He’d find Papa. He always did.
She hoped.
Anya returned the glove to Germogen’s perch and then snuck to the house. She opened the side door, peeking in to see who was up and about. Mama and Demyan were gone. Babulya and Dyedka sat at the table, silent, knitting and whittling, respectively. The domovoi sat in front of the oven, his shoulders slumped, picking at the toe of his shoe.
Anya knew she couldn’t do what she needed to do without supplies—extra clothes, at the very least—but she didn’t want anyone to see her. She didn’t want to talk to them and risk losing her nerve.
A hand touched her shoulder, and she spun, jumping. Ivan stood behind her, twisting his staff between his hands, eyes huge and filled with pity.
“Anya . . .” he started. She guessed he had heard about Papa.
She turned back around. She didn’t want him to stop her either. “Not now, Ivan. I’m busy.”
“You look like you’re just standing here,” he said. “Anya, I’m sorry about—”
“Don’t,” she snapped, then realized he wasn’t responsible for any of this. He didn’t deserve her anger. “I’m sorry. I just don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fair.” He shuffled his feet. “What are you doing?”
She sighed. “I’m trying to sneak in without being seen.”
He peered through the crack in the door. “Well, your babushka won’t see you. But I think your dyedushka will.”
“I know.” She stood in the fading daylight a little longer and then admitted, “I’m going to Rûm.”
He was quiet, and then slowly said, “Oh. I see.” Another pause. “To get your papa?”
“Yes.”
“Rûm is a long way away.”
“Don’t try to talk me out of it,” she said. “I can’t sit here any longer and let Mama suffer like she is.”
“I won’t try to talk you out of it,” Ivan said. “I’ll come with you.”
She turned to look at him. “You will?”
“Obviously,” he said. “You can’t go on an adventure without a fool. Plus, I’ve traveled more than you have. I have expertise.”
Anya snorted, but smiled. “That would be nice.”
“Do you want me to help you?” Ivan said, nodding toward the cracked-open door.
Anya peered back through the crack, watching her grandparents. “What could you do to help?”
“A distraction, probably,” Ivan said.
Anya lifted an eyebrow. “What kind of distraction?”
He shrugged, then looked pointedly at the barn. “Are the goats in there?”
“Yes.”
Ivan nodded and handed her his staff. She watched as he trotted across the yard and stopped in front of the barn. He put his hands on his hips, looked up at the top of the door, and then pulled the door handles. The doors swung open, and he threw his hands into the air.
“Distraction!” he yelled.
Anya watched. Ivan stood there with his hands over his head. None of the goats came out.
Ivan let his arms drop. “I said, ‘Distraction’!”
One of the goats said, “Myah!”
Ivan marched into the barn. A minute later, some goats shuffled out reluctantly. Ivan appeared, pushing two of them. The one in the front turned around and went back into the barn.
“Come on!” Ivan groaned. The second goat nibbled on his pant leg.
Ivan let his head fall back. His shoulders heaved as he sighed. He patted the goat nibbling on his pants, then perked his head up. When he turned back to Anya, his eyes were bright with an idea.
That was generally a foolish look.
Ivan hurried over to the little yard around the house. Babulya’s garden grew close to the house and had a good, solid fence around it to keep the goats out. He leaned over it and grabbed a handful of potato plants. He yanked on them, pulling them up by the roots, which hung heavy with potatoes.
“Ivan!” Anya hissed.
He waved a hand at her and ran back to the barn. He stood in front of the open doors and shook the potato plants in his hand. Dirt fell in clumps. A couple of potatoes dropped off and bounced across the ground.
A goat poked its head out of the barn door; then another joined it, and another. Soon the entire herd was crowding closer to Ivan.
Ivan took a step back. The goats took two forward.
He ran backwards, waving the potato plants. The goats followed, a white rush of little hooves and horns. Anya thought he was going to run past the house, but instead he turned into the yard, throwing the gate open. As he ran past Anya, he said, “Meet me at Håkon’s house!”
