He said, “I’m awfully sorry about the garden. But the god knows, the weeds are knee-high by now anyway.”
He saw the least flicker within her eyes. But she wanted him down. She wanted him down—
“If I do, will you give me a wish, ’Veshka? One wish?”
“What?”
He took a deep breath and slid down among the wolves. “You know what it is,” he said: it was her heart he wanted, he was sure she was listening to him thinking, and if she had no idea about that, she had no idea about anything.
“Don’t ask me that!” she cried. And: “Mama! No!”
He looked around of a sudden as Volkhi shied. He still had the reins. He held on, with an arm around ’Veshka, the other jerked so hard it took his breath.
He heard Sasha shouting something, aloud or in his head he had no idea. He held on, Volkhi swinging about to rear and fight, hauling him and ’Veshka up. Volkhi’s knee hit him, knocked the wind half out of him, before Volkhi came down again and his feet hit the ground.
Eveshka wished something then. Lightning cracked, blinding him. Volkhi shied, tore the reins from his hand, throwing him and her to the ground among the wolves.
Missy charged into the clearing, right for the middle of things- run! Sasha wished her, Chernevog felt it in his bones, and the mare fairly flew, arrow-straight between the wolves and the oncoming bear.
Draga knew he was there. Draga turned her attention his way, and Missy stalled and shied up. He felt lightnings gathering, yelled,”Do something!” at Sasha as he let go—slid off the mare and landed on his feet among the wolves, wanting Draga dead this time, seeing Brodyachi charging him…
Sasha had reined back, wanted his attention, was trying to get back to him.
So were the wolves.
Stop Eveshka! he wished Sasha, and turned his wishes on Brodyachi, wished up Hwiuur’s strength, and the river’s dark cold, wished age, and smothering, and Brodyachi’s other shape—the one Draga lent him at her pleasure.
Pyetr tried to move—the ground had come up hard, and he felt Eveshka wanting him well, wanting other things, dark and violent as the wolves about them. He got as far as his knees and one hand, saw Missy’s pale legs bearing down on them, and shoved himself for his feet as Sasha brought Missy to a stop and slid off. “Let him alone!” Sasha yelled at ’Veshka. “Stop them!” There was a terrible snarling and spitting, there was something in that knot of struggling beasts: Pyetr saw that, trying to stand up. Sasha shoved his sword into his hand and all he could do was lean on it, without an enemy to use it on. He felt the tingling of his skin, recoiled and saw the blade in his hand glow with unnatural fire-Heard Sasha say, shout, into the roaring wind, “Misighi! Misighi, wake up! For the god’s sake, wake up! We need you now!”
Pyetr felt terror slithering wildly inside him, felt doubt, felt hate, felt the claws and the cold. He yelled, “Dammit, Snake!” because he knew a fool was going to get killed where he was. He got a breath and ran, such as he could. Snake was carrying the whole damned fight by himself, up against the hill where Draga stood, a rolling dark tide of bodies sweeping over her—
Of a sudden all his hair was crackling and standing away from him—he stopped and looked up at the roiling sky with the awful feeling the next bolt was his.
But something went away from him then, so suddenly he felt a piece of him had gone—and the tingling stopped: the bolt hit, over on the hill, splitting the night and shattering the ground.
He could not see, men, he could not see at all, except the shadow image seared into his eyes, a swarming mass of beasts and a man with arms uplifted, calling the lightnings. He could not hear, except that crash still ringing in his ears, and that image drifted over and over again through his sight. If there were wolves left he had no way to know, no way to hear them or know whether anyone was still alive but himself.
“Sasha?” he called out, “’Veshka?” and started as someone touched him, as a hard hand closed on his arm and pulled him around, into a man’s arms. Then a much softer touch folded itself about him.
He hoped to the god he knew who had their arms about him. He put his hand on a woman’s back, felt thick braids. Felt the man’s hand, and it was smooth and strong. He said—he thought he said, he could not hear it himself: “I can’t see.” But that was a lie—he thought he would see that sight for the rest of his life.
Then the image began to fade. Sound came to him, the rush of wind, a horse whinnying, Eveshka sobbing, “God, god, Pyetr, —” He saw fire, the whole hill caved in and burning as if it had found a source of wood inside.
Sasha said, “They’re gone. Chernevog, Draga, both. They’re all dead.”
A thought leaped up at him, a nonsense thought, terrible as it was: he had no wishes to use at all, he knew he was innocent—but he said, on a ragged breath, hugging ’Veshka tight, “I wish to the god I’d never thought about a bear.”
He puzzled ’Veshka. He felt her wondering. But her wondering had only one voice now.
Sasha said, “We’re not finished yet,” and walked away from them, toward the fire, a figure like the one burned into his memory.
He asked fearfully, “What’s he doing? What in hell’s he doing? —’Veshka?”
She kept her arm around him and guided him in the same direction, saying, “He’s going to send them home.”
He had apprehensions about that. He had no wish to come near that fire. But he walked with her. He stood shaking in the knees while ’Veshka and Sasha wished something together—
And flinched at a cold spot going through him, shuddered at another. In a moment ghosts were whirling into the fire like leaves, white wisps shredding on the winds, rising in the smoke.
He heard Uulamets’ voice say, out of nowhere, Forgive my wife. She destroyed Malenkova. But Malenkova’s beast was too much for her. She was all its purpose… ultimately, that’s all she was…
That shape followed the others into the fire. Eveshka’s hand clenched on his.
A white, filmy owl glided past, on broad wings—and a young ghost reached up and let it settle on his hand. That one turned and looked at them, quite solemnly, and whirled away into the smoke.
A spot ached, next Pyetr’s heart, the god knew why.
’Veshka held his hand tight, ’Veshka held it till it hurt.
29
Volkhi and Missy had their misgivings about the place. It took, Sasha said, some considerable wishing and a good many bribes to get them back. But they wasted no time in that clearing, with its burned-out house beneath the hill—Sasha on Missy and Pyetr with Eveshka riding behind him on Volkhi, with her arms about him, her head against his shoulders.
She wanted him to know about the child. She wanted him to know, while they rode through the dark, that she would not come home, she would only go with them as far as the boat.
He said, “That’s nonsense. That’s nonsense, ’Veshka.”
“You don’t understand, Pyetr.”
He put his hands over hers, about his middle. He said, “Chernevog said I’m much too young to understand. But we got along.”
One hand clenched and unclenched. He had made her mad. She did not forgive Chernevog. Forgiving, she wanted him to know, did not come easily to her. She would wish him to forget Chernevog and everything about him—except that scared her, disarming him scared her—in the case there was some wish still in him.
He said, “Well; you’d better not stay on the boat, then, had on me, to be sure I behave.”
That upset her, too. She wanted him to know something very complicated, about wanting things of him and not knowing she was wanting them: she was upset about that, she swore she would never do it again, she wanted him to know that. She had done badly with a husband and she had no idea how she was going to manage a child. “I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t even know what the child might be—”