Mistress of the Solstice

by Anna Kashina

  Prey? But what possible threat could Ivan be to you?

  Did Vassily suspect his youngest brother capable of becoming a hero? Was he also a victim of Ivan’s deception?

  “This bag holds one hundred gold pieces,” Vassily said, handing the man a sizeable leather pouch. “You will get another one like it when you bring me his signet ring. But make sure he’s dead before you take it. If you lie to me, I will find you anywhere you go and make you regret the day you were born, do you hear?”

  “Yes, master. I will do as you ask.”

  I felt caught up in this string of events, just as I’d been caught before, just as I so easily lost myself in Ivan’s smile and the warmth of his shining blue eyes. I was torn. I didn’t know whether to wish him dead or alive. And I couldn’t possibly take my eyes off the Mirror.

  My father seemed no less absorbed in the story than I.

  The hired killers—five of them—had no difficulty catching up with Ivan who, first on his poor horse, and then on foot, couldn’t travel very fast. I tried to feel nothing as I watched them run him down on their horses and then dismount to finish the job with their swords. The leader took something off his hand—the ring, no doubt—and the five of them left, riding west.

  Nobody could survive that.

  It was the Gray Wolf who came to his aid. He jumped out of the bushes as soon as the killers had gone. Ivan looked quite dead to me, but the wolf apparently thought otherwise. He tore off the bloodied strips of Ivan’s shirt, then chewed some leaves and spat them on Ivan’s wounds. He put his hairy snout, still covered with dried horse-blood, over Ivan’s mouth to help him breathe. He felt for Ivan’s heart with his paw and then his eyes sparkled with something very similar to human joy. And then, with effort, he dragged Ivan up onto his own back and carried him all the way to a village, where he dropped him near somebody’s threshold and disappeared.

  Events in the Mirror flashed by much more quickly than in real life. The man who found Ivan on his doorstep—Nikifor the Herb Man—turned out to be the most skilled healer in the nearby kingdoms. An old man with sad eyes, his sleek hands seemingly able to carry out virtually any task. He did wonders for Ivan, mending his gaping wounds, feeding him with broth and herb stews, holding endless vigils by his bedside listening to Ivan’s strained breath and barely perceptible heartbeat.

  Bringing a man back from death.

  Quite likely, Nikifor was the only person in all the kingdoms who could have saved Ivan’s life. The Grey Wolf had gone to great lengths to make sure the boy lived. But why?

  Before long, Ivan was able to get up, and a bit later to walk outside and sit in the sunshine with his host and savior. He became a welcome guest in the lonely man’s izba, and helped with the chores around the house. Then, one day, the Grey Wolf came back.

  The cascade of images in the Mirror slowed.

  The picture became so real that I could almost feel the heat of the crackling firewood in Nikifor’s cozy room, and smell the drying herbs hanging from the ceiling.

  We were about to see the essence of our question.

  I held my breath as the gray beast entered the small izba and settled on the mat by the stove. As he spoke, his voice echoed through the small wooden building and through the Mirror, into the large stone space of my room.

  “Go out, boy,” Wolf said to Ivan. “Get some firewood.”

  He and Nikifor exchanged looks. Ivan, however, didn’t move.

  “Glad to see you, too,” he said.

  I shivered. Would the boy ever learn to show proper respect to the Primals?

  Wolf obviously wasn’t in the mood. “Now,” he growled.

  Nikifor flinched, and even I suppressed the urge to step back. But Ivan showed no fear.

  “I am well, thank you,” he replied calmly.

  The two stared at each other. Then the beast settled back by the fire. “I see.”

  Nikifor nodded, his eyes on Ivan lighting up with quiet pride. “You were right all along.”

  Wolf turned to the old man. “Have you meddled in something you weren’t supposed to?”

  “No, I spoke of nothing to the boy.”

  “Then, why does he defy me?”

  “I do not,” Ivan said. “I just think that I have the right to be part of your conversation. I know you came here to talk about me.”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Wolf growled.

