“Follow me,” ordered the voice, before the sound of his footsteps whispered against the stone.
“Wait.” Yeva turned her head this way and that in the doubled darkness of cell and blindfold. “How can I follow if I cannot see?”
“Can you not track by sound and smell?” There was a brief silence, and then his footsteps again. “Put your hand against my shoulder and I will lead you.”
Yeva stretched out a trembling hand until her fingertips found fur. What she wouldn’t give for her rich fur cloak, now gracing the shoulders of an opportunistic buyer’s wife. She dug her cold fingers deep into her invisible ally’s coat and moved away from the wall.
He led her out of the cell and turned left, down what Yeva guessed was a corridor. They turned again, and again, until she lost all sense of direction. She tried to count their steps, but her head spun from fever and cold, and she gave up tracking their route.
From fever and cold—and from the scent. She smelled something musky and wild, something familiar that she could not place. His fur coat, she thought, but as soon as she thought it she knew it was not true. This was no dead pelt. Perhaps my captor owns dogs. But that could not explain it either, for Yeva knew the smell of dogs well enough to know this was not the same. The hairs rose along her arms, and she was grateful for the solid warmth under her hand, the slow movement of his body beneath his coat.
Her escort came to a halt, forcing her to stop as well. There came a faint whoosh of air, as of a door sliding open, and then a wall of heat struck her. She gasped, lifting her hand from the coat and reaching without thinking for her blindfold.
“Don’t.” It was more growl than word, spoken so close to her ear that the force of his breath stirred her hair.
Her hand froze, and she fought the burning need to flee blindly back down the corridor. He is my ally, she reminded herself, face turning to the unseen heat. He is my ally. He is not to be feared.
“Come.”
She found his shoulder again, and he led her forward into the room she could not see. Behind her the door slid closed again with a scrape and a click. The cold stone under her bare feet gave way to lush carpet, sending a wave of unexpected pleasure through her. How long since she’d felt such riches? Not for the first time, she wondered where she could possibly be.
Her ally led her forward and then bade her sit. Yeva relinquished her hold on his shoulder with reluctance. The fur had been warm and soft, and she’d found herself enjoying the feel of another person under her hand. She felt around with her feet and discovered a pile of cushions, and sank down onto them. To her left was the crackle and hiss of a fire, heat hammering at her skin.
“You may stay in this room as long as is necessary for you to recover your health,” said the voice. Yeva’s heart surged. “On one condition.”
“What condition?”
“That you never remove the blindfold for any reason. If you do, you will die. Do you understand?”
Yeva swallowed. She would rather die warm and comfortable than cold and ill. But better not to die at all. “Yes. I will not remove it. You have my word.”
“Tell me about your father.”
Yeva paused midmeal, swallowing her mouthful of roasted pheasant. “My father,” she echoed.
“You speak of your sisters, your servant, your mother. But never your father. Do you hate him so much?”
She blinked behind her blindfold, trying to read the hazy shapes beyond it. Some light made it through the silk, but she could not track anything unless it stood between her and the light. “No. I loved him.”
“Then, do you not speak of him because he is dead?”
Yeva’s throat closed again, despite having recovered over the past three days from the chill from the cell. Her cough remained, but mostly when she slept. Now, her throat constricted with grief instead.
“How do you know he’s dead?” she whispered.
“You said you loved him.” The voice emphasized the word loved, the past tense sounding final and heavy.
Yeva fell silent, listening to the fire, meal forgotten. Her ally had managed to source more food for her since her reprieve from the cell, the richest of game cooked to perfection. Perhaps he, too, was a hunter. Perhaps he’d understand.
“Before my father met my mother he was the greatest hunter in all of Rus. Maybe the world. He stopped to please her, for it was dangerous work, but in his heart he loved the forest. He was the only one who could venture into its heart, hunt the wildest and strangest of creatures who lived there.”
“You have only mentioned sisters. Had he no sons?”
