Anya and the Nightingale

by Sofiya Pasternack

  Ivan dashed in, looking around the huge room. “Nice!”

  Håkon shuffled in behind him. Anya wanted to see what was so nice, but Misha was already moving down the hall. Anya hurried after him. He opened the next door and said, “And this is yours.”

  Anya peeked in. The room was the size of the main portion of her barn, but instead of being filled with hay and goats, it was filled with a huge, tall bed and a massive carved wardrobe. The windows were shuttered against the cold, so the room was dim. There were unlit lamps mounted on the walls. A stone dais under one window was carved into a bowl on top, and a pitcher with a towel over it sat on the edge of the dais. On the wall opposite the bed was a deep fireplace as tall as Anya was; a fire rumbled within it and warmed the room nicely.

  “Wow,” Anya whispered. She was almost afraid to touch anything.

  She stood at the threshold until Misha chuckled from behind her. “You can go in if you want,” he said.

  “Are you sure?” Anya said. “This is . . .” She didn’t know the words to describe it.

  “It’s a castle,” Misha said.

  “Do you live here?”

  “No,” he said. “I live in the city with my family.”

  “Oh.” Anya edged into the room. “Is your family nice?”

  He shrugged. “Usually. I’m going to let you get settled. If you need anything, I’ll see you at the banquet tonight.”

  She whipped her head to look at him. “The what?”

  “The banquet,” he said, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

  “Are we invited?”

  Misha nodded. “All guests of the royal family are invited, and now you’re guests of the princess.”

  “Oh,” Anya mumbled. “Good.” She looked down. “You know, Misha, I don’t think I’m dressed well enough for a banquet. None of us are. And we don’t have any nice clothes, so—”

  Misha waved his hand around. “I’ll bring some clothes for you all!” He grinned.

  “You don’t have to do—”

  “I want to,” Misha said, scooting off down the corridor. “I’ll go arrange that. The banquet is in two hours. I’ll see you there!”

  * * *

  Misha vanished, and Anya lingered in the hall, mind whirling.

  How were they supposed to capture that sound sorcerer—the Nightingale, apparently—without getting themselves killed? He had been nasty enough while they had been trying to run away. What would he be like when they retaliated? She thought of him grabbing Ivan’s water magic and turning it against him, and what Misha had said about him making trees walk.

  Hair the color of dirty rocks and cut utterly bizarrely. Eyes painted black. Skin tattooed gold. What was the Nightingale, anyway?

  Under Anya’s dress, the key Lena had given her hung heavy against her skin. She pulled it up, holding it in the palm of her hand. Lena had brought them to Kiev, not Patzinakia. Papa must have been here for some reason. Imprisoned? Why? Where? And Anya understood why Lena had turned Håkon into a human, but why had she made him look so much like the princess?

  The thought of Håkon propelled her to his and Ivan’s room. She knocked on the door, and Ivan answered. The gash he’d gotten from the Nightingale was purpling around the edges, bruising deeply.

  “How is he?” Anya asked, slipping in to search for Håkon. Their room looked very much like hers, except the bed was on a different wall. Håkon was on the bed, lying on his back, hands up in the air.

  Ivan shut the door. “He’s um . . . What did you say, Håkon?”

  Håkon’s hands twitched. “Everything feels.”

  “‘Everything feels,’” Ivan said to Anya.

  She climbed on the bed and sat next to Håkon. He looked haggard. Dark circles made his glittering eyes sunken. “We got invited to the banquet. You probably shouldn’t go.”

  He looked at her. “Why?”

  “Because”—Anya ticked off on her fingers—“you can hardly walk. You’ve never eaten anything with a human mouth.” She pointed to his hands in the air. “And ‘everything feels’?”

  “Everything,” Håkon mumbled. “I touch the door, it feels one way. I touch the bed, it feels a completely different way. They’re rough and smooth and cool and warm and how do you live like this?”

  “You get used to it,” Anya said. “Maybe you should take a break right now, though. A banquet is going to be a big deal for Ivan and me, and we’ve been human our whole lives. I don’t want you to get overwhelmed.”

  Håkon was quiet for a few moments, and then he said, “I think I’m hungry.”

