Mistress of the Solstice

by Anna Kashina

  Ivan the Fool showed no emotion. Despite his youth, despite his plain clothes, he looked almost like a worthy foe.

  What was he?

  “I will give it back,” he said after a pause. “If you promise to give up the Solstice Sacrifice.”

  My father shrugged and raised his hands again. “Have it your way, fool.”

  “Wait!” Ivan held out his hand in a halting gesture. Then he turned to me. “There is a rumor, that you, Marya Kashcheevna, grant everyone who seeks your hand a task to fulfill.”

  “Seeks my hand?” I whispered, briefly meeting my father’s gaze. I shivered. Great Kupalo, I had no strength for this anymore.

  “I ask for your hand in marriage, Marya Tzarevna,” Ivan said solemnly. “I ask you to consider me a suitor and give me a task to fulfill in your name, so that I might gain the sacred honor of calling you mine.”

  I stared. The rule that any suitor of mine was immune from us until he failed in his task was known only to a few. This secret was guarded even closer than that of the Needle and Raven’s Bane, the magic net.

  How could this fool have known? Perhaps he was in possession of magic that went beyond my father’s skill?

  I couldn’t imagine such a powerful magic hiding behind those innocent eyes, that childlike smile, or the disturbing tenderness in his gaze when he looked at me.

  I drew myself up.

  “You must have also heard, Ivan Tzarevich, that no one has ever returned alive from such a task.”

  He bowed. “I will do whatever you ask of me, Marya, or die trying.”

  “Very well.” I drew a deep breath. “The Solstice is in twelve days. If you bring me the Water of Life from the Hidden Stream by the Solstice night, I will consider your claim.”

  I invented these tasks easily when the time came. Sometimes I amused myself by making them seem easy, almost attainable, but this time I took no chances. Hidden Stream was half the world away from our kingdom. Even my Midnight, surely the fastest horse in the world, would require months at a full gallop, assuming he could go without rest. More than that, if by some miracle Ivan the Fool found himself in the right place at the right time, he would still have to make the Hidden Stream reveal itself and give up at least a drop of its water. The Hidden Stream only revealed itself to an Immortal, yet its water was deadly for them, so no Immortal ever ventured out to look for it.

  Indeed, I was giving this fool from the Twelfth Kingdom no chance at all.

  “Very good, Marya,” my father said. Then he turned to Ivan. “Do as my daughter wishes. Give me the Needle and go.”

  But Ivan was already slipping the Needle into a pouch at his belt, his eyes shining again with that mischief. “I need some security, Kashchey. But I’ll keep the Needle safe until I return, you have my word. Farewell, Tzarevna Marya Kashcheevna. See you in twelve days.” He bowed gallantly and, jumping over the windowsill, disappeared.

  I turned to my father, but he averted his eyes, and I let my hand fall to my side.

  “I didn’t tell him, Father. Please, believe me.”

  He didn’t respond.

  “I’ll get the Needle back. I promise.”

  My father never looked at me. Turning, he strode out of the room.

  Ivan

  “You what?” Wolf’s eyes glowed like two hot coals.

  “I asked for her hand.”

  Wolf sat down on the ground and scratched his ear in a dog-like gesture.

  Ivan waited, making sure to stay out of the way of the flying bits of fur. Wolf always calmed down. Eventually.

  “Do you mean you couldn’t find the Needle in time? It wasn’t in the box?”

  “It was in the box. I found it at once.” Ivan lowered his head waiting for a further outburst. Nothing happened. After a while he dared a look. Wolf’s eyes were so close to his that he had to hold himself from jumping back in fear. The old beast could move like a ghost. When angered, he was much more frightening than Kashchey and Leshy together.

  “Then, what happened?” Wolf snarled. “All you needed was to grab the Needle and get out of there. How hard could it be?”

  “I do have the Needle,” Ivan said. “Here.” He fumbled in the pouch at his belt. His hands shook. He had never seen Wolf like this.

  “Keep it,” Wolf said. “It can’t be used unless you fulfill your suitor’s task.”

