by Anna Kashina
As I made my way into another part of the kitchen, where the smaller kettle with water for tea still hung over the hot embers, a shape blocked my way. I paused, making out the features of a plump woman, her head wrapped in a gray woolen scarf.
“Klava?” I asked. “What are you doing up?”
“Mistress,” she said with firm respect. “I am under Praskovia’s orders.”
“Oh.” I stepped back, glad I could still feel amused and not merely angry. “And what would those orders be?”
“Well,” Klava took a deep breath, obviously gathering her courage, “Praskovoia—she said you didn’t send for your herb drink tonight, and that you haven’t eaten since morning. She said you’d come for the drink for sure and that I ought to catch you when you do and give you some borscht. She said it’s no good for you to go hungry, with all the important work you do for us all, and you are already so thin—” she paused, sensing with a good servant’s instinct that she was about to go too far.
Praskovia. I should have realized she’d notice my absence. She knew of my adventures and never offered any judgment, as long as I was well fed and cared for. I should have sent for my herb drink before I went out. Was I really so affected by my encounter of the afternoon?
Weariness swept over me. I had no energy left to pour hot water into my brew. I had no energy to make my way up the stone steps to the top of the East Tower. It suddenly seemed so desirable to have this plump, kind-faced woman take care of me.
“Very well,” I said, handing her the mug. “You can make the brew for me yourself. And, I will eat just a little borscht.”
I walked past the stunned cook’s helper and sank onto the stone bench across the table from Pavel. The stableman almost choked on his bread. His large hands clenched the edge of his bowl and again, despite his size, he looked small.
“Relax, Pavel,” I smiled to him. “I don’t bite.”
“Right ye are, Mistress,” he mumbled and hurriedly finished his meal.
The borscht was delicious. No one besides our cook could achieve such a deep beet-red color that, as you mixed in the sour cream, turned into golden orange, shiny droplets of oil suspended among the vegetable slices. My borscht was made special, without meat, yet rich enough to replenish my strength. As I finished the generous bowl and washed it down with my aromatic herbal brew, I felt my exhaustion turn into the normal tiredness after a well spent day. I made my way up to my room and fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
Ivan
Ivan remembered. He’d lain near death, before this all started.
He’d heard voices through the daze of his sickness. He hadn’t even known if they were real.
“You still have your touch, old man,” said a raspy voice with a low timbre that made Ivan’s hair stand on end. The rasp seemed to be there entirely for the purpose of smothering the force the voice emanated.
For a brief moment it sounded pleased.
“Do you really think he’s the one?” replied a more ordinary voice.
The rasp turned into a rumble. “There’s no such thing as ‘the one’. Humans invent these tales to give purpose to their miserable existence.”
“So, why him?” the other pressed.
There was a pause. “I sense strength in him. That look in his eyes—”
“But he’s just a boy,” objected the other. There were more notes in the voice now. It wasn’t really ordinary, Ivan realized. It had only seemed ordinary next to the force of its companion.
“He cannot even fight.”
“There have been fighters in the past. And where did all the fighting get them?”
“But this one—he’s like a child.”
“Exactly. Have you looked into his eyes? I mean, really looked? He’s not afraid of anything.”
Again, there was a pause. Then the other voice said, “And you think it is enough?”
This time the rumble resembled a roar. Ivan had strained to open his eyes to see the owner of the voice, but he couldn’t move. He wasn’t even certain he wasn’t dreaming.
“You humans invent all sorts of hardships to hide your fear. So, where a regular man would dwell on those non-existent hardships and falter, a fearless one may walk right through the obstacles without seeing them.”
There was a longer pause this time. Then, the other voice responded quietly. “There’s no such thing as a fearless man.”
“Perhaps not,” the raspy voice said. “But this one fits.”
“Fits what?”
“Everything. All the petty details you humans invented. Even the birthmark.”
“Oh, come now, isn’t that a bit of a stretch?”
“The timing’s right, too. It is the Rule of Immortals, isn’t it?”
“It has been for the past four hundred years. And it will be, for ages to come. Kashchey is nearly immortal himself.”
“Undead.”
“Undead, then. In any case, he isn’t going anywhere soon. It should give us some time to find someone better than this boy.”
“I tell you, he’s the right one. I can feel it. Trust the old creature.”
“But his wounds—”
“Just bring him back, Nikifor. Leave the rest to me.”
Nikifor. Straining to remember where he had heard the name before, Ivan had sunk back into his death-like sleep.
Nikifor. The old man with white hair and the serene look in his eyes. Ivan had never learned the meaning of the strange conversation he’d half-heard, half-dreamed as he lay on death’s doorstep struggling to come back to the living.
He slowly shook his head, coming back from the world of memory.
Something caught his eye in the last beams of the setting moon. He bent down and carefully picked a flower out of the thick grass. It was a common flower, an inflorescence of purple-and-yellow that shone like a tiny star in the greenery of the meadow. The purple was actually the leaves, each wrapping a delicate yellow flower in a lover’s embrace. But to an untrained eye they looked like two kinds of flowers on one stem. To reflect this duality, people had given the flower a double name. Ivan-and-Marya.
