"Eveshka, do you hear me? Kavi's using that boy. He's sending him here, to open the door. He'll follow. And you know how your husband will fare then. What are you going to do, 'Veshka?"
"I can't think, mama, just shut up!"
"You can't stop doubting, can you? Doubt's the enemy of magic . . . and its friend. Doubt keeps our magic from running wild, keeps idle wishes from leaping the barriers of our thought, gives us that little space, that very little breathing space ... for thinking things through. But you can't let doubt rule your life. Follow me now. Follow, me. It's not so far a step."
She wished not. Her head was spinning. Sight and sound came and went, near and far by turns.
"It's not so far," Draga said. "All you have to do is want the strength, really want to have it."
"I can't!"
" 'Veshka. Just follow me. One perfect wish. One wish for everything you want. Is that so hard? Your husband—your home—your young friend—isn't that really what you'd choose, over everything in the world?''
"No!" she cried, and pressed her hands to her mouth, appalled at what leapt out of her—but when she tried to want only Pyetr, doubt came flooding over her, doubt made her wonder if she loved him or if she loved herself more—until her heart ached and she felt herself about to faint.
Her mother said, looking her in the eyes, "You love your husband, don't you?"
"Yes!"
"More than anything else? What's important, 'Veshka? Do you know at all? What are you going to do with it if you get it?''
Everything in the world was in doubt. Eveshka clenched her hands between her knees, and tried to know that answer. Save Pyetr, she thought. But her father would say, Fool!
‘‘When you wish for magic,'' her mother said, scarcely louder than the crackle of the fire, "be very sure you demand enough— because this is a bargaining. Forever and ever, you'll exist in the magical realm to whatever degree you decide now. And you'll decide now how much of nature you'll keep—you'll have no more than that.''
"You're frightening me."
"I mean to, dear. This is deadly serious. Know what you want. Decide how much you need. And for what. Do you want love? Or do you want magic?"
‘‘I want to be strong enough!''
"Are you?"
"I don't know!"
"God, girl! Perish your ambivalence! What do you want? What, exactly, do you want?"
"I don't know, mama, I don't know!"
"Do you want your husband? Or do you want your freedom?"
Free? she thought. There's this damn baby—
God, what does it mean to it? Or to Pyetr?
‘‘It means whatever you want for the baby,'' her mother said. ‘‘Kavi certainly doesn't want it born—unless he can get his hands on it. Do you want a baby? That's the question. Do you really want a husband? Was it a husband you wanted in the first place, or was it freedom from your father? You have that now. What will you settle for?"
"Let me think!" she cried, raking a hand through her hair that trailed loose about her face. She could not dismiss her unease, nor her misgivings, and the doubt was the same doubt, always the same doubt, that she simply could not make up her mind, ever.
God, I don't know if I want a baby.
"Defend it," Draga said. "Or be rid of it—if it's not more important already than you've wished yourself to be."
"It's my husband's, too—"
"Then defend him," Draga said, "—if you want either. I've kept us hidden. That's ending. All this time, all these years, I've been waiting for you. The two of us can beat him, dear. Two of us with the same mind can raise help enough to beat him."
"What, mama?" she cried. "Shapeshifters and the like?"
"They're quite harmless—if you command them."
"They're vile!"
"Nothing is vile, dear, except helplessness. You've kept your heart—you did decide that, I hope. I hope it wasn't simply lack of decision. Do you want me to carry it for you? I can.''
"No!"
"Or Brodyachi could carry two—if that would clear your thinking. Dear, we can't wait here for the world to be better. Take it as it is."
"No!" she said.
' "Then what will you have it be?''
"Mother, just let me think, let me think!" She rested her head on her hands, she tried to shape her wish, but even thinking of Pyetr she could conjure no certainty, and her eyes burned and her nose ran disgustingly. She wiped at it, and wiped at her eyes, and wanted—
Something shapeless and far-reaching and angry—in a moment at the edge of thought, the edge of exhaustion and smoke-bred dreams.
