by E. P. Clark
“The Black God take it!” She jumped off her stool and looked into the baking shelf. There were two trays of pies in there, along with a tray of bread and cheese, and the pies on one corner of the tray to the back were starting to blacken. Dasha reached for the first tray, and immediately jerked her hand back from the pain.
Of course it’s hot, you little fool! she told herself. She cast about her for something to shield her hands from the heat. Surely Daromila must have some kind of a system, something like a thick piece of cloth, but nothing leaped out at Dasha. The smell of burning was getting stronger and stronger. She wrapped her hands in the skirt of her borrowed sarafan and grasped the first tray. The heat was still uncomfortably strong, but she managed to pull the tray out and deposit it on top of the stove without spilling any of the pies onto the floor. Now for the second tray, the one where the pies were already burning. Dasha eyed it nervously. She was going to have to reach far back into the oven, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to do that with her hands wrapped in her skirt, which wasn’t very long.
“Oh by all the gods, you’ve let the pies burn!” Daromila was standing in the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips, looking exasperated. Which wasn’t fair at all. Dasha had told her that she wouldn’t be able to take the pies out, and Daromila had said she would be sure to come back in time to take them out herself, but here she was blaming Dasha! Dasha could feel an expression as thunderous as one of Oleg’s knit her brows together. It must have been even more irate than she had thought, because Daromila gave a little shriek and put her hands to her mouth.
“Your hands,” she breathed, once she could speak again. “Your hands!”
Dasha looked down at her hands. Little flames were jumping from finger to finger. Wordlessly, she reached into the oven and pulled the second tray out with her bare hands, depositing it safely on the stove top. Then for good measure she took out the tray of bread and cheese as well.
“I couldn’t find anything to hold the trays with,” she explained. The flames on her hands had already gone out. “But I don’t think the pies are burned that badly.”
“Your hands!” repeated Daromila. “They…they were burning! Come here!” She rushed over to Dasha’s side and grabbed Dasha’s hands in her own, turning them this way and that and examining them from every angle. “They were burning,” she repeated. “My head for beheading, they were burning! But there’s not a mark on ‘em now.”
“That’s something that happens sometimes,” Dasha told her. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“Doesn’t hurt!” Daromila’s eyes were huge and round, with the white visible all the way around the gray iris. “Doesn’t hurt!”
“It’s magic,” Dasha explained.
“Magic.” Daromila swallowed. “You must be a sorceress, then.”
“Not a very good one,” Dasha told her. “I don’t have a lot of control over it.”
Daromila smiled weakly. “So that just…happens sometimes, does it?” she asked. “Have you ever set anyone on fire? By accident, you know.”
“Once,” Dasha told her. “Only it wasn’t really an accident. And I put the flames out right away. They do seem to burn other people. I’m the only one not affected by them.”
“You put the flames out right away.” Daromila gave her another weak smile. “So is that why you’re heading to Lesnogorod?” she asked. “To study with the sorceresses there?”
“Yes,” said Dasha. It was sort of true. “The ones in Krasnograd couldn’t help me; maybe the ones in Lesnograd will.”
“Then…then you should go to ‘em. To Lesnogorod. As soon as possible. Our guests—they’re heading to Lesnogorod too, you know. You should go with ‘em. You’ll be safe with ‘em—not that you need to worry about safety—and they’ll get you there as quick as anyone else would. You can leave when they do, right after dinner.”
Dasha bit her lip. The thought of traveling with that sour and whiny group was not attractive at all. On the other hand, the gods alone knew when the next group of travelers to Lesnograd would come through. Like as not it would be tonight, but she could be stuck here for a week or more, and there was no guarantee that the next group would be any more pleasant than this one. And Daromila was right: they probably wouldn’t hurt her. “Very well,” she said. “I’ll go change back into my old clothes. Thank you for the loan of these.”
“Wait.” Daromila looked faintly ashamed. “Your clothes need mending. No doubt you don’t know how to mend your own clothes, do you? Or is that something you can do with your magic?”
“I can do a little sewing,” Dasha told her. “Not by magic. But I’m not very good at it.”