“Picking flowers, lad?” Wolf asked. “I thought we were in a hurry.”
Ivan lowered his eyes. “I—”
“Oh, don’t let me disturb you!” Wolf growled as he stretched the words. “It’s still a few hours before dawn. Plenty of time. Glad we didn’t have to go through any trouble to get here in the first place.”
Ivan tucked the flower into his shirt. “Is this why Gleb was so surprised to hear my name?”
“Ivan and Marya are the two most common names in these parts. That is why the villagers gave the flower such a name. You know it as well as I do.”
“Yes, but what if—”
“If what?”
Ivan sighed. “Don’t you believe in destiny?”
There was a sound an untrained ear could mistake for sneezing as the wolf hastily turned away.
“Did I say something funny?”
“No,” Wolf growled. “I’m just laughing at myself. After all these centuries I had to be stupid enough to entrust a serious task to a silly human boy.”
“You think I’ll fall in love with her?”
Wolf shrugged. “Everyone else does. Gleb tried to tell you, not that you really listened, of course.”
“I am not in love!” Ivan protested. “It would be utterly stupid to fall in love with someone who kills people in cold blood. Even more stupid to fall in love with someone you’ve never really met.”
“Exactly my point.” Wolf nodded. “Exactly my point.”
Ivan turned toward the looming castle wall. Wolf trotted beside him. Sometimes he looked just like a dog—a monstrous one whose head reached almost to a man’s shoulder, but a dog nonetheless.
“Just remember everything we learned,” Wolf said. “Try not to trigger the traps. Once you’re inside, go straight for the box. Make sure you don’t get distracted with anything else, you hear me?”
&nb
sp; “Mmm,” Ivan said.
“Hey, boy! Are you still with me?”
“I thought if I could just talk to her—”
Wolf sighed. “You already did, remember? Back on the plaza? If you forgot, look at your arm. I’m sure it couldn’t have healed this quickly.”
“But out there I had no time to really say anything! If I could only reason with her—”
“Yes, right.” Wolf skirted a rowan branch that hung low over the path. “She’ll take one look at you, forget all about her duties, and run off with you to your Twelfth Kingdom. Quite a reasonable thing to do, considering her situation.”
Dejected, Ivan walked for a while in silence. “What her father makes her do is wrong. She must see it too.”
“I’m sure she does,” Wolf agreed.
There was another pause.
“There isn’t much risk in trying,” Ivan finally said.
“No risk at all. She’s a sorceress, true, but she isn’t generally known for blowing people’s heads off. She leaves that task to her father. Who might do just that, if he happens to come to her chambers during your little conversation—”
“In the middle of the night?”
“Marya and her father have a very close relationship,” Wolf replied pointedly.
“Well,” Ivan hesitated, “if worst comes to worst, I could always ask for her hand in marriage.”
Wolf stared. “Oh, is that what this is all about, boy? Why ever didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s not that,” Ivan blushed so deeply that his pale face turned dark in the waning light. “It’s just that if I do, then, by the rules, neither she nor Kashchey could hurt me.”
“Did Gleb tell you this?”
“Yes, when you were out. He said the rule is as strict as the code of the Immortals. He said Kashchey won’t harm me if I call upon the rule, especially because he tries so hard to be known as a real Immortal himself.”
“Your charms must be going to your head, lover boy. You forget, you’re not a Tzar’s son anymore. You’re no match for her. Not in this kingdom.”
“I know,” Ivan said slowly. “But I don’t think it matters. Anyone can be a suitor if they fulfill her task.”
“Did Gleb by any chance mention that if you fail at her task, then, by law of this kingdom you must die?”
Ivan’s face lost some of its dreamy expression.
“Yes, he did, but I’m only talking about it as a way to retreat. If the situation becomes dangerous.”
“In case you haven’t noticed,” Wolf growled. “Despite the swarm of suitors that are drawn to this kingdom like flies to honey, she is still unwed. Any thoughts why? Don’t you forget this, boy. Marya and her father, Kashchey, aren’t as easy as old Leshy. They play no games.”
Ivan eyed him uncertainly.
“Just do what I tell you. Your only true advantage is surprise. Get in, grab the Needle and run for your life. Don’t even think of casting an eye on her.”
They stopped in sight of a large, gnarled oak, its deformed roots jutting out of the ground, twisting toward them like enormous fingers. In the waning moonlight, Ivan imagined he could see the glimmer of the web stretched across the path. But it was only his imagination. The web couldn’t possibly be visible from this distance.
“It looks like I can go no further,” Wolf said. “Only one can pass. You’re on your own, boy.”
Ivan nodded. He couldn’t fail. Not after everything they’d gone through.
“Remember everything the old bird told you, boy,” Wolf said. Then he padded back into the shelter of the trees.
Ivan carefully approached the large oak. When he was twenty paces away, he crouched and crept forward until he could see the shimmering silver of the water droplets hanging across the path. They were so thin that if Ivan hadn’t known to look for them, he would have walked right into them without noticing.
