Yvgenie (35 page)

Shadow fell between him and the light, shadow of a face, and something touched his arm. Ilyana said he should wake, they should go on now, where they were, and that helped him to the light. He struggled up on his elbows and to his knees, in a world gray and faint, shadowed with cloud like his dream. He saw Ilyana gathering up Patches' saddle and felt for some reason that the dream was still going on, that it
was a
presentiment to do with where they were going, that
he had
always known where the chase must end.

A
place of thorns. And wolves. He had run that corridor
of thorn
s and they would find him there—or had run it, al
ready
. He longed for that meeting, and for the sight of Pyetr's no matter how dreadful the moment, because after that
he woul
d not be alone with his dreams. After that—

‘
Y
v
g
enie,
’
Ilyana said.

He
thought, There's safety there. Somehow there's safety,
but
not the sort I want to find, and not a place she belongs
. She
won't forgive me, she won't ever forgive me for it.

As
Owl brushed his face with a wing tip.

Why do I feel that all my choices were long ago?

Why does it seem I'm remembering all of this? Yvgenie, Yvgenie, boy, don't sleep yet, it's not time to sleep that deeply. Wake up, saddle the horse and let's be moving.

P
yetr was my friend once, boy. You missed really knowing him. But he was in that place. Or he will be, again, and we might just die there. Maybe that's what all this is leading to.
Or
from.

He waked on his feet, with the saddle in mid-heft, aimed toward Bielitsa's back. It landed clumsily, and he straightened it and warmed his hands against her, knowing the risk in what he was doing, and the risk in where they were, and the dream he dreamed—but he did what he could. He saw Ilyana climb into the saddle. She had her hair in braids, the way it had been in the yard that day, when he was noticing edges of grass, and sunlight. He saw her that way now, as if he were slipping toward the dark and she were still standing in the light: the whole world was fragile, and poised to slip away—or he was already leaving it.

Sasha waked with his arm asleep, and with someone lying tangled on the cold earth with him—Pyetr, he was certain. Pyetr, now he remembered it, had been reasoning with a very foolish wizard who had had the safe ground fall from under his feet—

He could
feel
his old master's knowledge stirring at
the
depth of his memory once he thought sanely about it, a di
s
covery Uulamets had made and hidden from him, writ
ing
the one Great Lie in his book—the one that obscured all
the
other truths.

God, I
know
what he used when he brought Eveshka ba
ck
. I
know
what Uulamets did to reach back from the grave
—a
ll the questions I couldn't answer then I know; and it's to
o
damned easy. One daren't even breathe, knowing it!

But breath did come—and with it, awareness of the
whole
world, brittle, prone to fracture at the very curiosity th
at
discovered its substance. It was indeed Pyetr tangled
with
him—one
knew
Pyetr's presence, and one could hear t
he
rough, raw echo of the earth, feel the cold mustiness of d
e
a
d
leaves, the acrid smoldering of embers, and the fragility a sleeping and half-dead—

—
girl
.

His eyes flew open. His hand jerked toward the ground
and pressed wet, gritty leaves. His waking vision was exactly
the same: a girl was sleeping peacefully beside them, a girl with long blond braids, wearing gilt and blue silk
embroi
dered with flowers. Mouse, he all but exclaimed at first
glance, except she did not
sound
like the mouse, not inside.
She sounded—

Pyetr bruised his ribs and
his leg sitting up, sharp,
welcome
pain, that shoved the noisy world back, and
convince him
most welcomely that Pyetr saw the same thing.

‘
What in hell?
’
Pyetr breathed.

Whereupon the girl's eyes opened and she stared at them
both as if they had fallen out of the moon—or she had.

‘
Who is
she?
'' Count on Pyetr to ask the critical question, count on Pyetr to grab him by the shoulder at the brink of wondering too much too fast—as the girl thrust herself up on her arms, staring at them, frozen, quiet. Blue eyes, straw-colored hair that trailed free about a frightened face—

A rich girl's gown all tattered and bedraggled, gilt threads torn, scratches on her hands—

Yvgenie,
’
Pyetr muttered, in the same moment Sasha
thoug
ht, too, of a red silk shirt and gilt collar.

Th
e girl asked—she could hardly ask, she was shivering
so:
‘
Are you his f-father's men?''

‘
I assure you, no,
’
Pyetr said fervently, and the girl:

'' Do you know where he is?
‘

No, Sasha warned Pyetr without half-thinking, and was
sure
on a second thought that he was right. Brave as this
to
wnbred girl might be, it was more than embroidery was
ra
v
e
led, surely, and it was more than young foolishness had
bro
ught her to them. Absolutely, magic was loose.