“Well then…bring me your clothes, and I’ll mend ‘em while you eat. They’ll still be damp from the washing I gave ‘em, but they’ll dry quick enough, and at least they’ll be clean.”
“Thank you,” said Dasha.
“Don’t mention it.” Daromila gave her a curious look, her thirst for gossip overtaking the fear that had seized her. “You really are noble, ain’t you? Very, very noble, ain’t you?”
“Yes,” said Dasha. “And no doubt you’ll be well rewarded for helping me, as will anyone else who gives me aid. Is there someone who could be sent to the sanctuary, to inform my companions that I am unharmed and on my way to Lesnograd?”
“Well…” Daromila chewed it over in her mind. “There ain’t a lot around here. But there’s a village a few versts down the road. Or…there’s old Andrey. He’s a hunter, lives by himself off in the woods, not too far from here. He’s an odd bird and no mistake, but he’d take your message if there was coin in it for him.”
“How much coin?” Dasha asked.
“Fi…a hundred grosh,” said Daromila.
“Here’s two hundred, a whole chervonets.” Daromila’s eyes grew round again as Dasha took out her purse and placed the coins on the bench. “And here’s another chervonets for your help and hospitality. Make sure he carries the message swiftly. My companions will want to join me in Lesnograd, and I’m sure once they are assured that I am safe, they will want to reward those who aided them—and me. They are very protective of me.”
Daromila nodded, but then asked, “So why’d you run away, then?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Dasha told her.
“It always does, my dove, it always does,” said Daromila. “And sometimes it is. Come. Our guests is waiting for the food, and you is too, I’ll wager. I’ll go mend your clothes, and then you can be on your way to your kin.”
***
The mother of the group who had stopped for dinner, who introduced herself as Aunty Fevroniya, was initially resistant to the idea of taking Dasha into their party, claiming that she was arrogant, disobedient, and troublesome, and that they didn’t have the coin to support another person, certainly not all the way to Lesnograd. Daromila’s explanation that Dasha was nobly born and a sorceress in training besides made her a little more favorably disposed towards the idea, and Dasha’s offer of an entire chervonets for the privilege of joining them, with another upon her safe arrival in Lesnograd—“or more,” Daromila put in, giving Dasha a significant look to tell her to go along with her proposal—helped even more. Dasha hoped that would be enough, and that Aunty Olga would be willing to loan her some money if necessary once she arrived in Lesnograd. Once she handed over the promised chervonets to Fevroniya, she had less than three chervontsa left in her purse, which was enough to make her a tempting target to thieves, but not enough to get her all the way to Lesnograd and back. Unless she walked and slept in the woods like Svetochka had. Which if Svetochka could do it, she could too, she told herself, but the idea held very little attraction, especially after her adventures of the past couple of days. But surely Aunty Olga would take care of her and make the necessary arrangements, even if Oleg didn’t find her and join her, which he almost certainly would—unless he was so angry with her that he didn’t want to have anything to do with her ever again. Which was entirely poss
ible. Dasha’s heart squeezed at the thought. Angry as she was with him herself, she didn’t want him to abandon her forever. Both pride and affection rebelled at the thought. But there was nothing she could do about it right now, and her stores of money should be enough to get her to Lesnograd, and then Aunty Olga would know what to do. As for what her mother would say about all this, well, that wasn’t a very happy thought at all. Would she be angry? Disappointed? Disapproving? All of them together? Maybe she would say that Dasha wasn’t fit to be her heir! Maybe she would banish Dasha to a sanctuary, just as she had everyone else in her family! Maybe Dasha would never see her or Krasnograd again! A message would come saying she wasn’t her mother’s heir any more and she should find herself a place in a sanctuary up North, and…
“Are you ready?” It was Fevroniya, standing up from the table where they’d all been eating. “We don’t have time for idling and woolgathering. Are you ready?”
“I just have to change back into the clothes that Aunty Daromila has been mending for me,” Dasha told her.
Aunty Fevroniya sniffed in irritation, but since they had to wait for their carts to be brought around and their horses to be harnessed anyway, there wasn’t a lot she could complain about, and Dasha was changed into her still-damp and frankly still rather dirty clothing long before the others were ready to leave.
