Hwiuur screamed, reared back, Sasha knew what was happening: Uulamets saw it; and flinging an arm about him, Uulamets wished his sight clear, his ears to hear—
“Boy!” Uulamets said, while the light that blinded his eyes turned red, and black, and became a haze. “He’s coming out, boy, Chernevog’s coming out, never mind the River-thing—pay attention]”
Sasha blinked, wiped streaming eyes, and, looking toward the house, saw a fair-haired young man arrive on the porch and walk down toward them, holding a book in his arms.
“Pyetr!” Sasha called out, wanting him with them, suddenly, obsessively, fearing to have Pyetr out of sight: the feeling the lightnings brought was growing again, and of a sudden ghosts swirled about them, cold and shrieking. The lightning was going—was aiming in Pyetr’s vicinity—
It struck the tree instead, and the earth itself shook under their feet.
“Chernevog!” Uulamets shouted into the wind, wanting him, wanting his enemy’s attention and Sasha’s with unequivocal force. “Remember the teaching, remember, young fool, the things I told you about recklessness—”
A thin, blond-haired boy came to the river house, a sullen lad who held more power than was good for any young wizard, arrogant in his ways-Dangerous, Sasha thought. That boy had been a fool, gifted as he was…
Uulamets said, aloud, shouting against the wind: “I’ll teach you a new lesson, boy! There is a way to undo the past!”
“You’ve lost your wits, old man!”
“It’s very simple, Kavi, lad: know its effects; and cancel them!”
“Do you want the past, old man? I’ll give you the past!” Memories of Chernevog’s came, Draga, not Uulamets sitting by the hearth, with an open book: Chernevog a younger boy, no more than ten or twelve; or again, sixteen, in Draga’s bed—
“Draga’s lover!” Uulamets said aloud, and laughed with a sarcasm that made Sasha wince. “Father god, the woman leaves my bed, and takes to seducing pretty boys, no less! God, I should have known: you were too precocious. So it was all Draga. Did she set you to stealing, boy?”
The wailing of the ghosts faltered. “It wasn’t,” Chernevog said, “all Draga.”
“Ask yourself that.”
Another faltering.
“Poor boy,” Uulamets said.
“Poor boy,” Chernevog cried, and Sasha wished Chernevog’s attention centered on them both, wished Chernevog to know what they both knew of Draga; what he knew of Uula mets—himself, Chernevog’s successful replacement in Uulamets’ household—
What they both knew of consequences and wild magic, that from Uulamets—
The lightnings tried to gather. The air shivered with the power, with the ghosts screaming about them.
“I killed her,” Chernevog said, with his hair and theirs standing up, the wind swirling at them. He looked like a crazy man. “I killed her when she went too far with me, old man.—I slept with your wife, don’t you care about that?”
“No more than she did,” Uulamets said. “She used you, boy. She ate you alive.”
The lightning was going to strike, was going to strike, them or Chernevog. Sasha felt his hair rise, felt sparks dancing between his fingers—
And wished it onto the bathhouse again, a course no one was resisting, no one else expecting it. The ground shook, the ghosts screamed.
But of a sudden Pyetr was coming through the roiling smoke behind Chernevog: Sasha saw him, betrayed him with that quick, repented thought—and suddenly realized Pyetr a danger to them, diverting his attention from Uulamets, from their own defense, while more lightning crackled in the air.
Uulamets himself wished, then, and of a sudden—
Fed everything into Sasha’s hands, power that fed straight through to Pyetr, caught for a heart-beat motionless and then moving, Chernevog having caught the last lightning flash in his eyes: Pyetr hit him while he was turning, a single blow with a rock, in the same moment Uulamets himself fell against Sasha, Sasha distractedly, vainly trying to hold the old man as he slid through his arms to the ground.
Chernevog fell, Uulamets had fallen, the ghosts screamed away into silence, and Sasha was on his knees facing Pyetr over Uulamets and Chernevog both, still feeling Uulamets’ memories, but no longer feeling the source of them—only an overwhelming silence where a presence had been.
“Grandfather?” Pyetr asked, in the real-world crackle and roar of the burning house.
“I think he’s dead,” Sasha said, numbly, and saw Pyetr take up the rock again to break Chernevog’s skull once for all.
Maybe it was his wish that stopped Pyetr. Maybe it was Pyetr’s own, that brought his hand down slowly, and had sweat glistening on his face. “What in the god’s name-do we do with him?”
Memory said, so strongly Sasha shivered: Wish only good.
Memory stretched out his hand, the way Uulamets had done with him: he gently touched Chernevog on the brow, wishing him a long and dreamless sleep.
“Pyetr!” Eveshka cried from the direction of the fire: Sasha could see her, on the descent from the house, clinging to the rail and hurrying, smoke-smudges on her face, her tattered blue gown. Pyetr scrambled up and stumbled, catching himself with difficulty, but Eveshka ran, ran all-out toward him and into his arms, saying, “Sasha? Papa?”
Memory said, so clearly Sasha felt Uulamets die all over again: Do it, boy; and take care of my daughter-Memory said: To raise the dead—always costs the living.
And Sasha thought: He meant to kill Pyetr—or me. He didn’t care. He didn’t die for her. I had the way to Chernevog’s back: he had to give me everything to win, that was all.
He did not know what to say to Eveshka.
Finally he did say, because he wanted it over with, and he did not want to exist behind a mask with her: “He passed me everything.”
But he did not think Pyetr would understand.
“Help me get the fires out,” he said, when Eveshka said nothing, nor wept, only stood there, pale and distraught. She looked him in the eyes, then, and he stood up and looked at her with too many and too confused memories.
A long, long moment like that.
“What’s going on?” Pyetr said. “What’s happening, dammit?”
“The fire,” Sasha said to Eveshka. “Help me, please, Eveshka.”
They found the raven dead, a sodden lump of feathers near the splintered tree, and a long, long wallow down to the streamside.
Pyetr gathered it up, smoothed its feathers, felt a genuine sorrow for the creature that had defended him, even if it was a stupid bird; and he took it back and laid it beside Uulamets, where they were making a cairn around him, saying, defensively, “It ought to be with him.”
He had mixed feelings about the gesture then, because it made Eveshka cry, and she had not, until he said that.
CHAPTER 33
THEY MADE a small fire of shingles and bits of shattered wood, close by Chernevog’s sleeping body, to watch him as dark gathered—and close enough to him to keep him from the chill of the wind, the warmth from the charred timbers of the house growing less and less as the day waned, and blowing away from them, along with the smoke. It was a thoroughly stupid charity, Pyetr said as much: “Let him freeze,” was Pyetr’s comment.
But Pyetr had not broken Chernevog’s skull before, and Pyetr might indeed say things, but being a natural man was not obliged to mean them; and Pyetr was less willing to kill Chernevog now that his blood had cooled than he had been with the rock in his hand, or he would have done it. It was either Pyetr’s own reasons that stopped him, or, the god only knew and Sasha did not at this point, it was himself or Eveshka consistently forbidding it, all common sense and perhaps—the point Sasha could not yet work out for himself—all responsibility to the contrary.