Wanted—
God!
Her heart jumped, her head came up, she found herself looking into yellow eyes, brown face.
Terror struck her like winter wind. She was eye to eye with Brodyachi, thinking, Where was he? Where did he come from?
"He's been here," her mother said, touching her arm, compelling her attention. "He's been here all along. Don't be afraid. Kavi wants that. But you don't have to be."
There was something outside the door. She knew that there was something outside the door—and there could not be. Brodyachi was here, quite calm. Brodyachi certainly would permit nothing foreign near her mother.
"You're safe," her mother said. "You're all right, dear."
She looked askance at the door, she listened to her mother speaking to her, telling her not to be afraid—and something was there. She knew that it was, a sense of presence absolute and dreadful.
Out there was what she had called, and it was all Draga had said and all the belief she could muster—
"Daughter?" Draga said.
She had to get up, she had to go to that door, no matter how dreadful the answer, it was an answer, it was her answer, once for all. She put her hand on the latch, she pulled it up and pulled the door back-Wolves met her. The pack surged at her.
Not attacking, no, not snapping at her . . . accepting her, swirling about her, tugging at her skirts, her hands, with gentle jaws. Their thoughts were like their movements: everywhere, constantly changing, as Draga stepped back against the fireside, as Brodyachi drew back and bristled up, threatening with a massive paw—
She was not afraid any longer. The wolves were everywhere about her, they occupied the door, they pressed against her legs, they saw everything, wolves, and not wolves—chaotic as leaven in a gale. Nothing could catch them. No single wish could hold them—no single wish could find them all at once, or compass all their darting thoughts.
She looked at Draga—knew, suddenly, there was no question of her mother's ultimate, ineluctable treachery. But her mother said, "Malenkova," and her thoughts whirled and spun, recognizing that name from the inside.
Draga wanted—things that did not interest her. Her own way interested her. What fled her interested her. Mostly she wanted what belonged to her. She recollected—indeed, she had never forgotten—she wanted Sasha. Sasha had to do what he was told, join her, stop thinking he knew everything.
There was thunder in the distance. The wolves heard it, and pricked up their ears, though her own ears could not hear it. She tought, That's Kavi's working. Kavi wants Sasha to come here and confuse us. Kavi's calling on whatever will listen to him.
She wanted what was hers, that was all, she wanted everything that was hers to be where she could see it and watch it— everything she loved, in one place, in her keeping, never scaring her again. That was what she wanted.
No more foolishness. None from Sasha, and none from Pyetr. They would do what she told them, she would take care of them and they would be happy.
And for Kavi, who threatened what was hers—
The anger turned over and over in her, paced on multiple paws, looked through multiple eyes, anger with no limits and no conscience at all. Draga looked at her with a satisfying tear, wanted things of her, wanted certain things of no interest to her, but that was very well, she sensed a clear direction in Draga, interests which made one thing more important t
han other things. Draga wanted her to listen and understand, but Draga was only one more voice clamoring for her attention, and her consent, and her intent, which had many feet and many directions.
She wanted things of Draga, all in her own interest, and Draga would do them: Draga had tried to escape many times, but Draga was a fragment not much more than the wolves, more determined than the rest, perhaps—able to compel a direction. Otherwise the pieces came together by chance, or when a few purposes coincided. In Draga's presence things did come together. She said, "Go on," because Draga knew what to do, Draga and she quite well agreed on certain things and the rest absolutely did not interest her.
26
Rain drizzled down through the canopy, glistened in gray daylight on forest mold and living leaves, a grim, soggy kind of morning that sneaked through the trees without the cheer of sunlight. Sasha walked, Missy being by now very sore and very tired: Babi rested among the packs she carried, a small black ball with unhappy, wary eyes. Babi weighed very little in that form; and Missy liked his presence there: Yard-things she had known would stay close by stables, and horses outside their yards were outside their watching—but this one stayed right with her, and combed her mane and tail and warmed her back.