And then he was inside, with all the goats stampeding behind him. Some of them tried to stop in the front garden, but Anya pushed them into the house and shut the door behind them.
From inside, Dyedka yelled, “What in the—”
“They’ve gone crazy!” Ivan screamed.
Babulya said, “Is that the goats?”
“Get out of the house!” Dyedka hollered.
“They’re trying to eat me!” Ivan yelled.
The side door of the house flung open, and Ivan ran out. The goats followed. Anya cracked the front door open and peered in. Dyedka was up, his wooden legs thumping on the floor as he shooed the goats out of the house. Babulya followed him carefully.
“What’s that boy up to now?” Babulya griped. “Where’s Anya?”
“I don’t know,” Dyedka said as he followed the goats. “Of course that foolish boy let the goats out!”
“Go find Anya,” Babulya said. They were both out the side door. Ivan ran in circles around the barn, yelling, while the goats chased him.
“You find her!” Dyedka snapped.
As soon as they were near the barn, Anya slipped inside the house and leaned Ivan’s staff against the wall by the door. She grabbed a sack from the kitchen and hurried to where some of her clothes hung by the oven to dry, fingering each piece to see which ones were the driest and which ones would just be wet lumps in her bag.
The domovoi appeared on the mantel near the clothing, arms crossed. He tapped one foot impatiently.
“Oh hush,” Anya said to him.
The door to the sleeping room opened, and Mama peered out. Her eyes were puffy and red. She looked like she had just woken up.
“Anya?” Mama asked. “What was that noise?”
Anya froze. Mama had heard Ivan running around. In a moment of panic, she pointed at the domovoi. “I was talking to him.”
“I thought I heard yelling . . .” Mama put her hand against her cheek. “I guess my ears are playing tricks. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mama.”
She expected Mama to go back into the sleeping room, but she came out. Anya dropped the mostly empty bag behind her feet as Mama shuffled to her, hoping she wouldn’t notice it. When Mama reached Anya, she pulled her into a surprisingly solid hug.
“I love you, Annushka,” Mama whispered. “I’m so sorry your papa isn’t coming back soon.”
Anya’s nose stung. She swallowed a few times and then managed to squeak out, “I love you, too.”
Mama smelled like the hay the mattresses were stuffed with. Her hair fell loose around her shoulders and was impossibly soft. Anya could have hugged her mother all night. But Ivan could distract Dyedka and Babulya for only so long.
“I’m going to go to Ivan’s,” Anya said.
Mama nodded. “You do that. He’s a good friend.”
“He’s the best friend,” Anya said. She watched Mama shuffle back into the sleeping room, and then she turned back to the oven.
All her clothes were gone.
The domovoi! Anya spun, searching for the little meddler. It wasn’t any of his business if she left to find Papa. He had no right stealing her clothes!
He was on the table with her clothes piled around him. She took a step forward, then stopped as he drew a damp dress through his fist. The dress was almost too big for his little fist, but he managed to
widen it out and fit the whole thing through. The dress came out dry, and he flicked his hand to the side. Water droplets spattered over the floor.
With a flourish, he folded the dress into a compact square, then dried a second dress and folded it. In less than a minute, all her clothes were dry and folded.
Anya picked up her bag and placed it on the table. Then she sat, so she could be eye to eye with the little house spirit.
He regarded her with a forlorn look.
“You miss him too, huh?” she asked.
The domovoi nodded. He wiped the back of his hand under his nose, then sniffed.
“I’ll get him back,” Anya said. “I promise.”
He nodded again, then plopped down on his behind on the tabletop. He put one finger over Anya’s mouth so she wouldn’t say anything. They sat there, silent, until he stood back up, shoved all the folded dresses into Anya’s bag, and then pointed at the door.
Go.
Anya grabbed Ivan’s staff and ran out of the house, the sound of Dyedka yelling at Ivan fading away as she reached the road.