‘
We should make a fire,
’
he said, nudging Pyetr's
arm
, wishing him to understand and be careful what he said.
‘
Have breakfast.
’
The pan was lying next last night's fire,
with
last night's overdone cakes in it. The vodka jug sat
be
side it. He picked up the pan and offered it to the girl.
‘
There are cakes if you'd like a bite—they're cold, I'm afraid.
We haven't time to cook this morning. But we can make
t
ea—
’

‘
We need to find the horses,
’
Pyetr said sharply, giving
h
is shoulder a shake.
‘
We need to find Babi, dammit. The
b
oy wasn't alone, we can figure that, but we can ask her
qu
estions while we're moving.
’

‘
She's not a shapeshifter,'' he assured Pyetr, in case Pyetr was in doubt. He was virtually certain of it.
‘
One of that kind would have
been
the mouse to our eyes.
’
He made smother offer of their untouched supper, wishing the girl to
t
rust them at least that far, quite ruthlessly: she was white as
a
ghost herself, and her trembling, he was sure, was not all
fr
om fright. The forest offered food to woodsmen, not to a
gi
rl in silk and gilt.
‘
Go on. It's all right. Take them.
’

She took
the pan, perforce, asking,
‘
Please—where's Yvgenie?''

‘
With my daughter,
’
Pyetr said harshly, and, leaning on Sasha's shoulder, got to his feet.
‘
Somewhere in this woods. We're looking for them. We've been looking for them for two damned days now.
’

Pyetr had been a long time from his courtly youth and
the
idle flattering of young ladies—Pyetr was in a hurry,
the
mouse was in dire danger, and he both frightened the girl and reassured her of his ultimate intentions, Sasha caught
it
in the girl's thoughts and in the glance she gave Pyetr—the hope that they were not liars and that there
was
truly a lost daughter and a wife and a house and everything that could make two strange men reliable and respectable.

God, she was so beautiful.

‘
The horses,
’
Pyetr reminded him, and shook at his shoulder.
‘
Sasha.
’

The horses were out in the woods. Not far. Babi was with them, one of those occasional times one could feel Babi's presence, fierce and warm as a cat with kittens.

‘
Sasha.
’

‘
They're all right. They're coming.
’
He watched the girl break off a bit of cake in fingers that surely had never seen rough use before this woods, and said to Pyetr, absently, out of the welter of thoughts absorbing him,
‘
It was leshys last night. They risked a fire bringing her to us, Pyetr. You know how they hate fires. Let's not question a gift, shall we?
’

‘
The leshys could damned well stay for tea if they'd an interest in co—
’

A branch fell, breaking branches below it, over their heads.
‘
Move!
’
Sasha said—and Pyetr stepped aside just in time, scowling up into the branches.

There was anger from the woods too, deep and dangerous. The leshys are upset at us, he thought. They've a surfeit of wizards on their hands. Young leshys. They don'
t know us, but they're watching
... He said to Pyetr, never taking his eyes off the girl, who had frozen:
‘
Fire. Tea.
’
And to the girl:
‘
We've odd friends. Don't be alarmed. Clearly they were the ones who brought you here. We assume there was reason.
’

She only stared at him with wide, stricken eyes. Pyetr had walked over to the deadfall and began breaking it up for fire—be
careful,
he wished Pyetr, feeling the precariousness
of the s
ituation, hoping the leshy watching from the treetops
would
not take offense, and saw to his chagrin how he had
left his b
ook last night, with the inkpot left open. He hastily
began t
o put
that
away, and to stow all the books out of
reach—t
hough there seemed no danger to them from a single
frightened
girl, who looked at them, between bites of cold
cake a
s if she and they had collectively lost their wits.

She a
sked, swallowing a mouthful:
‘
You're a wizard,
aren’t
you?
’

He
made as courteous a bow as one could, sitting on the
ground.
‘
Sasha,
’
he said, raked his hair back and, to his
chagrin,
pulled a leaf from his hair.
‘
Alexander.
’
So
like in
m
ouse when she frowned like that.

‘
I've heard of you,
’
she said. (Of course. People did
k
now them downriver.)
‘
I thought you were—
’

What? he wondered helplessly.

‘
Older,
’
she said, in a way that meant
much
older, and
made
him feel like foolish fifteen again.

Wood landed beside him. Pyetr was annoyed, Pyetr
thou
ght he was woolgathering and Pyetr wanted the horse
right
now, dammit—he caught the edge of Pyetr's opinions, while Pyetr took the tea-pan to the rock that poured a thin
t
hread of water into a boggy puddle of a pool in this place. Sasha decided he should see to the fire, stuck a branch into
last
night's coals and wanted it to light. It did.