “
“Vodka, Babi.” Pyetr unstopped the bottle, tipped a little into empty air.
The eyes vanished. The vodka splashed onto the ground.
Sasha said, “He’s upset.”
“He got a good look at our company. Dammit, Babi, come on back, it’s all right!”