And she would be right.
Yvgenie became aware of breaking daylight at the same moment he discovered his legs were asleep, he was propped against a tree and he had his arms mostly around Ilyana. There seemed no polite way at the moment to move his legs, the stretch of which was making his back ache terribly, so he sat there in pain, trying to recall, god, what had happened last night, or what he had done last night.
He leaned his head back and looked about at the trees, at the first glimmer of light on the branches, at the horses making a breakfast off spring leaves, and tried not to recall that too vivid sense of life that had driven sense from him.
Fatal, ultimately, the ghost whispered to him. I lend you pleasure I daren’t feel. I’d lose all sanity, else. You’re all the protection we have, Ilyana and I…
He bit his lip, looked desperately up at the branches and thought—
Sanity?
He shifted his legs without thinking, and Ilyana stirred in his arms, put her hands on his shoulders and pushed back from him, eyes wide.
“I’m sorry,” he said, but Chernevog said, softly, “Good morning, Ilyana.”
She looked alarmed and struggled against him to be free. He wanted to let her go, but the ghost pulled her against him and kissed her long and passionately, wanting—
Oh, god, no!
The world went dizzy. He forgot to breathe, until she had to, and fought for breath and reason. He made a clumsy reach for the tree behind him and purchase on the leaf-strewn ground, wanting to straighten his legs. He felt—
—not angry, no—shaken inside and out, and tingling with a feeling he had never had. He did not want the ghost doing that again, or anything else it had in mind. He struggled to stand up, to little avail, and found himself trapped with Ilyana staring at him as if trying to decide which of them was responsible.
He whispered, “I’m terribly sorry,” then thought that he could have said something more flattering. He tried to amend that—and it still came out, “Be careful, please be more careful, miss,” or something as foolish, as she took his hand, which was filthy with bits of leaf and dirt, and tried to help him.
Strength came flooding back to his legs, numbness easing unnaturally quickly. He stood up, he disengaged his hand and wiped it clean as something cold whisked through him, something of more substance than a passing chill.
Owl, he thought.
“Are you all right?” Ilyana asked him.
He answered, “He’s very well, thank you, miss.” And added, with an effort, “Please—you oughtn’t to trust him that far—”
He wanted to take her in his arms himself. Instead he shoved away from the tree and staggered off toward the horses, while the ghost inside him—he was sure it was the ghost—said, without words.
Yvgenie Pavlovitch, you’re a fool.
The boat scraped something and shuddered aside. Eveshka waked with a start as the tiller bucked beneath her arm, saw trees in front of the sail, shoved over hard, and hauled on the sheets, heart pounding as the old ferry skimmed the shoreline. Its hull rubbing its length along some barrier.
She had not intended to sleep. The wind had carried the boat the god only knew how far—she felt grinding scrapes that threatened to take the side out, and wished desperately for a breeze to touch the sail and give her way to steer away from the shore. None was at hand. The trees were too tall and too near, shadowing her from the wind.
The boat scraped rock, as the shore wound outward across the bow. She leaned on the tiller.
The hull glided over sand. Hard. And cleared.
A breeze. Any breeze, god—no matter the direction.
The boat glided into calm water, between the shore and the bar, where a small stream joined the river. She worked frantically to bring the bow around, to catch whatever breeze the stream course might let escape to bear on the sail, but the breeze there was scarcely stirred the canvas. Only rain and gale, she feared, might free the boat from this trap.
She struck the tiller bar with her hand.
Not an accident. Not by any means an accident.
Something different rubbed against the hull, then splashed the surface and chuckled with a familiar sound. She left the tiller in its loop of rope and strode to the rail. “Damn you, Hwiuur!”
Another splash. The vodyanoi could not bear the rising sun. There was no chance it meant to put itself in her reach at the edge of daylight: it kept to the shadow of the boat, the deep water, and only soft laughter and a spreading ring of ripples told where it skimmed the sandbar on its way to the open river.
Something dark red floated in the shadow of the boat, scarcely visible in this change between dawn and day: a scrap of embroidered cloth.
She had stitched that design herself, sewn wishes into the cloth, to keep Pyetr safe and warm—his coat, that was what! Hwiuur had brought her—
“Hwiuur!” she shouted. “Come back here!”
But it had the edge it wanted. It spread doubt like poison, it scattered her wishes like leaves on the water. And it laughed, somewhere out of wizardry reach, in that place she remembered how to enter—but dared not, living.
Sunrise in the deep woods brought scant relief from the clammy chill of earth and air which long since had dampened their clothing and their blankets. Sasha folded up his book quietly searched their packs for food and stirred up breakfast.
Pyetr opened his eyes hi the midst of this, felt of the blanket across his chest and looked hi his direction.
“Pain?” Sasha asked him.
“No.” Pyetr struggled up on his elbows, filthy, bloody and ghastly pale between the beginning dawn and the fire light. He pulled the stiffened cloth away from his shoulder took a look and murmured, “God.”
“No argument out of you. Breakfast is just about ready. Hot tea. You’re not going off this time by yourself.”
“Don’t wish at me!” Pyetr sat upright too quickly and leaned his head into his hands. “I’m sorry. You’re right. You were right in the first place. Everything I’ve done has cost us time.”
So he did remember. Sasha poured a cup of tea, wishing his hands not to shake with cold and sleeplessness. “We do as much as we can do. Despair is never our friend. And we’re not really behind Missy’s pace, as happens, though I’d have a bit more sleep.—Here.”
Pyetr edged over and took the tea, held the cup in both hands to drink it. Sasha turned the cakes and poured his own cup.
Across the fire, Babi waited, black eyes glittering with his of cakes, one could be sure. There was certainly one for Babi, yes, indeed there was, especially for him.
“Had the salt in my coat pocket,” Pyetr said. “Lot of that did. Damned snake’s gotten clever. Where is my coat?”
“I don’t know. Gone, I fear. I looked, but the god only knows how far it dragged you. Have mine: it’s yours, anyway; and I can wish myself warm.”
“We have blankets. A cloak’s all I need.” All I deserve— was the thought in Pyetr’s mind. “—Have you heard anything since last night?”
Sasha slid a cake onto a leaf and set it down for Babi, all his own. “No.” He slipped the other two onto plates and offered one to Pyetr. “But we’re not going to go breakneck into this.”
Pyetr scowled at his caution, then said, looking glumly to his breakfast, “If I hadn’t been so damned stupid—”
“Don’t—” he started to say—stopped himself; but thinking it was enough.
“It’s my f-fault,” Pyetr declared fiercely, piece by piece, painful concentration against his wish. “If you could just for god’s sake t-tell her—”
“I can’t. I can’t make her hear me. So you listen to me, please, Pyetr.”