* * *
It was dark by the time she reached Håkon’s house. She didn’t want Kin to see her and wonder what she was doing, so she stayed on the other side of the bridge, under the trees. The night brought a deep cold—an unmistakable sign of the lateness of the season—and she shivered as she waited.
A crunching sound from the woods made her turn. She expected to see Ivan, but he wasn’t on the path.
She shivered harder and took a stab at whispering, “Håkon?”
A long shadow moved, and a pile of leaves shifted as the dirt beneath it flowed up. It formed a crude dirt cage around Anya, trapping her where she stood. A dragony face peeked out from behind a tree, grinning.
“Gotcha!” he said.
Anya’s heart pounded. “You can’t sneak up on people in the dark. We’ve talked about this.”
“Why are you standing in the dark, anyway?” Håkon asked. “Where’s Ivan? It took you two a long time to come.”
Anya realized with a jolt that she’d forgotten all about playing Princess with Håkon earlier. “Um, I was here. You were gone.”
“Oh,” Håkon said. “I got bored and went to your house to see if you were there, but you weren’t.”
“That must have been when I came,” Anya said. She had really wanted to tell him about Papa earlier, but now it felt strange. He was so happy, and telling him about Papa would just make him sad.
“Is Ivan coming?” Håkon asked before Anya could decide what to say.
She nodded. “He said he’d meet me here.”
“By this tree?”
“At your house.”
Håkon jerked his head toward his home. It looked so nice and warm. “Why don’t you wait inside?”
“I don’t want your da to see me,” Anya said.
Håkon shook his head. “He’s not here. He’s staying late at the forge. He had some big order to get done.”
Anya paused for a moment, then whacked the dirt bars of the cage away. She sprinted stiffly to the house and dove inside, going straight to the fire. Håkon followed and shut the door. He joined her and made designs in the fire while she warmed herself.
Finally, he asked, “Why do you have a bag?”
If she couldn’t be honest with Håkon, she couldn’t be honest with anyone. “You have to promise not to tell your da.”
“Promise,” Håkon said.
She took a deep breath, ready to tell him about Demyan, and Papa being lost to the Pechenegs, and her plan to get him herself. Papa. It felt like ages since she’d seen him. She knew what Papa looked like—of course she did—but at that moment, she couldn’t remember whether he had trimmed his beard short or left it long when he had gone. She couldn’t remember if his eyes were green, or if she was remembering them as green because Dyedka’s eyes were green. She knew that his voice got very soft when he spoke to the goats, but she couldn’t remember what he sounded like when he read the Torah to her.
Instead of words, what tumbled out of her was a sob, then another, and tears down her face. Her heart felt like a stone in her chest. She couldn’t make herself stop crying, and Håkon stared at her with enormous, surprised eyes as she tried to get words out.
“Muh-muh-my papa,” Anya blubbered. “He wuh-was already gone wuh-when the messenger got there, and h-h-he didn’t know he could come back, so . . .” She stopped, held her breath, and tried to stop crying.
Håkon hugged her. Well, he did the best he could. His dragon body wasn’t built for hugs, but he made it work. His short legs wrapped around her, and he patted her on the back with his tail. Anya clung to him and pressed her face against his warm scales.
When she felt composed enough to speak again, she said thickly, “I’m going to get him.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’m going to bring him back once and for all.”
Håkon continued to pat her. He said slowly, “That’s—”
Someone knocked on the door. Anya and Håkon jumped apart. The dragon scrambled to answer it. He peeked through a hole in the door and looked back at Anya. “It’s Ivan!”
The door swung open, and Ivan stepped in, teeth chattering. He tottered to the fire with Anya and stripped off his coat to be closer to the flames.
“Did my dyedushka catch you?” Anya said.
“Yes.” Ivan rubbed his hands together. “He wasn’t happy about the goats being out.”
“And I bet Babulya was mad about the potatoes.”
Ivan’s eyes widened and he nodded. “She said now the goats have a taste for them. She’ll never be able to keep them out of the garden. I’ve single-handedly ruined everything.”
Anya nodded. “I told Håkon about our plan,” she said.