  Ivan smiled. “I could see it, in the way you looked at me just now. Besides, why else would you be sending me outside?”

  My skin prickled. Not daft then. And then I realized this with terrifying clarity. Daftness was his weapon. It made people underestimate him.

  Just like I did.

  Great Kupalo, what trouble did we get into?

  Wolf fixed Ivan with a stare that made me suppress a gasp. The beast’s Primal force was enormous. Was the boy immune to it?

  “It only concerns you if I say so.” Wolf growled in Ivan’s face “Nobody gave you permission to speak. Meat.”

  He threw the last word through clenched teeth. It stung. Ivan’s hands balled into fists that turned his knuckles white. Yet, his voice was still calm.

  “You ate my horse,” he said. “Had you not, I wouldn’t have been here at all.”

  “Perhaps,” Wolf said. “I doubt, however, that your horse would have saved you from the killers your brother set on your trail. There were five of them, and their horses were worlds better than yours, boy.”

  “Perhaps, but that doesn’t give you, or anyone else, the right to decide my life for me.”

  Wolf studied him for a moment. “Have you ever been part of a prophecy, boy?”

  “Prophecies don’t work,” Ivan said. “Everyone knows that.”

  There was another pause.

  “They do. They work, if you make them. And, as it happens, there is one I intend to see fulfilled. It involves a certain Kashchey of the Thirty Ninth kingdom.”

  Ivan lifted his head.

  “That interests you, doesn’t it? Kashchey’s demands on your kingdom make it your business, like it or not.”

  “You mean my brother’s kingdom,” Ivan said.

  “Your homeland. Your people. Many kingdoms pay tribute to this monster who calls himself ‘immortal’. Do you know what he does to those who cannot pay? Or perhaps you’d rather your kingdom fell, like others have?”

  “Why do the affairs of my kingdom concern you, Wolf?”

  Wolf and Nikifor exchanged long glances. It seemed to me as if they were continuing a conversation from before. Obviously one held without Ivan, otherwise we would have seen it in the Mirror.

  “We all have our own interests,” Wolf said. “Nikifor does. And, even if you think you owe me nothing, boy, you still owe Nikifor for bringing you back.”

  Ivan turned to the old man. “That I do. A debt hard to repay.”

  The old man shook his head. “I am not asking you for anything, boy. I am a healer. Gods know, I would have done all I could for you, debt or not. It’s just that you are…so right for it.”

  “What is your interest in this, old father?”

  Nikifor’s face became sad. “I lived in Kashchey’s kingdom once. A long time ago.” His face froze, so that for a moment it seemed to me as if some magic had turned him to stone. “I had a daughter back then,” he said, his voice barely audible. “Svetlana.” He paused and clenched his hands.

  I felt nausea clutch my throat as a suspicion where this was going crept into my head. Svetlana. She would have been before my time.

  The old man swallowed and continued in a steady voice. “She was twelve when our small village was selected to provide a maiden for the Solstice Sacrifice. The Chosen Maiden—Fiokla—was the daughter of the village elder. On the morning the Mistress came for her, Fiokla was nowhere to be found. And then, her father finally appeared, dragging the girl by the arm.”

  The old man paused, clenching his long, pale fingers.

  “Fiokla’s father was red with embarrassmen
t. As was the maiden herself. It turned out that, learning of her fate, she ran off with the miller’s son and spilled her virginal blood.”

  I sighed. Such things happened. Some maidens, or even their families, just couldn’t accept their fate. Not often, since the man who served to defile the Sacrifice Maiden was seized and executed, but the maiden herself was spared. On such occasions the Mistress of the Solstice then picked another suitable maiden from those in the chosen village.

  I didn’t want to listen to the old man’s story. Yet, I strained to catch his every word.

  “My Svetlana was the oldest virgin left in our village. The others were all children, so even though she was only twelve, she was the only possible choice. By rules, we had to give her up in Fiokla’s stead.”

  For a while there was no sound but the creaking of the fire in the stove.

  “She was all I had,” Nikifor said. “She did not have to die.” His hands trembled and he clenched them into fists. “On that day I swore an oath to do all I can to bring ruin to their evil cult of Kupalo.”