“I’ve already sent Yarya off to old Andrey with your money and your message,” Daromila told her. “He’ll get it to your father if anyone does.”
“Thank you for your help and your open-hearted hospitality,” Dasha told her. “It won’t be forgotten.”
“Anyone would’ve done the same,” said Aunty Daromila, but she looked pleased even so. “And…” She slipped a packet into Dasha’s hands. “Just a few necessaries,” she whispered. “For brushing your hair and cleaning your teeth and such. I know you don’t have any of your own things with you, and I doubt that one”—she pointed her chin over at where Fevroniya was complaining about how slowly the horses were being harnessed, without doing anything to speed up the process herself—“will be willing to lend you anything. And there’s a bit of food in there as well, in case they don’t feed you properly. I don’t like the pinched look of those two children. That girl is practically a woman grown, just like you, but she doesn’t have half the bosom you do, and I get hungry just looking at her cheeks. How she’s going to get herself a husband I don’t know. And that boy…those shoulders’ll never fill out if she doesn’t start feeding him properly. A boy that age needs feeding and exercise, just like a young horse, but some mothers just don’t understand that.” Daromila sighed. “But they’ll get you to Lesnogorod, my head for beheading, and that’s the main thing.” She looked as if she was about to give Dasha a hug, but then thought better of it, and merely led her over to the carts and helped her up onto the nearest one, patting her hand and wishing her a good journey. Fevroniya shouted for them to set off, and they began to move slowly out of the yard and onto the road. Daromila stood and watched them, waving at Dasha, until the trees closed around her and she disappeared from sight.
Chapter Four
Dasha had ended up in the cart with the father and son, while Fevroniya and her daughter were in the other cart. At first they rode side by side and Fevroniya explained that they were going to Lesnograd to trade the last of the linen they’d woven last year.
“Soon it’ll be time to harvest the next crop, so we wanted to clear everything out first,” she said, her lean face lighting up with something that almost resembled animation and good cheer. “And we heard prices are good right now, so I told my Vlastya to load up the carts and harness the horses, and here we are! Lucky for all of us, eh?”
“Very lucky,” said Dasha, trying to sound sincere.
“Does your mother have much to do with trade?” asked Fevroniya, her eyes sharp. “We could do a deal, we could. Our linen is very fine. Do you think she’d want to do a deal?”
“I don’t know,” said Dasha. “She doesn’t deal much with trade directly. But I’m sure she’ll be grateful for your help to me.” Even if her mother did decide to disown Dasha for her actions, Dasha thought, surely she would reward those who had helped her all unwitting. She was very fair, after all. And perhaps she wouldn’t be so angry with Dasha after all? She had rebelled against her own family, hadn’t she, and run away, and done many things worse than what Dasha had done, hadn’t she? Maybe she would be sympathetic. Or maybe it was one thing when she did it herself, and another when Dasha did it. No, surely not. If she became angry with Dasha, it would be because of the trouble Dasha had caused others. But maybe she wouldn’t be so very angry…and maybe Aunty Olga would take her in anyway…maybe Dasha could live in Lesnograd with her and Vladya…
“I said, what family are you from?” said Fevroniya, interrupting her thoughts. “By all the gods, you’re an empty-headed one, ain’t you? Never had a head for lessons at all, I’ll wager.”
“Well…” Dasha began.
“Most don’t, you know,” Fevroniya went on, before Dasha could tell her that in fact, she had an excellent head for lessons. “My Arina here,” she nodded at her daughter, “took years and years to learn her letters, didn’t you?” She laughed in a brittle manner that wasn’t funny at all, and Arina contorted her face in a brief pained grimace and then looked quickly away. “And my Borya—Vlastibor, that is, his father’s name is Vlastomir so we wanted something similar, but then we had two Vlastyas, so we took to calling him Borya—my Borya got into such a muddle over it we didn’t even try, did we? Of course, what else do you expect from a son, but some boys do learn, you know, after a fashion, but not our Borya.” She gave another brittle, angry laugh, and Borya, who was sitting next to Dasha, grunted and stared off into the distance.