Sasha knew this, riding Missy's thoughts, clinging to a lock of Missy's mane for balance, his two feet and Missy's four being damnably difficult to manage at once, not mentioning that Missy thought a great deal about what she was seeing on the ground and around and behind her, and about how her legs ached and her stomach was truly, awfully empty, even considering there had indeed been apples and grain a while ago. Missy was unhappy and worried in this deep tangle of woods, in which anything might hide. She could hear the rain sneaking up on them.
Sasha worried for other reasons, and dared not stay overlong listening to Missy, because there were things he feared Missy's nose might not smell nor her ears and eyes detect.
Babi would be aware of them. And when Babi suddenly growled and lifted his head from his paws Sasha wished Missy to stop and to stand still for a moment.
He put out his hand to comfort Babi, to reassure him.
Babi hissed, scrambled up and bristled, and before Sasha could draw his hand back, Babi snapped at him and vanished into thin air.
Not that Babi had not hissed at him before—Babi hissed and growled at all his friends—but never with such anger.
And never offered to bite. God!
"Babi?" he said, more shaken now he thought of it than in the instant he was saving his hand. "Babi, what's wrong?"
As if—he thought—it might have been him Babi was growling at, as if Babi had suddenly failed to recognize him, or to recognize him as a friend.
He could not recall now what he had just been thinking, or whether he had done anything that might have offended Babi; or whether—
Whether something had just gone wrong in a way Babi could not accept, something to do with things he had done—like leaving Pyetr.
God, no, he must not think of that, he dared not think about that, dared not, for Pyetr's own sake, and his, and 'Veshka's. "Come on," he said, "Missy, there's a girl, let's just keep going."
Missy was so tired, so very tired and making her go on was Not Fair. The bang-thumps were coming, and the wind, and she was wet and shivery and too tired to run when they got here. It was Not Fair. She had rather stand here and rest till they did. She saw no grabby-things. Was there an apple?
Later, he promised her. "There's no time," he said, and pulled on her reins and led her, promising her apples, promising her a currying if she would only keep going and watch her feet, god, . . . "Please, Missy."
She liked him. It was a good thing for him.
There was nothing left in either of them but aches. He had fed Missy, gathered what he could, not forgetting the salt, which he had dumped in a bag to itself and kept slung from his shoulder. Damn, he wanted Babi back. He did not count the vodyanoi gone in any reckoning; bright sun drove it deep under water or earth, but there was none, and dry land inconvenienced it, but there was damned little dry this morning.
Damn, damn! he did not like the feeling he was having, as if something was out there, pacing him—and ahead of him—
Just ahead was a place that did not match the rest of the forest. He could not decide how it was different: it felt like forest, it felt almost like this one, but it—moved toward him—like a cloud boundary coming across the ground: but this was nothing visible: it was a sound, a feeling of coolth or earthiness. He had time to think: I don't like this, —and to take Missy's bridle and to wish them both well before it broke over them like a sudden dizziness, a sudden lack of breath—
"Oh, god!" he cried, wishing not, but it widened, sweeping over them and rolling through the woods, well past them before it stopped and held. He wanted to keep breathing, he wanted himself and Missy safe from it, and when he wondered, he could not help it, who was doing this—
Eveshka wanted him, right now, Eveshka was—
It felt like echoes, as if Eveshka was talking to him from the bottom of a well and echoing so he could not make out what she was saying, the sense of her presence and her wanting him doing the same thing, wanting the way a horde of ghosts wanted—it felt like that; and Missy started to sink down, her legs buckling.
"No," he wished her, pulled on the bridle and drew up strength out of her body and his, pulled her around and kept pulling at her, step after faltering step. "Come on, girl, come on, keep going, 'Veshka's being a fool—we don't want to talk to her."
Anger echoed around him, a change in the sense of things, at least. His head spun, his heart skipped beats, he had no idea what Eveshka wanted.