  I felt disturbed. How could this man presume to judge our God? Sad or unfair as his fate had been, how could he put his petty family affairs on the same scale as the greater good?

  “And you?” Ivan asked Wolf. “What is your interest in all this?”

  Wolf sighed, measuring Ivan up and down with his gaze.

  “You will learn of it, if I deem you worthy, boy. And now—show me your birthmark.”

  This time the power of his voice smothered any possible argument. Ivan reached over and pulled off his shirt.

  I covered my mouth, as if the people in the Mirror could actually hear my gasp.

  A hero of legend comes marked by an arrow through turmoil and gloom. An arrow-shaped birthmark. It was there, on his left shoulder, as if painted on the skin with reddish-gold dye. It pointed diagonally down, more or less at the heart.

  Wolf nodded. “Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “Wait,” Ivan protested. “You don’t think I’m the chosen one or something?”

  Wolf snorted, suppressing a laugh. “You should be old enough to know, boy. There are no ‘chosen ones’. You’ll do, that’s all.”

  “What if I don’t want to?”

  “As if you have something better to do.”

  “And you won’t even tell me why you want this to come about?”

  “Some day. Perhaps.”

  “Enough,” my father said beside me. The Mirror filled with mist, hiding all from view.

  I stepped away, my heart beating like a bird in a cage. I’d always thought the affairs of our kingdom were our own. I never knew there were people out there who wished to destroy our worship of Kupalo.

  “Why did you stop, Father?” I asked.

  “I heard enough,” he said. “Another feeble attempt to make the prophecy come true. We’ll crush this boy like we did the others.”

  “But what is Wolf’s part in this?” I asked. “Why does he care?”

  My father looked at me. For the first time in my life, I saw fear in his eyes.

  “Come, Marya. You must have your herb drink and go to sleep. You need to replenish your powers. And I have something else to do.”

  “What, Father?”

  He looked me in the eye. “I think I know who else helped this boy. But I must be sure.”

  “Can I help?” I asked, disturbed by an expression in his face I couldn’t quite read.

  “Not this time, Marya.” He took me in his arms and caressed my hair, running his hands down through the smooth, thick strands. This time there was no challenge in this. Instead, his touch engulfed me in an aura of calm. I inhaled his scent, so familiar and comforting, the cold scent of stone washed by full moon that symbolized the safety of the walls that enclosed me from the turmoil and passions of the outside world. The stone of my father’s world around me.

  “Rest, my sweet Marya,” he said. “Your father will set things right.”

  Ivan

  Baba Yaga pushed her empty bowl away and leaned back against the warm stove.

  “For what this beast did,” she said to Ivan, though she watched Wolf, “there’s no forgiveness. Yet, there is nothing to be done. I would have killed him, but all I could do was kill his gift of human speech. And only when I was around. To each his own.”

  Ivan waited, but there was nothing else. He longed to ask her what Wolf had done to make her so angry, but he knew it was useless. Besides, it seemed best not to disturb the past.

  “So,” he said, “you will not help?”

  “Him—no.” Baba Yaga slid her gaze over Wolf and turned away. “I know he thinks he can undo the evil he has caused, but there is no going back. And revenge, however sweet, solves nothing. I will not go along with it.”

  “What about helping me?”

  Baba Yaga got up from the table and limped over to the corner behind the stove. She looked older again, a grandmother entertaining guests in her lonely hut. There was a clanking as she rummaged in the dark depths. A furry shape darted along the wall and disappeared into a crack under the stove. It looked bigger than a normal mouse and Ivan could have sworn it had more than four legs.

  He looked away.

  After a while Baba Yaga pulled out a dusty vial. It looked darker than the one in the Cat’s tale, but Ivan recognized it at once. She held it up to the light and shook it.

  “Empty,” she said. “That boy, Ilia, took a lot to come back to life. The fool managed to get his head severed, you know.”

