It spoke so softly. And it struck so suddenly, out of the dark brush. Volkhi shied across the slope as Pyetr spied a glistening dark body coming at them across the leaves and signaled Volkhi to jump over it.
A snaky shadow whipped out of the trees, hit his shoulder a numbing blow—that was his only startled realization as his loot raked across Volkhi’s back and he left the saddle.
Missy was doing her best, poor horse, and for far too long there had been no answer from Pyetr—not a wisp of an impression where Pyetr was now. Nothing had passed the smothering silence from the moment Pyetr had ridden away, exactly what Sasha had feared would be the case. Pyetr had salt and sulfur with him, against noxious and magical creatures: he had given Pyetr that before he left the house.
But what with their arguing, and Pyetr rushing off, not hearing his warning—the god only hope, Sasha thought, that it was Ilyana’s doing and that Pyetr had in fact found her, because for all his wishing he got now a fleeting sense of fright—which gave him no ease either.
“Misighi!” he called from time to time—but there was nothing from their old friend—and from the young leshys no answer, unless the Forest-things were contributing to the uneasy feeling in the night. The creatures abhorred magic and wizards: they were never easy neighbors to sorcery, and it was certainly an uncomfortably unpredictable lot of wishes I hat had gotten loose in the woods tonight.
Worse, there was a distressing feeling of self-will about it all, an irrational lack of forethought, or thought at all, and it was all too easy for a young wizard to make that mistake: Chernevog had made that mistake in his own youth, and that the mouse had run away made him fear that Eveshka was right, that they were not dealing with the mouse in her right senses. That the mouse had left her father lying bleeding on the floor, never mind the pillow, gave him no confidence at all tonight.
In cold truth, he was scared, he was terrified of the mouse’s inexperience and her quick assumptions of persecution where none existed: Think, mouse, he wished her. Is it reasonable that everyone who loves you has turned against you? I’m worried about your decisions, mouse. I want to talk to you. I promise I won’t harm your young man.
But he feared his wishes died in the silence and he could not breach it. He was not the naive boy who had bespelled the vodka jug: the years had worn away his certainties; and now a day removed from the fire that had taken his house and so many of his notes, he could not shut his eyes without seeing the flames; and knowing the books were worth his life, knowing now that they had almost cost Pyetr’s, the more he thought about it the more he was, stupidly, belatedly, panicked.
Dammit, Pyetr, doesn’t the silence mean something to you?
Doesn’t the fact that you aren’t hearing from me—mean something?
Pyetr, dammit, notice that I’m not talking to you! Stop and wait! I don’t like what I’m feeling right now.
Misighi, do you hear me? Please hear me.
Then a faint, far thought did come to him.
“Pyetr?” he asked softly, and did not like—did not like the uneasiness he felt in the air. He suddenly wondered what Volkhi was up to: that seemed the safest question—
Volkhi was angry, his saddle was empty and he was frightened, exhausted and lost, in a place where Volkhi was sure there were snakes—which was, emphatically, Not His Fault.
“Misighi, dammit! Wake up!”
He wanted, oh, god Missy to hurry, please! because he could hear a very quiet voice now that he knew beyond a doubt what to listen for, a sibilant and mocking voice, wholly untrustworthy.
7
“Does its head hurt?” the vodyanoi asked out of the dark. It slithered over Pyetr’s leg, and back again, up against his cheek, wet and smelling of river water. Something unpleasant flickered lightly against his ear, inside it, and Pyetr could not move, not so much as lo case the arm that had gone numb under him.
It whispered within his ear, “Is it sorry now, is the man sorry now for his discourtesies?”
Get away from me, he wanted to say; but breath failed him. The vodyanoi’s serpent shape loomed up and up across the visible sky, and lowered, to nudge his chin familiarly with its blunt nose.
Salt and sulfur, he thought desperately. Salt and sulfur— in my pocket if I could reach it—
Did Volkhi get away?
“The horse ran, oh, yes, off into the woods. Maybe we can find him.” A coil fell across his chest, and grew heavier, crushing the breath out of him. “Or maybe not. You’re so fond of him. Maybe I’d rather eat him later. And no, you can’t reach it, nasty man.”
Sasha! He shut his eyes, thinking as sanely as he could: I’m in deep trouble, friend. Can you possibly hear me?— ’Veshka? Then, on another, calculating thought:—Mouse, your father’s in a damned lot of difficulty. Could we have some help, mouse? You could make things up with your mother… so much easier if I wasn’t this thing’s supper—
’Veshka! God, do something!
Heavier and heavier. He felt his ribs bending, felt the world turning around and around, dark shot through with colored fire. Hwiuur said, tongue flickering maddeningly against his ear, “No one’s listening. Perhaps it would be polite if I let it breathe a moment?”
He would. Yes. Anything to get feeling into his hand and find the salt, or his sword—not clever of him to think of that in the vodyanoi’s hearing, no. But Hwiuur’s weight eased all the same, and he gasped after the promised breath, thinking, What does he want? Whose is he this time, if not Chernevog’s?
—Who’s off in the woods with my daughter—
Oh, god, mouse, where are you?
The vodyanoi rose up and up, huge, darkening the night over him. “Is it polite now?”
“It’s very polite,” he whispered to that shadow, discovering he had a voice. “What do you want, Hwiuur?”
“Pretty bones is on the river tonight. And in my cave. What do you think about that?”
’Veshka. The god only knew what the snake meant about the cave. He risked another, deeper breath. “My wife’s not so easy to catch.”
The vodyanoi hissed and bent lower, sharp teeth looming above his face. “Very dangerous, very, very dangerous. Foolish man, to get a young one with pretty bones. Life in death. Death in life. Her bones are still in my cave, foolish man, and she hears the river every night in her dreams.”
“What about my daughter?”
“Such pretty, pretty bones. Tell Sasha, tell my dear, my sweet Sasha, that he’s been as much a fool as you have.”
“I’ll be happy to tell him. Make him hear me.”
“Oh, can’t he, now? Too, too bad. Then perhaps we can make a bargain without him, you and I?”
“Maybe.”
“Dangerous, dangerous man. What will you give me?”
“What are we dealing for?”
“Bonesss.” The vodyanoi slithered across his chest, beneath a numb leg and over it, under his back and around and around his body and still he could not move, not so much as n linger. “Bones, of course. What will you offer for them? What have you got to trade?”
He felt pain in his shoulder, apart from the general ache in his limbs. Another in his right hand, thinking of which, he tried to move if only a single finger—thinking, The damned snake’s bitten me—that’s what it’s done. Come on, dammit—god—
“Will you trade?” Hwiuur asked. “Nice, fresh bonesss, I wonder?”
He might have his sword by him, if starting with that ache in his shoulder, he could move at all. There was the salt—