Ivan glanced at the dragon. “What do you think?”
“It’s crazy,” Håkon said.
“Yep.” Ivan nodded.
“You know what?” Anya stood up. “I thought you two would understand. And you can both talk when your papas are stuck in a war zone. Until then—”
“Anya,” Ivan said from his spot by the fire, “we’re still going to come with you.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Absolutely,” Håkon said. “What kind of friends would we be if we let you go do a crazy thing all by yourself ?”
“Bad ones,” Ivan answered.
“Very bad ones,” Håkon agreed.
Anya sat back down. “Really?”
Håkon nudged her shoulder with his. “Of course.”
Ivan pulled her into a tight side hug, ending up with his arm looped around her neck. “We do crazy stuff together. Never forget that.”
“We’d better do our crazy stuff soon, though,” Håkon said. “Because if my da comes back, he probably won’t let us.”
They scrambled to pack Håkon a bag then. He didn’t need much—a blanket to curl up with and some dried meat—and Kin had a nice backpack that fit Håkon’s blanket plus Anya’s bag of clothes. Anya draped her bow across her back and hung the quiver from a shoulder. Who knew what kind of dangers awaited them in Rûm? They left after Ivan put his coat back on and retrieved his staff from where Anya had left it against the wall.
Outside, Alsvindr whinnied from his stable. Anya trotted to him and patted his nose. He smooshed it against her forehead.
From behind her, Håkon said, “Do you want to bring him? It might be nice to ride him instead of walk.”
The thought of riding Alsvindr versus walking all the way to Rûm was tempting, but Anya was hesitant. Alsvindr wasn’t her horse. He was Kin’s. She didn’t know how to take care of him if he got hurt or sick. And since Kin had gotten him, he’d been able to ride the horse to Mologa to the market there. He couldn’t walk. His knee was too weak. He needed Alsvindr more than Anya did.
“You can’t come,” she said to the horse. “Kin might need you.”
The horse snorted.
“I’ll be back,” Anya said, stroking Alsvi
ndr’s long nose one last time. Then she and Ivan headed south on the road. Håkon swam. He would meet them at the bridge a mile south of the village.
They got near to Ivan’s home, and he said, “I guess I should get some supplies, huh?”
“At least clean underwear,” Anya said, fiddling with the backpack’s straps to make it fit better.
He sighed, resigned. “Fine.”
Anya waited outside, not wanting to get accosted by his brothers or held up for some reason. She had some time to think while Ivan was inside the house. She was nervous about Håkon coming with them. Not that he wasn’t welcome. But she worried about his safety. Last year, Yedsha had seen Anya stab Håkon in the heart. He hadn’t known the dagger killed only if she wanted it to. He thought Håkon was dead. So in Zmeyreka, Håkon was reasonably safe. But beyond the river valley? If he really was the last dragon in the world—or Kievan Rus’, or the Thrice Nine Kingdoms, or wherever—it would make him a target for not just the tsar, but everyone. And if anything happened to him, Anya didn’t know what she’d do.
She couldn’t tell him not to come, though. For starters, he wouldn’t listen. But even if he did, she needed him there. She had known Ivan and Håkon for less than a year, but they were like a challah plait. The strands started separately, and wove together, but as they spent time twined together, the dough merged. Trying to unplait the bread would just result in a huge mess.
She liked her Anya-Ivan-Håkon plait just the way it was.
A shape moved around the side of the house through the darkness. Ivan held a bag slung over one shoulder as he ran toward her. He waved his arm. “Go!” he hissed.
Anya obeyed, and the two of them ran down the road for a few minutes. Then Ivan looked back, saw they weren’t being chased, and slowed.
“That was close,” he panted.
Anya slowed too. “Your brothers?”
“Semya and Shestka.” He massaged his side. “I don’t think they followed us. We’ll be fine.”
They walked in silence through the darkness of the evening, boots crunching on the road. At the bridge, they crossed and then waited for Håkon to appear.
Anya and the Nightingale Page 5