  “You think?” Anya asked.

  He indicated his abdomen with a feeble hand wave. “Is this where my stomach is?”

  “Yes.”

  “It hurts. So I think I’m hungry.”

  Anya sighed. “Ivan and I can bring food back from the banquet for you. I don’t really want to stay long. We have to talk about how we’re going to handle the Nightingale so we can get my papa back.”

  “Bring him to the princess alive,” Ivan said. “Obviously.”

  Håkon sighed. “Alive. Just like the dragons.”

  Silence hung over the room like steam, heavy and sticky. Finally, Anya said, “Yes. Like the dragons.”

  Håkon lay still, silent, and then murmured, “If she knew I was a dragon . . . I wonder what she would have done to me.”

  Anya and Ivan exchanged a look as Håkon rolled over. He winced when his hands touched the bedspread, and he slid off onto unsteady legs.

  “I want to go to the banquet,” Håkon said.

  Anya shook her head. “I don’t think—”

  “I want to see him,” Håkon said, his face dark. “The tsar. I want to ask him why he killed us all.”

  Ivan said, “Håkon, that’s crazy.”

  “I think it’s a valid question!” Håkon said.

  “We know why,” Anya said. “A dragon killed his son.”

  “Well I didn’t kill his son,” Håkon said, furious. “Why do I have to die?”

  Anya tugged on her dress. “We don’t agree with the tsar. You don’t have to get mad at us.”

  Håkon glared at her, exasperated, and Anya was struck by how he and Vasilisa even had the same facial expressions.

  “There’s something else,” Anya said.

  “What?”

  “It’s the way you look,” Anya said, peering at Ivan, trying to see if he was following her.

  He didn’t seem to be. He was picking at a scab on his arm.

  “Ivan,” Anya prompted.

  He looked up. “Huh?”

  “Don’t you think Håkon looks like . . . someone?” Anya asked.

  Ivan nodded. “Oh. Yeah. He looks exactly like Vasilisa.”

  Håkon’s exasperation evaporated. “I do?”

  Anya and Ivan both nodded.

  “I mean, you’re a boy and she’s a girl,” Ivan said, “but you’re practically the same person.”

  “Why?” Håkon asked.

  Anya shrugged. “We’ll have to ask Lena when we see her next,” she said. “But for now, that’s something we’ve got to deal with.”

  “How much like her, though?” Håkon asked.

  “If we braided your hair, put you in a red cloak, and you scowled enough, you could fool anyone here,” Ivan said.

  “I just don’t think it’s smart to parade you around looking exactly like the princess,” Anya said, not adding that Misha had already noticed. “I think you should stay here and practice being a human. Then later, you won’t make anyone suspicious.” When Håkon looked like he was going to argue, Anya said, “I’ll go really fast, grab some food, and come back here. Okay?”

  Håkon slumped back onto the bed. “Okay.”

  He looked very sad, and Anya took a step toward him. She intended to hug him, pat his horns, run her hands over his scales—

  But he didn’t have those anymore.

  He was a human now. A boy. She couldn’t pat his horns or run her ha
nds over his scales. So she did what she would have done with Ivan. She pulled Håkon into a hug, arms wrapped around him tight. He brought his arms up and hugged her, then laughed.

  “This is a lot easier with long arms,” he said.

  Anya laughed with him. Her heart thumped. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  A knock came at the door, and Anya remembered that Misha had said he would bring them clothes to change into. When she answered, though, Misha wasn’t there. A steward with a sour face stood there, a bundle of clothes hung over one arm.

  “I was told this is the gentlemen’s room,” the steward said.

  “It is!” Ivan waved an arm. “The gentlemen are here!”

  Anya blushed at the steward’s disapproving glare. She slipped out of the room and escaped to her own, where a few dresses were already laid out on her bed. She picked the simplest one of the bunch: a black linen rubakha with a long red silk sarafan gown to go over it. The rubakha had red embroidery around the sleeve ends and the collar, matching the design of black embroidery on the sarafan’s hem. A matching embroidered belt cinched at her waist, and the black head covering was held in place with another matching embroidered cloth.

  It was easily the nicest thing Anya had ever worn, and she was afraid of ruining something somehow. She decided she would have to be extra careful.