  He turned and walked away along the forest path.

  “Wait!” Ivan called out. When no answer came, he started along the path after the disappearing gray tail, first at a walk, then at a run. “Please, don’t leave!”

  “You have a task to fulfill,” Wolf said without turning. “Go, do it. If you survive you’ll get yourself a lovely bride. Deadly, true. But quite a beauty. Skillful in bed, too, that’s what I heard. Maybe she’ll teach you a thing or two about love.”

  “Don’t you want to know what the task is?” Ivan panted. He could fall in rhythm with the wolf’s slow trot, but talking on the run was hard.

  “Why? I’m not the one who got himself into this mess. And, whatever task she gave you, you’re meat, boy. I’d be better off finding myself another hero. A real one, this time.” Wolf spat out the last words before speeding up.

  Ivan strained to match his pace.

  “We have twelve days before the Solstice,” he gasped. “We could still make it.”

  “I said forget it, boy.”

  “I am sorry,” Ivan said between breaths. “I really am. I hesitated up there. I—I lost my chance.”

  There was no answer, but after a while Wolf started to slow down, eventually falling into a walk. Ivan hurried along, struggling to steady his breath.

  “D’you know what it takes to fulfill a prophecy?” Wolf said after a while. “There are times you can’t hesitate.”

  “Look,” Ivan pleaded, “can we please slow down to discuss it? I can’t keep up much longer.”

  “You can never keep up.” Yet, after a few more paces Wolf stopped and faced Ivan. “All right, boy, I’ll hear you out.”

  The house looked deserted. The shutters swung on broken hinges. From behind them, the dark empty windows gaped like the eyes of a blind man. The wicker fence was broken in so many places it hardly looked like a fence anymore, and the small path from the gate to the house’s front door was overgrown with tall weeds, among which the jagged leaves of the stinging nettle reached out in a vain attempt to catch a trespasser unawares.

  There were no trespassers here. Who would trespass in this desolate place?

  “What’re we waiting for?”

  “Hush.” Wolf peered into the dusk.

  “Why?” Ivan whispered after a long silence.

  “Do you know the saying: ‘Don’t wake the trouble’—?”

  “You mean, ‘don’t trouble the trouble’?”

  “Whatever you humans say.”

  “What trouble?” The words froze on Ivan’s lips.

  The door of the house swung open with a creak that was carried on the wind like a human wail. And then it slammed shut by itself. There was a thud, then a rustle as something invisible made its way through the weeds to the gate in the fence. The gate opened and closed. Then everything went quiet again.

  Ivan felt chills creep up his spine.

  “Now,” Wolf said.

  “What was that?” Ivan whispered.

  “I said, now, boy.” Wolf’s rumbling whisper echoed in Ivan’s gut. It was not a pleasant sensation.

  Crouching, he followed Wolf to the house.

  Wolf paused by the door. “Don’t make me do it, boy,” he growled. “Open the door.”

  “What is this place?” Ivan asked. He hesitated to touch the crooked wooden doorknob.

  “Trouble. It lives here. Now, get inside before someone sees you!”

  Ivan took a deep breath and pulled the door. It moaned as if alive. Trying not to think of what was waiting for them inside, Ivan followed Wolf’s gray shape into the darkness. The door shut behind them with a thud, and Ivan wondered if
they’d be able to get out.

  As he stepped from the entry way into the room, he realized that it was not as dark as he’d feared. Light from the rising moon streamed through the window, illuminating the inside of the house with a cold white glow.

  “Over there, on the table.”

  Ivan looked.

  The table was actually a shelf that protruded from the wall beneath the window, attached by coarse wooden boards. It was littered with dust and bits of what looked like the remains of year-old meals—the kind one would rather not think about. To the side, a pile of dry chicken bones glowed ghostly white against the gray of old dust.