It all seemed so easy when Raven had told him. He could still hear the bird’s voice in his head—at least he did until Wolf shouted at him afterwards for releasing their prisoner. But Ivan knew he could never focus on his task if he had left Raven trapped and helpless back on that log. Despite how thin and airy it was, the Net had rendered him nearly immobile. Powerful magical objects could be truly frightening.
But now, standing in front of the first trap, he bitterly wished Raven was here. Or at least that he could go back to ask again.
A magical mist that must be unraveled, if one wished to follow the path to the castle. It could be unraveled, Raven said, if you found the right droplet. But touch the wrong one—and the mist would trap you, rob you of your mind and send you into the swamp.
Ivan swallowed, looking at the dark, glistening water at the side of the path. It glimmered like a giant eye, winking at him invitingly. Was this entire kingdom built on swamps?
He strained his eyes to make out the delicate meshwork of silvery beads. “Imagine a net that holds them in place,” Raven had said. “An invisible net, much like the one that traps me now. It goes in a spiral, from the center outward. You must find the outmost droplet and follow them in, one at a time.”
Easier said than done.
Ivan lowered his head, trying to find a position from which the glimmer of the water droplets caught the moonlight. They glistened like precious jewels, their radiating beauty, magnified by the magic that powered it.
There. Did he see a dark line, cutting through the magical glimmer?
“It’s imaginary,” Raven had said. “But you must see it as if it is real. Once you touch the first droplet, you must not stop.”
Ivan carefully reached forward toward the lone droplet on the outer rim of the water circle.
He imagined more than heard a barely perceptible popping sound, and a sudden chill in his fingertip, like a prickle of a cold needle. He kept his hand steady as he moved it along the droplet path, straining to maintain the image of the invisible spiral in his mind. There. The last droplet.
A sigh rustled through the grass under his feet and rippled the swamp water at the side of the path. Ivan straightened and exhaled a breath he was holding. He hadn’t realized how numb his arm became from the strain of keeping it steady.
He shakily got up to his feet, watching the last bits of the mist disappear into the swamp. So much for the first trap. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
At least, he was still alive.
He steadied himself. His hand felt numb, his tingling fingers slowly coming back to life. Taking a deep breath, he followed the path further to the castle wall.
Heat hit his face without warning, the path in front of him erupting into fire. Ivan froze in his tracks. He almost let his relief carry him straight into the next trap. Not that he could do anything to stop it.
Raven did not warn him it would come so soon.
The narrow path in front of him was an inferno, the fire consuming it left and right, straight to the edges of the swamp water now spreading on both sides. Ivan could feel the heat biting into his skin, dissolving the last bits of the numbness caused by the magical mist. The fire was slowly approaching, its fiery tongues snaking along the path toward his feet.
“Whatever you do, don’t turn back,” Raven had told him. “You would want to turn and run away, but as soon as you do, the fire will consume you. This is why most of the suitors who try to brave the East Tower leave no trace behind.”
Ivan shivered. The old bird seemed to take pleasure in telling him those details. Now that he was facing the trap, the knowledge of what would happen to him if he failed didn’t help one bit.
He carefully breathed in. The air stung and his insides protested at the sudden pain. Don’t move. Don’t. Move.
The fire was upon him. He could see its red tongues raging around him, licking his skin. He felt his skin emanate hissing sounds as it bubbled and burst, running down his exposed flesh. His eyes hurt, but closing them did not help, for the fire reached up to his face, singing his hair, peeling away his eyelids. The pain was impossible. H
e had never felt anything like it.
He knew he shouldn’t scream, but what really stopped him was no longer any conscious knowledge but the fact that screaming required breathing in, and he knew his smoldering lungs could possibly take no more. Yet, if he failed to breathe, he would die.
Assuming it mattered.
Raven had said that if he withstood this trial he wouldn’t be harmed, but that didn’t seem to matter either, for how could he live much longer without skin, with the smoldering flesh rapidly withering in the unbearable heat. He could smell it, a sickening smell of roasting meat that made the bile rise into his throat. But he couldn’t vomit either. He had no breath left.
Good bye, Wolf. Forgive me for failing.
And then, just as suddenly, it was over. The heat dissipated, leaving behind a cool breath of the night air. It carried the damp chill of the swamp, so welcome on his burning skin.
His skin.
It couldn’t possibly be there, could it?
How could he possibly have lived through that?
He counted under his breath and slowly opened his eyes.
The path in front of him was clear, tall grass on either side glimmering in the scarce light from the nigh sky. It wavered in the breeze, parting before his feet into the thin, scantly trodden path he had been following.
It did not look as if it had been touched by fire at all.
Ivan took a deep breath, enjoying the cool relief it brought to his tortured insides. He breathed some more, letting his muscles unknot before he dared to lift his hands up to his eyes to survey the damage.
His skin was all there, smooth and white, calloused at the fingertips. Ivan sighed. He shouldn’t be surprised, he knew. Raven told him this would happen. Yet, after being consumed by the fire, it was hard to imagine how he could still feel so whole.
Too much. This had been too much. How could he possibly go on?
He took another step along the path. Then another.