  Ivan remembered the tears in her eyes, real human tears rolling down the parched skin of her immortal face. She’s lonely. An old lonely woman with ancient powers, who will never die.

  She sat down and put the vial on the table. Wolf eyed it warily.

  “To you mortals the Water brings life,” she said. “But we Immortals can never touch a single drop of it. Perhaps this is why the Stream never reveals itself to a mortal. There should be a balance in everything.”

  Ivan picked up the vial and shook it gently. There wasn’t anything left in it. Not even a drop.

  “Will you tell me the song?” he asked.

  “Useless, boy. The Stream will never reveal itself to you. Besides, you’ll never make it in time.”

  “I have to try,”

  “But why? To her—to Marya—this is but a fancy. She doesn’t need the Water to bring life. She just wanted to give you, silly boy, an impossible task.”

  “This isn’t about me,” Ivan said. “It is about Kashchey and the power of Kupalo. If I fulfill her task, I will have a chance to put an end to the whole Solstice tradition in this kingdom. There will be no virgin sacrifice and Kashchey’s subjects will see him for what he truly is. Don’t you see? It could put an end to Kashchey’s rule.”

  “Perhaps,” Baba Yaga said. “At one point all I wanted to do is wriggle all life out of his miserable form. But that time is long gone. Hurting Kashchey won’t undo the past.”

  She seemed to address these words to the wolf, whose eyes glowed out of the corner of the room like jewels. A charge passed between them, as if, despite his muteness, they spoke to one another.

  Then she stirred and looked back at Ivan.

  “So, you will not help?” Ivan asked again.

  She shook her head. “The lives of these maidens mean nothing to me, boy.”

  No, because you haven’t seen any of them. None of them had a chance to touch your heart. Not like Wolf, who somehow hurt you enough that you made him speechless; not like Ilia, who you brought back to life only to see him leave you and go his own way.

  He raised his head and met the look in her yellow eyes.

  “What did Ilia’s life mean to you? What has he done to make you travel all the way out to the ends of the world and risk your life to gather the sacred water?”

  She stared back, unblinking. The silence rustled with the creaky fire, squeaked with the strange creatures hiding in the thatched corners of the chicken-legged house.

  “He
was perhaps even younger than you,” she finally said. “And he had this fire in his eyes, like he knew something no one else did, like he was going to set things right for everybody in the world. A promising lad, I thought. So, when I saw him, lifeless, his pretty head cut away from his body, it seemed like such a silly waste. I—”

  She fell silent again. They sat for a while, subsumed in the quiet sounds of the living house.

  “The girl they will sacrifice this year,” Ivan said, “is called Alyona. She is sixteen, the youngest daughter in a family of six. She has four elder sisters and a younger brother. When she dies, her soul will merge with Kashchey’s to keep him young for another year. He will devour her, as he has many others before her, and every time it happens, he grows in power, so that he can control more lands and conjure more troops to invade other kingdoms. Soon, his power will grow so great that no one in the world will be able to resist him.”

  “And you propose to stop all this?” There was amusement in Baba Yaga’s voice.

  “I have to try. Every year he becomes more powerful than before. This year it may still be possible. Next year, it may be too late.”

  “You speak nobly, but I have lived too long in this world to believe noble words. You are much like Ilia, but he was foolish and you, I know, are no fool. What is it that really drives you, boy?”

  He met her gaze. There is no reason to deny it, he told himself. No reason at all.

  “Last year,” he said, “our kingdom received a messenger from Kashchey. We are to submit to his rule and pay tribute to his kingdom. If we refuse, he will destroy our crops and lay our lands to waste.”

  She laughed. “Don’t tell me that you care. Your kingdom cast you out. Your brothers sent killers after you and nearly succeeded. You owe them nothing.”

  “Not them,” Ivan said. “I owe it to my people. No matter what my father thinks of me, I am still a tzar’s son and I am responsible for my kingdom’s well-being.”

  She shook her head. “Noble words. But empty. No one puts others before himself, boy. No one. If you think you do, you are merely fooling yourself. Don’t tell me I was wrong about you and you’re a fool after all.”