The vodyanoi moved across him and weighed his arms. “Nasssty man. Don’t do that. Your daughter’s run off with fine rusalka. With our old friend Chernevog. Aren’t you interested?”
“Sasha!” he yelled. The vodyanoi chuckled softly and caressed his cheek with a scaly jaw.
“Oh, Sasha should have done something by now. So should pretty bones. So might your daughter—but she’s sleeping with Chernevog tonight. Such a dutiful child you’ve made. You should be so very proud.”
Coils went around and around him. He shut his eyes, trying to move that hand, or to make someone hear him, without magic, without anyone in earshot—
“Misighi!” he breathed, because there were things that were magical as the vodyanoi, that needed no spells to hear their names invoked—
Breath stopped. There was no room for it. Then something snarled and spat and rushed, hissing and spitting, across the dead leaves toward him. The vodyanoi reared up and hissed like water on hot iron, carrying him in its coils.
He had a view of the ground. Far below. Then came a sickening drop. Something attached to his leg—he thought, Hell—what is it?
Pain got through the numbness. The coils slipped away from him and let him go.
For what good that did.
Missy was exhausted. Missy trampled down the undergrowth in her path and simply plowed straight ahead, her breath coming hard—far too many apples and sweets from the kitchen over the years—she could not keep such a pace as she took now.
But she smelled something familiar and friendly. Her ears went up and she lifted her head for a look as she went, on a last reserve of strength. It was Volkhi she was thinking of, in Missy’s way, nothing to do with names: but Sasha knew what she smelled, he had wished Volkhi to come to them, and thank the god, Volkhi, alone of everything in the forest, seemed to have heard—Missy, if not him.
But where was Pyetr, he wondered of Volkhi, where had he left him, how long ago?
It was a thoroughly upset, thoroughly tired Volkhi, who did not know where his rider was, and who was sure he was in trouble for it. He arrived out of the brush like a piece of night, distraught, angry, his thoughts scattering every which way—
But he was willing to stand while Sasha slid off Missy and climbed up on his back. Volkhi thought it was stupid to go back where he knew there were snakes, but he would go, if everybody else was going. Volkhi was going to kick hell out of anything that moved back there.
Sasha agreed with him. He wanted leshys, he wanted the mouse’s attention, he wanted Pyetr’s, if he could reach him; and most urgently, knowing the name Volkhi did not, he the vodyanoi sliced and fried, if it harmed a hair on Pyetr’s head—
Hwiuur, you’re being a fool. Hurt him and I’ll get you for it, I’ll get you, Hwiuur, there’ll never be a day I’ll be off our track.
Then he was certain of a sudden where he was going—the slack of Missy’s reins taking up all but pulled him off Volkhi’s neck as Volkhi pricked up his ears and jolted into a brisker pace. Volkhi shook his head and protested with an I-know-you sound as Sasha reined him down to a pace Missy could keep. He wanted to go where Volkhi wanted to go, fast, and it was not helping hold Volkhi in at all.
Babi was the thought he began to sort out of Volkhi’s thoughts. Babi was no easy creature to wish and Babi would not tolerate eavesdropping—but the horses both could hear him. The horses had an idea of Babi that a man had trouble holding; but Volkhi was definitely answering him, in Volkhi’s way: Volkhi launched himself straight up a hill with a drive of his hindquarters, wanting more rein as Sasha tried to hold on to Missy and stay in the saddle, while if ever a horse could swear, Volkhi was swearing, fighting the reins all the way to hp crest, into a thin growth of saplings.
Something shone pale in the dark thicket below, a white scrap of cloth gleaming through interlaced branches—a body lying on the ground.
“Oh, god—” He almost let go of Missy’s reins, then recalled that all their medicines were on Missy’s back, and held on to Volkhi’s saddle and to her, begging her to hurry, please! While Volkhi fought him all the way down the hill.
He wanted Pyetr to be all right, he wanted the whole woods to know they were in trouble as he slid down from Volkhi’s back and shoved his way through the interlaced twigs of saplings. Babi was curled at Pyetr’s side, a very small, very black ball of fur that growled and hissed at him as he fell his knees.
Pyetr was lying on his stomach, one arm beneath him, his shirt stained dark on his right shoulder, and, god, he had bled enough for three men. He was still breathing—but only just.
His hands were shaking as he peeled Pyetr’s collar down and discovered a wound a sword might have made: a vodyanoi’s bite, he was sure of it. On both sides of the shoulder-and blood was still coming.
Nothing had been going right: nothing of his magic had worked, and he was never good at doctoring; he believed in pain more than he believed in his own magic, ’Veshka always said so. Uulamets might have dealt with a wound like this, ’Veshka could, little as she worked magic; even the mouse was better than he was—if it was baby birds or a wounded fox—
Stop shaking, fool. The old man’s voice echoed out of memory. Fool, master Uulamets had used to call him when he hesitated. —What’s more important, feeling or doing? One or the other, fool! Use your wits! Think!
—Warmth. Light to see with, herbs and wishes and bandages to stop the blood, do, fool! Don’t sit there! Wish while you’re working!
He scrambled up and broke dead branches off lower limbs, the driest wood there was; he untied his baggage from Missy’s back, got the medicines and the fire-pot—oily moss for tinder: he tucked a wad in beneath the twigs, struck a spark and wished it—dammit! to light straightaway, no messing about with might-be’s.
Candles tipping, spilling wax. The fireplace would not hold a fire, because in his heart he was afraid of it—
Dammit!
Fire took, the least point of light, and faltered. God, he was going to lose it—
—Please, please be all right, Pyetr, don’t do this to me. It’s no time for jokes, Pyetr, please wake up and talk to me, I’m not doing well at this! Someone’s wishes are winning, but not mine tonight—
The mouse is wishing us not to catch her and her generalities are killing us—
So wish the specific, fool! Decide and do! Specific always wins!
Second spark. No infinite number of chances. There was so much blood in a body, and magic had to want the fire, believe in the fire, one spark at a time, not flinch at the flames, not set out to fail from the beginning.
River stench clung strong about this place. Fire gave smoke, smoke of birch and alder, smoke of moss and herbs— and water gave way to it.
No time for medicines. Blood was flowing too fast. He laid hands on the wound while Babi’s fire-glittering black followed his every move. Babi was here, too, Babi was wanting things to work, no less than he was.
One did not need the smoke, one did not need the herbs, one needed only think of them—yarrow and willow, feverfew and sulfur—
Vodka. Babi’s eyes glowed like moons. But Babi stayed quite, quite still. And licked his lips.
Think of health. Think of home, with the crooked chimney and all. Think of ’Veshka and the mouse being there, and Pyetr, and himself—one did not need to touch, one needed only think of touching—and not even that—
But the sky in that image grayed, and the house weathered, and lost shingles—