  Something ball-shaped protruded from among the bones. It looked like no chicken skull Ivan had ever seen. In fact, it had eye and nose sockets, strangely similar to those Ivan had seen in an old graveyard. It was almost like—

  He forced his eyes further along the shelf, to a beaten metal jug sitting next to a flat clay dish. The water in the jug glistened like a dark eye. It seemed to wink as it caught Ivan’s gaze.

  “Pour the water into the dish.”

  “What?” Ivan asked. “Why?”

  “Are you daft, boy? Hurry. We don’t have much time.”

  The jug was cool to the touch. Though dust thickly coated its dark metal sides, its suffused gleam made Ivan wonder what it was really made of. Back in the palace he’d once seen an old silver chalice, his father’s most prized possession, that had had a similar glint hidden in the carvings of its exquisite workmanship. The jug he held now was not elaborately carved, but it looked, if anything, even more ancient in its frightful beauty than the one his father treasured.

  The water did not splash as it hit the dusty clay surface. It filled the dish with the confidence of a body filling out the familiar shape of its favorite chair. The water belonged there. Yet, as it poured out of the jug, the jug itself did not become any emptier.

  Ivan filled the dish to the brim and carefully put down the jug.

  “Now look.”

  Wolf put his front paws on the table and together they bent over the still surface of the water.

  At first all was dark. In the glinting moonlight Ivan even imagined he saw their reflections, barely distinguishable in the darkness. Then the splotches of moonlight became livelier, filling out the dull clay dish with their silvery glow. And then—

  Ivan didn’t catch the moment when the shapes reflected in the water came together into a picture. There was a field washed with the afternoon sun, and a great tree in the distance. The breeze rippled the tall grass, so that the field looked almost like a lake of gray-green water.

  The picture moved. They followed the view over the grass to the side of the giant tree. Ivan could now see that the field ended in a jagged cliff just beyond. There was a stream of water, far below. And something white down there, something that oddly resembled the pile of chicken bones on the side of the table.

  Ivan took a breath and stepped away from the dish. The vision faded.

  “Now we know where your path lies,” Wolf said slowly. “To the Cat. Oh, well.”

  He jumped down and made his way to the door. Behind him, steam rose off the surface of the clay dish, milky like the fog rising over the water in the early hour of the night. Then, the dish was dry again, covered with old dust as if nothing had touched it in ages.

  Ivan found his voice. “What do you mean, the cat?”

  Wolf gave him a long look.

  Ivan followed the beast to the door. He knew when it was best not to wait for an answer.

  In the dark entry area Wolf stopped so suddenly Ivan almost ran into him.

  “What is it?” Ivan whispered.

  Wolf turned, his muzzle pushing close to Ivan’s ear, the beast’s hot breath burning his cheek. “As we open the door and go outside, follow the path to the gate and on toward the forest. Don’t step off the path, whatever you do. Don’t run, whatever you think the danger is. And, most importantly, don’t look back.”

  They opened the door and slid out into the dusk. As they made their hasty way along the path, Ivan imagined he heard a creak behind him, as if someone opened the door and stood there, looking at their retreating shapes. It took all his strength not to turn, to continue walking, following Wolf’s unhurried trot along the path, out the gate, and further, over the nearest hill toward the distant shape of the looming forest.

  As they reached the hedge, Ivan imagined he heard the distant thud of the door closing behind them. He realized he was trembling.

  They walked for what seemed like hours before Wolf finally stopped.

  “We camp here, boy,” he said. “Make sure you rest well. You’ll have much to do tomorrow.”

  Marya

  The day I turned thirteen was the first day my Mirror told me I was the most beautiful woman in the world. Stunned, I stood and watched my reflection, a face that had never seemed to me to be particularly attractive. A pale narrow oval, for which my black hair, dark cherry lips, and green eyes seemed too richly colored. The most beautiful? Hmm…

  Praskovia had come to dress me that day, her expression unusually solemn. She pulled out a black silk dress I had never worn before.

  “Your father wants to see you, Marya.”

