“How did he die?” he wanted to know—and that question echoed around and around in their heads, his fears, hers—
She did not, she had to admit, know that answer: he gave her a most vivid and grisly image of beasts and fangs and fire and she shivered and wanted not to have any more of it right now, please—
Because she had the most dreadful growing suspicion that papa was right and that Kavi had done something both wicked and desperate—though, not, she thought, by intent: surely if the boy had been drowning, he could be far worse off than having Kavi find him and hold him among the living—and Kavi would not have made him fall in the brook.
(Mouse, uncle would say, sternly—don’t hope things are so. Be sure. Know the truth, even if you don’t like it…)
But Yvgenie reached out his hand, then, across the space between Patches and Bielitsa. A touch of his fingers, that was all it needed for that wonderful tingling to run from her arm to her heart. She felt warm through, as if she no longer needed the sun.
Perhaps it was Kavi reassuring her and Yvgenie. Perhaps, in the way of ghosts, Kavi could not get their attention during the day, with all the distractions sunlight made. Night was the time for dreams, and things one had to see with the heart—and she was sure that kiss this morning had been Kavi same as the one last night—that had been—
—terribly dangerous. Don’t trust him that far, Yvgenie said—and Yvgenie had been unfailingly, painfully honest with her. Yvgenie felt some sort of threat to her—
The warmth changed. The tingling became like needles of ice—scarily different, making her dizzy. She thought, I won’t be afraid, no, I won’t be afraid, dammit, Kavi’s touched me before and he’s never hurt me, it’s only his borrowing—
And it’s not harmful. Uncle said it was—but papa admitted he’d felt it—and he’s still alive. My mother knew when to stop—and wouldn’t Kavi? Kavi loves me, he’s loved me for years.
He’s not very strong—he wasn’t on the river shore. The first time he kissed me, he borrowed enough to speak, that was all. He could hardly move the froth on the river: and Yvgenie being so tired, he borrows only a little, only a very little. He’s never threatened me. He said he’d never hurt me, that he had to do whatever I told him—he said he had no choice.
He said that he wanted it to be in this season, while he was with me—or I’d be alone—
Wanted what to be in this season, Kavi? What do you want of me? Is it love? Is it something else?
Suddenly she had a vision of vines and thorns, a great flat stone, and Owl lying on the ground, a real Owl, white feathers dewed with blood—at her father’s feet, her father with the sword sinking to his side. She looked up at her father, grieving for Owl—caring little at that moment if he cut her head off—
She trembled then, thinking, But Owl’s already dead; and papa would never kill anything—he’s never used his sword—
But memory scattered. There were gilt roofs. There were great pillars and people in fine clothing, and there was music and dancing while people whispered furtively in corners, about the Great Tsar, and murders—and betrayals she knew and could not, except by killing her own father, betray elsewhere.
Yvgenie cast a desperate look into the branches over them—
Seeking Owl, no matter that Owl had not a shred of love for him—only habit. And the hope of mice, that Kavi could lure close: small murders, to win Owl’s affection—but what else did one do, who loved Owl?
The ground told its own story—horses, men, and the ashes of fire.
Pyetr kicked at the cinders. “Damn.”
Sasha said, from Missy’s back: “Yvgenie’s father’s men.”
“ Looking for him, Yvgenie said.” Pyetr untied his sword from Volkhi’s baggage and slung it on. The horses assuredly had as soon be away, fretting at being held, switching their tails and twitching their skins at the mere sound of insects.
“Where’s Babi? Is he still with us?”
“A moment ago.”
“Hope there wasn’t a young one,” Pyetr muttered. “A doe. In springtime. Damn them.”
It was wizardry led his thought on Pyetr’s track, a simple wondering that brought him to a sight of monsters, a dreadful smell that meant Be absolutely still.
It knew that much. The rest was muddled in its thoughts, with blood and fear.
“God,” he muttered, and slid down from Missy’s back. He needed walk only a half a dozen paces to see a dappled hide beneath low hanging branches. Pyetr led Volkhi up beside him and stopped.
“Damn,” Pyetr said.
One wished—
A heaviness came down on them like sudden cloud, a feeling of menace in the sunlight that prickled the nape and constricted the breath. Missy fought the reins. Volkhi shied up and Pyetr grabbed for his bridle.
The brush shifted, and in a very slender trunk a me green eye opened.
Shout all one pleased, a leshy might be deaf to it. A leshy might hear instead the softest voice, might hear the break of a branch. Or the sound of a bowstring, where none had sounded in a hundred years.
This leshy was, as leshys reckoned, young as what it sheltered—perhaps it was wild and speechless. There were such. It offered not a word, only threat and anger.
“Little cousin,” Sasha said quietly, “my horse isn’t the enemy. She’s a very honest horse, and you’re scaring her.”
The twiggy fingers that sheltered the fawn could break rock and break bones—and the anger it cast at them was extreme. But breathing seemed easier, then.
“Where’s Misighi?” Pyetr asked it. “Young leshy, we need him very desperately.”
The brushy arms folded more tightly, screening the fawn from their eyes.
“There are good men downriver,” Sasha said. “Take the young one there. They’ll feed it. They’ll know it belongs to the forest and they’ll let it go again.”
There were both eyes now.
“Tell Misighi,” Sasha began.
One never believed a leshy’s moving when one saw it. It blurred in the eye, or it seemed not to be moving at all. There were suddenly a score or more such young leshys on either hillside, and the feeling of smothering grew. Rocks rumbled. The hill might have been coming down. It was a leshy voice, speaking no words that he could hear.
Come on, he wished Pyetr silently, and led Missy and reached back for Pyetr’s arm, walking with Pyetr past the leshy and its fellows, and on along the cleft of the hills.
The feeling lifted slowly. He looked back as Pyetr did, and patted Missy’s neck.
“In no good mood,” Pyetr breathed. “Dammit!”
“You shouldn’t—”
“—swear around them. I know, but dammit, Sasha, we need their help! What’s wrong with them! Where are the ones know? Where are Wiun and Misighi, and why won’t they speak to us?”
That no harm may come of my wishes—that’s the first thing I wish tonight: that my wishes be few and true, that second. And third, I wish my daughter to trust those who love her before she trusts those she loves.
Hearts are so breakable, Kavi used to say. He used to say, They’re safer where they can’t be touched. And if I could lend her mine tonight I would. But I’m not sorry enough for what I did. I can’t be. I’m not that changed from what I was. I’ve only a strong reason not to want things. And that’s not enough to take to my daughter.
What do I wish for my daughter? To find the wisdom I lack—because mine fails me. And to find—
Eveshka bit her lip and decided the quill had dried in the night wind. She did not want to finish that. She put the pen in the case and capped the inkwell.