Yeva shook her head. “Only my sisters and me, the youngest.” She hesitated. But what did it matter what her ally thought of her? He would not risk the anger of her captor to help her and then turn away because of scandal. She took a slow breath. “When I was young he treated me as he would a son, teaching me what he knew. I hunted at his side. I was happiest there.”
“He trained you to hunt? Hunt as he did? With the same skills?” For the first time something colored the heavy voice—surprise, perhaps. Or dismay. Yeva found it difficult to read the emotion.
She lifted her chin. “You disapprove,” she commented. “Because I’m a girl?”
“No.” The voice paused. “Females are often the best hunters. They must provide for the young and survive when the males are too busy posturing to do so. But this is not the way with humans.”
“Humans?” Yeva’s thoughts ground to a halt. How could he speak as if he weren’t one?
Another pause. “I apologize. I spend all my time here in the forest, and find myself more at home here among the beasts than among men. By now I am more beast than man myself.”
This time Yeva had no difficulty reading the emotion there. Bitterness, thick and black and bringing the color to her cheeks. “I don’t think that’s true,” she found herself saying.
“No?”
“No,” she replied firmly. “You’ve helped me when you didn’t have to. When whoever put me in that cell could return and punish you for letting me leave.”
The air stirred, and Yeva saw a shadow move beyond the blindfold. The shape was huge—her ally must have been closer than she had thought.
“You know nothing,” snarled the voice. His steps moving away were heavy on the carpet. The door opened and closed, and Yeva was left in silence again.
BEAST
We pace, more at home right now in our den of earth and cold than within four walls of stone and fire. Over our head the earth trembles with our steps, showering our fur with dirt.
He trained her to hunt as he did. She has his skills. We have been waiting for someone with the skills to rescue her, the skills to serve us, when she has been within our grasp all along. And we nearly let her rot to death in the cell.
Our breath comes in short, angry growls. We must show her what we are, force her to do our will now. We must not waste any more time. And yet . . .
And yet she tells us stories. And it has been so long since we have heard a voice that was not screaming.
She put her hand on us and did not pull away.
She told us we were not a beast.
We growl, coming to a halt. Even our den smells of her now, and part of us thrills to it, sensing prey. Our mouth fills with saliva and we flee to the world above, to find something on which to feed.
We are always the beast.
SEVEN
“AND SO TO REWARD him for his love and faithfulness, the ghost gave Ivan the chestnut horse. With it he was able to leap higher than any other rider in the kingdom and win the heart of the princess. She knew him by his kiss.”
The crackle of the fire at her back was the only applause Yeva received for finishing the tale, but she had grown accustomed to silences from her ally—her friend, as she was coming to think of him. She still had not dared ask his name, for it was clear he wished to remain anonymous. She had long since grown well again, but neither of them had suggested a return to her cel
l, and so she spent her days by the hearth, relishing its warmth.
The presence at her side shifted, shadows moving across her blindfold. Again she caught the faint tang of wildness, making her heart constrict. She missed the forest, for all she could not complain about her treatment here.
“This Ivan,” rumbled the voice, its heavy bass tone weighted still more by deliberate thoughtfulness. “You have mentioned him several times.”
To pass the time, she had asked for, and been granted, her arrow-making supplies. The small knife for trimming the wood and feathers was not enough for her to fight her way free, even if she wished to harm her friend. She’d learned to work by touch and feel, and just now she was fitting the fletching at the arrow’s end. “He is the hero in many stories,” she replied, running the edge of her finger along a strip of fletching, judging its straightness. “Sometimes it is Vasilisa who is the heroine.”
“Vasilisa the Beautiful,” echoed her friend, the uplift of his voice turning it to a question.
“Yes.”
“What is your name?”
The question came suddenly, and Yeva’s fingers froze at their work, feathers falling to her lap. “Beauty.” Perhaps it was the task she was performing. The word came without thinking. Her father’s name for her.