  Someone knocked at the door. She stepped carefully to avoid tripping on the gown’s long hem and opened the door. Ivan stood on the other side, dressed in finery as Anya was. His rubakha was white, embroidered with red, and the tunic over it was deep blue silk. His trousers were black silk tucked into black boots. He would have looked absolutely regal if the rich clothes weren’t fastened incorrectly. The beautiful belt was tied in a messy knot off to one side. His hat was tipped so far askew, Anya was sure it would fall off. His collar was tied crooked. He still had blood on his face.

  Håkon stood behind him, dressed in simpler clothing that actually fit him: a white rubakha over black pants, which were tucked into brown boots. His hair was combed down over his eyebrows, and it made him look less like Vasilisa. Probably thanks to Ivan. “Can you make him dress like a proper human?” Håkon asked.

  She sighed. “No. He’s a fool.” She used her fingers to comb Håkon’s hair out of his face.

  “I look fine!” Ivan said. “You’re lucky my trousers are on the right way around!”

  “He tried them backwards,” Håkon said to Anya, “but they wouldn’t fasten.”

  “Ha, ha,” Ivan said.

  Håkon smirked, the first non-grimace Anya had seen on him since he’d changed into a human. The half-smile looked good on him.

  “Let’s go,” Ivan said to Anya.

  “Hold on.” She waved him into her room and to the stone washbasin. She dampened the cloth in the water, then scrubbed at Ivan’s bloody face.

  “Ah!” Ivan yelled.

  “Hold still,” Anya said through gritted teeth. “You’ve still got a big gash and a bruise, but at least I can clean the blood off.”

  She cleaned his face until the steward knocked. He eyeballed Ivan’s attire, clucked his tongue at the gentlemen in Anya’s room, but didn’t say anything. Anya and Ivan said goodbye to Håkon and followed the steward through the castle, heading back toward where the throne room was. They turned before they got there, and found themselves in another enormous, tall room. This one held a dozen long banquet tables, all packed with what Anya assumed were the tsar’s noble boyars. Torches burned in sconces, their flames scorching the stone walls behind them. Diners spoke with animated arms, some pacing between tables as they ate and spoke and laughed with others. Servers hurried here and there bearing goblets, platters, and bowls, dodging the roaming boyars. More food than Anya had been prepared for covered every banquet table. There was hardly room for the diners’ own bowls.

  The steward walked easily into the fray of scurrying servers, and Ivan started after him. Anya managed to grab onto Ivan’s sleeves, clinging to him as they crossed the room and sat in empty spots near a far window.

  The tsar sat at the front table, facing the entire room. He was tall even sitting, with hair like bronze, and eyes like fire. His beard was trimmed impeccably, the golden diadem on his head flashing with every movement. Vasilisa sat to his right; the tsarina, his wife, sat to his left. Anya had never seen a woman as beautiful as the tsarina. Even from a distance, she was glowing perfection: long golden hair in an ornate braid, a high forehead, graceful eyebrows, a delicate nose. But she looked fragile and preoccupied. Like an injured bird that dreamed of another sky. The tsar held her hand, resting their entwined fingers on the table’s edge in front of them. A golden ring inlaid with a diamond flashed on his finger.

  Two others sat at the table on Vasilisa’s right. The one closer to her was the younger of the two men. Vasilisa had her shoulder turned to him, pointedly ignoring him. He didn’t look bothered about that, though. And he didn’t look much like he belonged at the table with the royal family, either. He was dressed appropriately in a richly colored rubakha, and though he wore it easily, he seemed too rough for it. His shoulders were very broad, like he could lift up a horse with one hand and regularly did. His hair and face were unlike any fashion Anya had ever seen before. Both sides of his head were sheared almost down to the skin. The dark hair remaining ran in a wide strip down the top of his head, and he had braided it down to the top of his neck. One of his dark eyebrows was cut in half by a long white scar that curved like a scythe across his forehead and into his shaved hairline. And his beard . . . his beard was nonexistent. Like he shaved it off on purpose. Anya wrinkled her nose. Who would do that? Maybe he couldn’t grow one. And he smirked constantly, like someone had just told him a funny joke that was too impolite to laugh openly about.