  I saw my father regularly in the great hall. During these audiences I walked to him across the flagstones, up to the chair carved from raven-black wood, and then he patted me on the head with a cool hand. There was nothing unusual in this request. Yet, I had felt a sting in Praskovia’s words. Something had changed. But what?

  I followed Praskovia down the winding staircase and through the narrow stone passages of the old castle. Her steady steps never slowed as we passed the turn that led down another flight of stairs to the great hall.

  I wanted to ask a question but I kept my mouth shut. The Mistress of the Solstice never speaks in vain. I was taught well.

  Was it today that I assumed my duties?

  But then, what had happened to the previous Mistress? Had she given in to the power of Love?

  The corridor widened as we walked down its last stretch to the heavy, metal-clad doors at the end. Praskovia raised her hand to knock, but the doors opened of their own accord. My father stood there.

  He looked even more magnificent than I’d remembered.

  He nodded to Praskovia, who bowed and glided away along the corridor. She never gave me as much as a glance.

  “Come in, Marya,” my father beckoned.

  He waited for me to walk through the door and closed it behind me with a thud. I stood straight, trying to keep my eyes from darting about. It was the first time I’d been in my father’s quarters, and despite a closely held fear, I was curious.

  The furnishing of his chamber was as simple as mine. A stiff wooden bench, a desk with a large bottle of ink and a pile of parchment on one side. A shelf with thick, leather-clad volumes that bore the markings of centuries of heavy use. There was no bed. Then, I saw a door that led to the side, into what must have been an inner chamber. It took all I had to keep from stretching my neck to peek inside.

  I started as I realized that my father was standing very close. I could sense his cool breath on my neck.

  “I am told,” my father said, “that you have grown to become the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  His hand swept aside a strand of my hair that had fallen against my cheek. The brush of his fingers, touching my skin, felt like a surge of power. I shivered.

  “I believe,” my father went on, “that it is time to teach you one of the most important lessons you must learn as the future Mistress of the Solstice.”

  His hand gently brushed my neck. I stood very straight, looking ahead, trying to fight off the shivers that engulfed my body.

  “Today you will learn the difference between love and lust.”

  He stepped in front of me and cupped my face in his hands. They were cool and smooth, so soothing to the fire that slowly rose inside me.

  “Remember, as the Mistress of the Solst
ice you must never love. It will try to find its way into your soul through the desires, the urges of your body to be with a man. You must learn to separate these feelings. Your body will try to trick you into believing there is only one man you want. That’s how Love starts.”

  As he spoke, his hands were touching first my face, then my hair, my neck, my shoulders…He stepped closer and ran his deft fingers down my body, so that every cool touch through the thin silk of my new dress burned like fire. I shivered. I was powerless before this. I could no longer stand still. I moaned and sank into his arms.

  “Can you feel it, Marya?” he whispered into my ear. “You want me, and no one else. You think all your happiness lies in my touch. You want for this never to stop.”

  “Yes, yes!” I whispered into his hair, pressing my cheek against his, clinging to him as if my life depended on it.

  And then it was over. The enchantment was broken. He stepped away from me, leaving me helpless, shivering, aching for his touch. Lost.

  I blinked.

  “This is how it starts, Marya,” he said. “You must learn to recognize it, and when you feel anything similar to what you feel now, here is what I want you to do.”

  He snapped his fingers and three men came through the door that led to the inner chamber. They were all dark, lean, and handsome, all wore open shirts that let me see their bare, hairless chests, the muscle playing under their skin. They looked young, only a few years older than me.

  “These men,” my father said, “will teach you to enjoy your body separately from your heart. They are skilled, and they will please you in many ways. They will stay with you until morning. Then, I will see you again.”

  “But, Father,” I whispered, terrified.

  “Are you defying me, Marya?”

  I lowered my eyes. “No, Father.”

  “Good.” He turned and walked out of the room.

  The men were skilled indeed. And tireless, as they did everything in their power to make me enjoy my body. I wanted no part of it. Yet, as I had overcome my shame of the strange hands exploring places I thought only belonged to me, as my tears dried, I found a strange pleasure in what they did.