“Beauty?”
“No—no. My name is Yeva. The other is only a nickname. Yeva is my given name.”
The voice was silent for a while, and then moved again. This time Yeva felt the brush of fur at her arm and shivered. Why did he continue to wear his coat despite the roaring blaze behind them?
“I shall call you Beauty,” he said finally.
Yeva opened her mouth to protest, sure that the sound of her other name would stab deeply into the still-raw wound of her father’s death. But in her friend’s warm voice it merely felt true, and right, and she exhaled without speaking instead. “What is yours?” she whispered.
“I do not remember.”
Yeva longed to pull her blindfold away, read the expression on his face. “How can you not remember your own name?”
“I said I have been here, alone, for many years. When you do not use a thing it withers and becomes dust.”
“What does your master call you? The one who captured me?”
Silence.
Yeva swallowed. “I must call you something,” she protested gently. “Shall I call you Ivan then?”
His exhale was almost a growl, although the sound no longer frightened Yeva—the thrill had changed from fear to something else entirely. “I am not a hero.”
The heat of the fire rose to Yeva’s face. She could feel it radiating against her blindfold at the curve of her cheeks. Forcing her voice to remain even, she said softly, “You are to me.”
The presence at her side moved abruptly, the sound of footsteps leading away. Yeva clenched her jaw, arrow lying half made in her lap. But just as his footsteps would have reached the door they stopped and came close again, bringing with him that spicy wildness on the warm air.
“Tell me more of this Ivan.”
Yeva fought to keep the relief from her tone. “He’s in many of the old stories. He’s often the youngest of several brothers—and often foolish. But he usually has a kind heart. The most famous story of Ivan is probably the tale of him, the Firebird, and the gray wolf.”
The pacing stopped, air going still. Yeva suddenly felt tension snap into place in the room, the hairs on her arms standing up in response. She could not even hear her friend breathe. “Shall I tell that one?” she whispered.
“Yes.”
Yeva closed her eyes behind her blindfold as her ally sat down again, fur coat brushing her arm. She began as her father had often started the story, and found she remembered it as clearly as if she’d read it yesterday.
There was once a king who had the most magnificent garden in the world. At the center of the garden was an enchanted tree that bore golden apples. But every time an apple would ripen, the Firebird would come in the night and steal it away.
Furious, the king called his two older sons and told them that whoever caught the Firebird would gain half of his kingdom and become his heir. His youngest son, Ivan, begged to help, but the king saw him as weak and foolish while his brothers were strong, and he refused. So the older brothers set out to catch the bird, and drank and caroused all night in celebration of their impending rewards. But they passed out in the early hours of the morning and when they woke, the apples were gone again.
So the king allowed Ivan to try. True, Ivan was not as strong as his brothers, but he was clever and resourceful. He stayed awake all night and did not touch a drop of wine, and so when the Firebird came he was ready. The bird was quicker than he, however, and so Ivan was only able to catch a single feather from the bird’s tail.
The king sent his sons out into the world to catch the Firebird, and again Ivan had to beg to go. When his father finally relented, Ivan set out alone and came to a crossroads with a sign. Whoever took one path would learn hunger and cold, whoever took the second would survive but his horse would die, and whoever took the third would die, but his horse would live. Ivan chose the second path, and soon a huge gray wolf came out of the forest and ate his horse, forcing Ivan to walk. But Ivan was determined, and walked until he fell over with exhaustion.
The wolf took pity on him and offered to carry him on his back, and together they found the kingdom where the Firebird lived in a golden cage. The wolf warned him not to take the cage, but Ivan was greedy and took both, setting off alarm bells throughout the castle. The ruler of that kingdom caught Ivan and, after hearing his story, said that he could have the Firebird if he would bring him the horse with the golden mane.