  The man next to him was older and dressed well, and unlike his companion, he looked actively uncomfortable in his clothing. He sat with his hands clasped politely, his blond hair and beard in fashion with every other grown man in Kievan Rus’. He was huge as well, but he crunched in his shoulders to make himself seem less like a mountain of a person. He reminded Anya of Dobrynya: imposing but kind, powerful yet gentle.

  Earlier, Vasilisa had mentioned an idiot bogatyr. Anya suspected she was looking at a pair of them, and that the younger one was the idiot she had spoken of. Anya assumed Vasilisa didn’t use the word to describe the bogatyr as a fool but instead meant he was actually stupid. He didn’t look stupid to Anya. He just looked inexplicably smug. But who was the older one?

  She reached for a loaf of bread, but a server swept it out of the way to make room for a new dish: a huge platter with a suckling pig on it. An entire pig, trussed and cooked, its mouth open and stuffed with some kind of fruit. Its empty eye sockets stared at her.

  She pulled her hand back from the table, trying desperately not to make a face. Neighboring diners dug into the pig, cutting pieces off it with careless abandon.

  Ivan reached for the pig, noticed Anya, and let his hand drop. He pulled a dish from his other side—a deep tureen with some kind of stew in it—and he said, “I think this is just vegetables.”

  She swallowed hard, wishing someone would take the pig away. “Thanks.” The stew seemed to be cabbage-based, and she inspected it for any meat as she spooned it into her bowl. Nothing apparent surfaced.

  Ivan managed to grab some rye bread and fried fish for her, and some pirozhki for himself. He opened up the pirozhki’s pastry crust and inspected the filling. “Meat,” he said. “I don’t know what kind.”

  When he looked at her, eyebrows up, questioning if she wanted it, she shook her head.

  “It’ll be for Håkon, then.” Ivan took another bowl and piled extras of everything, plus some of the pirozhki. He snagged a small bowl of honey as it made its way around the table. A server took away the remains of the pig and replaced it with a heaping pile of crescent-shaped, fried chebureki.

  Anya was about to spoon some of the stew into her mouth when the
tsar stood and shouted, “My friends! My subjects! My loyal boyars! I’m so blessed and happy that you have joined me here tonight!”

  The gathered crowd cheered and clapped for him. Anya set her spoon in the bowl so she could clap too. Ivan left his spoon hanging out of his mouth as he clapped. Anya would rather not applaud the man who would kill Håkon, and when she glanced at Ivan, his face said the same thing.

  The tsar waited for the noise to die down, and then he continued speaking: “We are doubly blessed today. Two of my mightiest bogatyri have joined us here! The mighty Ilya of Murom, my dear friend and loyal knight!” He swept his arm toward the big blond man, who waved uncomfortably from his seat.

  Anya sat up, stock-still and wide-eyed.

  Ilya of Murom. Ilya Muromets. A sickly peasant who was healed by magic and went on to perform the greatest of deeds. Anya’s hero. Eating a piece of meat with one hand and waving with the other.

  The tsar said, “We are also blessed to have Alyosha Popovich, he of unending strength and power, visiting us from his northern city of Rostov!”

  The young bogatyr with the bizarre half-shaved head jumped to his feet and waved at the assembled crowd. He was certainly tall and looked strong, but he wasn’t as enormous as Dobrynya or Ilya. Vasilisa scowled and leaned even farther away from him.

  The tsar swept a hand toward Alyosha. “His father is the priest of my newest cathedral in Rostov. Alyosha is not only a mighty bogatyr but a devout and dedicated man of God.” He turned to Vasilisa and grinned, beaming like the actual sun. He put his hand out to her. Slowly, the princess set her hand in her father’s and stood up. The tsar reached around her, taking Alyosha’s hand. He set Vasilisa’s tiny hand inside Alyosha’s much bigger one. “And a magnificent future tsar!”

  The boyars gasped and cheered. Vasilisa’s jaw clenched, and she pursed her lips together. Alyosha lifted their combined hands upward, tugging her closer to him. She wrenched her hand away from him and shoved her chair out of the way, stomping away from the table and out the door with a slam.