“But what family did you say you was from?” pressed Fevroniya, returning to her original question. “Daromila said you was noble, but she didn’t say who was your family. Is they from up here?”
“My father’s family is,” Dasha told her. “They are connected to the Severnolesniye.” She was about to say more, but Fevroniya interrupted her again, exclaiming, “The Severnolesniye! What is you doing running around by yourself, then?”
“It just happened,” Dasha told her.
“The Severnolesniye!” Fevroniya said again, and then repeated it to herself several times under her breath, her eyes gleaming with speculation. Dasha decided not to say anything more on that topic, and lapsed into silence.
It was a silence that stretched on for a good long while, and began to grate on her more and more. Vlastomir, Fevroniya’s husband, looked and acted and smelled rather like a bear, Dasha thought uncharitably, but with rather less conversation. Dasha didn’t see why any woman would have agreed to marry him, but then, she also didn’t see why any man would have agreed to marry Fevroniya. Her mother sometimes made sharp-tongued comments about men who preferred cruel and nagging wives, and women who preferred stupid and violent husbands, when they could have had perfectly decent ones, which Dasha had always thought to be unkind, but although she couldn’t say whether or not Vlastomir was violent, he certainly appeared to be stupid, and Fevroniya was undoubtedly cruel and nagging. Borya, who looked like a half-grown copy of his father, also sat in complete silence and showed no inclination to talk to Dasha, even when she asked him direct questions. He did give her the occasional sidelong glance, which wasn’t exactly unfriendly, but wasn’t exactly friendly, either. The only time he said anything, or showed any sign of animation, was when Dasha mentioned something about the cart.
“I built it,” he said, his eyes gleaming, and Dasha had the sudden uncomfortable sensation that he looked at the world of living things and saw only dead matter to be used for his own aims, but he looked at this nonliving object and saw a living companion, the most precious part of himself. She tried to shake off this feeling, but every time she looked at him, she saw the same thing again. So she tried to look at something else instead. Only that wasn’t much better. Arin
a, in the other cart, alternated between staring at the trees in front of them and staring at her hands in her lap, and Fevroniya either muttered to herself, or shouted at the horses. This made Dasha cringe every time she did it, but the horses must have long grown used to it, for they paid her no mind at all.
They stopped midafternoon for a break and to water the horses at a stream that was running next to the road. Dasha clambered gratefully out of the cart and offered to lead the horses to the water; sore as she was after her frantic trek of the day before, sitting on the single rickety plank that served as a bench in the cart was just as agonizing in its own way, and she was more than ready to escape from it. She took the horses hitched to her cart, and Arina took the horses hitched to the other cart, and they led them to a wide flat spot by the side of the stream, big enough for ten horses at least as well as their carts and sleds, and clearly used just for that purpose.
“How long have you been on the road already?” Dasha asked Arina, hoping to strike up a conversation out of the repressive presence of her parents. Arina looked like a younger version of her mother, just as thin and sharp-featured, but her face was still unlined and her mouth was not permanently pursed in an expression of avarice and disapproval, so perhaps there was still hope for her.
“Two days,” Arina said in a flat voice, and fell into a silence that radiated apathy from every pore of her body, discouraging all further attempts at conversation on Dasha’s part. Dasha, while not the chattiest of girls, thought that she would have been at least a little bit curious about a stranger joining her party, especially under such interesting circumstances, and would have asked at least a few questions, but Arina appeared not to care at all. Perhaps she was like the horses: constant abuse had left her numb and indifferent. Compassion, for both her and the horses, welled up in Dasha’s breast, followed quickly by frustration: what could she do to help them? That could only be accomplished by changing Fevroniya’s treatment of them, and that would require making Fevroniya a better person, which, Dasha had to admit, was probably not within her power. She could threaten her with her magic, if she knew how to summon it on command, but like as not that would just make Fevroniya even angrier than she already was, and as soon as Dasha was gone, she would lash out at her children and horses even more than she had before. And if she did that, would she really be any better than the domoviye she’d accused of trying to twist her into their tool? No, she’d be worse. Dasha chewed on her lip. If she could just appeal to Fevroniya’s good side…assuming she had one, that is…