And so the gray wolf carried him farther still until they came to the next kingdom, where the horse with the golden mane lived, wearing a beautiful golden bridle. Again the wolf warned him to take the horse without the golden bridle, but Ivan did not listen, and again he was captured. This ruler listened to his story and said that he would let Ivan have the horse if he would agree to capture Yelena the Beautiful, a princess in yet another kingdom, and bring her back to him.
And so the gray wolf brought him to the next kingdom, and warned him not to fall in love with Yelena when he carried her off. Again Ivan did not listen, and when they returned to the second kingdom, Ivan begged the wolf to help him. The wolf agreed to take the form of Yelena to be given to the king, and so Ivan took the horse and kept the woman he loved. The wolf escaped the king and accompanied Ivan, Yelena, and the horse back to the first kingdom, where Ivan again persuaded the wolf to change shapes. Ivan pulled the same trick exchanging the wolf in the horse’s form for the Firebird, and again the wolf escaped and met up with him later.
And so Ivan returned to his kingdom with Yelena, the horse, and the Firebird. He and the wolf parted ways, but when he lay down to sleep, his brothers found him. They had been confounded by the very first crossroads and so had done nothing. Jealous of their youngest brother’s success, they killed Ivan in his sleep and cut his body into pieces. They agreed that one would marry Yelena, and the other would exchange the Firebird for half their father’s kingdom.
But again the wolf felt sorry for Ivan, and so with the help of the water of life, he restored Ivan’s body. Ivan awoke in time to ride once more on the wolf’s back to stop the wedding and regain his share of the kingdom, while the wolf ate his treacherous brothers whole.
After the last words of the story, Yeva fingered the newly shaven shaft of the half-made arrow, listening for signs of life from her companion. He was even quieter than usual; Yeva thought he must be able to hear her heart pounding.
“So it is a happy ending for Ivan?”
Yeva nodded. “He kept the horse and Yelena and the Firebird, and inherited his father’s kingdom as well.”
“Why did you not tell me this story in the beginning?”
Yeva’s fingers closed around the arrow shaft. “It is the most popular, but it’s one of my least
favorites,” she admitted. “It doesn’t end right.”
“Why?”
She hesitated, trying to think of a way to explain. “Fairy tales are about lessons. Those who are virtuous and true are rewarded, while those who are wicked and greedy are punished. Ivan is said to be clever and resourceful but in this story he seems only greedy and careless. The wolf warns him over and over and Ivan never listens. And yet, Ivan never gets punished. The wolf helps him every time, and neither he nor the wolf have to pay for what they’ve done. In the end Ivan gets everything he wants and lives happily ever after.”
Silence from her companion, though Yeva could hear the soft, rich sound of his breathing not far from her elbow. “You may call me Ivan,” he said finally, surprising her.
“Because of that story?”
“Because your Ivan is not a hero.”
Yeva turned toward the sound of the voice, arrow craft forgotten. She reached out toward where she guessed his hand or arm might be, fingers closing around fur.
“What are you doing?” The fur pulled away from her abruptly.
Her heart pounded against her barely healed ribs. “I was going to take your hand.”
“No.” The snarl had returned, but it no longer made her want to scramble back in fear.
“I would never betray you. I want only to see your face.”
“You promised,” came the voice, low and dangerous. “You gave me your word.”
Yeva reached up for the blindfold anyway, only to have her arm knocked back so forcefully that it tingled, numb at her side. “I don’t care,” she said. “I’ve come to care for you, Ivan, or whoever you may be. I want to see your face.”
She reached up again and this time something huge flung itself at her, knocking her back onto the ground. Her head struck hard enough to stun her, despite the carpet to cushion it. The knotted silk gave way under the blow.
“You gave your word,” snarled the voice, his breath hot against her cheek. His weight, fur coat warmed by the fire, pinned her underneath him.
Her heart pounded with fear and longing both, knowing that Ivan’s face was only a hand’s breadth from hers. Yeva turned her head, the knot loosening yet more—and the silk slipped down from her eyes.
Hunted Page 9