But there was the edge in the woods ahead. He pulled violently at Missy's halter, wanted her, dammit! to keep going, he was not going to leave her on this side of the trouble, not going to let her die here. He could feel the edge coming, the place where the magic stopped—but he was so tired, and what swirled around them offered all the answers and all the strength he needed, if he would take it—
The strength it was taking it would give back—it promised.
"Come on!" he wished Missy, pleaded with her, being only Missy then, only Missy, who, suddenly understanding a way out, called up something on her own, remembering town and the hill and her person shouting to her. She drew up her own strength and shoved with her legs, one heave and another, hauling against the heaviest load and the steepest hill she had ever known-She went down, not on stone, on soft dirt—threw her head up and tried to get up again.
Sasha wished not, told her she had done it, she was safe-down on his knees himself, and lying on Missy's shoulder, with the whole world spinning and fading a moment.
It did not want to kill him. It had let him know that. It wanted his silence and his compliance and his heart.
No, he told it, and he was not sure what it would do, but it was not going to get any of that—no.
The babble started again, near him, and he leaned against Missy's shoulder and tried just to hold on and not listen to it— while it told him he had to listen, it wanted Pyetr, it wanted him, it offered them a refuge where Chernevog could not reach them, and he had to see to that—do something—where his hands could reach and her magic could not.
It said, out of the confusion—he thought it sounded like Eveshka, at least it had her voice: I can stop Kavi. But not while he can use Pyetr against me. Get him out of Kavi's hands. Get him away. Do just one thing right, damn your pigheaded arrogance, and I'll forgive you what you've done.
It said, in a quiet tone: You're nothing but my father's wish, Sasha. You're his last damned wish in the world, and you've made all his mistakes. Don't kill Pyetr for him. Hear me? And don't come here until you have him. Rain spattered down, a patter through the leaves, cold huge drops, that hit like blows and left numbness where they struck. But not enough. He clung to Missy's shoulder and held on, eyes shut, with a knot of pain inside that he had to hold, had to go on thinking about—
&nbs
p; Most of all, not go crazy with—god, not let it loose-Aunt Ilenka saying, I know who's the bad luck in this house— A cracked teacup, that a wish still held— Missy grunted, moved one leg, another. Missy had a cramp.
She was getting wet and the ground was cold. She did not know why she was sitting here, but she had caught her breath, and this was not comfortable.
Sasha thought, himself, We can't go any farther. He thought Missy needs help.
He got up, he got her reins untangled, he got the packs off her back and shoved hard at her rump, shoved hard a second time as she got her feet to bear. She stood, dropped her head and shook herself, a spatter of muddy water.
He hugged her neck, he said, "Good girl," and patted her shoulder, while the rain came down. The knot had gone from his chest to his throat, and stung his eyes—pain wanting his attention, which was not going to do a damned thing useful with the rain pouring down on them and whatever that had been telling him things that upended everything he had thought he knew. A heart could hurt. He could ignore it or he could let Missy carry it, but he thought, There's time for that: I don't have to listen to it. He gathered up the baggage, he got into the pack with the apples and gave Missy two. He wrapped up in the canvas with a fistful of dried berries and nibbled on them, in the notion that his body had spent too much and that borrowing was also a decision he did not want to make yet.
He thought, testing his reasoning, I've never felt anything like what just happened.
He thought, It's much stronger than I am.
And, carefully: It was this way and that. It wasn't like a wizard, but it sounded like 'Veshka. It said what 'Veshka might say. She would be mad at me. I don't doubt that. But if it is 'Veshka she's not doing well, is she? That's what Pyetr would say. She's not doing well. . . .
She says I'm a wish. So's a rusalka. A rusalka's a terribly strong wish. She's her own wish. In some measure she's her father's. He wanted her alive. She says Uulamets didn't know what he was doing. But the leshys never said that. The leshys said, Take Chernevog to Uulamets. . . .
I didn't do that, did I? Things went wrong. Things are still going wrong. And of magical things I'd trust the leshys. I'd trust Babi. Babi just doesn't trust me right now. Why?