CJ Cherryh - Rusalka 2 - Chernevog

by C. J. Cherryh

  In my house, he said. You didn't find it?

  Sasha shook his head. No. No, we didn't. A great deal burned. The rest—the leshys gave us. Hers wasn't with it.

  He had a very cold thought, then—the leshys fading, their missing that book, while they turned all their watchfulness on him—

  Draga? Sasha asked.

  Chernevog looked Sasha in the face with less and less and less confidence in their lives and in what they knew. He said, Right now I'm not sure of anything.

  Sasha recalled what he had met in the woods ahead—that confusion, that violence—that spoke in Eveshka's voice—

  He thought of Eveshka's book, where she had written, asking, What am I made of? My father's wishes ?

  Chernevog said distractedly, Her life is her father's. Heart and soul are hers. The substance? The god only knows. Not mentioning the child…

  Wizard business went on and on with never a word aloud. Pyetr brushed down the horses, sat and sharpened his sword, for what good it might be, then gave the horses another currying, all the while trying not to think, trying not to wonder anything, while Sasha and Chernevog in unsettling cooperation looked through the several books, with a great many shakes of the head, a good many frowns, and an occasional stirring of Chernevog's misplaced heart—a slithery anxiousness Pyetr could not ignore.

  Chernevog was increasingly disturbed. That was very personally clear.

  Pyetr thought, There's something going on. Something very bad happened this morning while I was asleep. Something changed, something both of them know and Sasha won't talk about.

  Sasha looked his way and said, "Pyetr, you won't bother us if you get something to eat.''

  "Do you want anything?" he asked, hoping this meant answers, and Sasha said distractedly: "That might be a good idea.''

  So he built the fire up again and got into the packs and made supper. Eveshka said he was hopeless at cooking; but a man could not go far wrong with sausages and hard-baked bread, which Sasha had gotten from the boat, evidently—along with Eveshka's book. He recognized it, with its familiar scars.

  And Sasha had said nothing to him about finding it, not a word. One might be tempted to believe that Sasha was wary of him in present company—but he bit his lip and distracted himself from that line of thinking: he wondered nothing about Sasha's reasons, no, he refused even to consider why Sasha had come here or what had made him accept Chernevog's offer: Snake was too clever. Snake might well be asking him questions he could not hear—he put nothing past Chernevog, and nothing beyond his reach.

  He did not know, for another thing, what whatever they were afraid of might be doing out there—Draga, Sasha had said, the only name he put to it. Sasha had always said that distance made a difference with wizardry, and Chernevog had talked about a little farther dh in this woods being more dangerous than where they were now—but it did seem to him that whatever-it-was could damn well get up and walk a bit and close that gap. Whatever-it-was . . . which involved Draga, and Eveshka's book, and her life, and whatever mess she was in—he was sure it did.

  He wanted answers, dammit. And none came. The west was rumbling with thunder again—he listened with a little rising hope, thinking that the storm coming might be their doing, that something might be in the making.

  But with dusk coming on, and the storm still delaying, he got up and got the vodka jug, and took it back to his place beyond the firelight, beside the horses. He sat down and had himself a drink—had another, and thought—

  Babi.

  He poured a drop on the ground. Nothing caught it. He tried another, wishing very hard, if that should make a difference. The thunder seemed closer of a sudden, and he wondered if the coming storm was on their side. He thought, Damned rotten night coming. He thought about the Things that disliked the light, and he thought about ghosts, and the one they had come here looking for.

  It was too much to ask, that the old man put in an appearance.

  But something cold did touch him. It brushed his face and whisked away.

  No, Chernevog insisted. He did not think it a good idea to attempt Uulamets at this point. No, no, and no, no matter the reason in Sasha's arguments. The old man had no liking for him, the old man would not tolerate his presence, they were likely to get a very unpleasant manifestation-Afraid, Sasha thought, and maybe Chernevog overheard that. Chernevog gave him an offended look. But it was true—it was fear that made Chernevog pull back and there were things he feared that Chernevog suggested:

  Be rid of your heart. Listen to me. You can take it back later. It's not irrevocable, for the god's sake . . . look at me. Magic and a heart don't go together. You can't do anything against her until you settle that question!

  Sasha thought, with the thunder rumbling frighteningly close, Master Uulamets said, Wish no harm. . . .

  "God," Chernevog exclaimed aloud, "you're not still listening to that old fool. Wizardry won't help us, boy, it's not going to help—it can't defend your friend and it damned sure—" Don't, Sasha wished him, for fear of Pyetr hearing: he already knew what else Chernevog thought of that wizardry could not do: it could not overcome what had happened to Eveshka.

  How much longer are you going to delay telling him? Cher-nevog asked, with a thought toward Pyetr. Boy, he has my heart, Iknow the truth. I don't know but what it spills over—I've never dealt with anyone but Owl, and Owl wasn't much on understanding.

  It offended him that Chernevog chided him about Pyetr's welfare. He said, It does him no good to lose myself, does it? You don't love anything, you never have. You don't understand how much it hurts.

  —Thank the god I don't, Chernevog replied. —And you don't have to. Listen to me, Alexander Vasilyevitch!

  No!

  For a moment breath came hard. Tempers rose, anger flared, palpable and threatening; but Sasha wished not, no quarreling, and Chernevog as strongly wished them both to be calm, saying,

  Damned stubborn boy! You'll get us all killed. Quiet!

  They had resolved, at least, what creature Eveshka had allied with: one could smell it a distance, one could recognize it, Chernevog said, in his memories of her presence—

  Wolves, twenty and more of them. Draga's wolves. Chernevog recalled them all too well, creatures each with names, and more mind each and alone than they had together—One's bad, Chernevog had said, with a shudder; but it thinks. The lot of them don't think—in any reasonable way. Put your heart in that lot—god knows, 'Veshka never could make up her mind. I'm afraid she's found the one creature that might suit her.

  That made Sasha mad, and defensive of Eveshka. But it was also, he feared, true.

  Chernevog kept after that thought. Chernevog said, now— Listen, boy, if Draga's alive in any physical way, the power she had is nothing to the power she can get through 'Veshka. I'm telling you Simple wizardry won't stop her, I swear to you, it will not stop her. You've met magic. You ran from it. Can wit overcome that? Can nature? Are you that damnably, stupidly blind, to go back at it again empty-handed?

  Sasha said, back to the point of their disagreement, Listen to me. Give me your help—

  Chernevog said, with stinging despite: Turn myself over to you? Bay, you're not listening! If you want your friend alive, if you want him free—there's a cost, and I'm not the one here begging help, I'm not the one desperate to get a fool girl out of her predicament!

  Sasha looked him in the face, jaw set, said: —No. You're the one desperate to have my help, Kavi Chernevog, because 'Veshka has every reason to want her hands on you, Draga had you once and she wants you back, and if I go, Kavi Chernevog, and if we go under, at least I'm not damning the people I care about to fight each other—

  —No, Chernevog retorted—of course not! You're damning your friend to be hers, as she is, for as long as she can keep him alive—or for as long as she can keep him out of Draga's hands, which, between you and me, isn't damned long, boy! If you think a loving, crazy wife is hell, god help you when you meet her mother. I'm not your worst choice�
�and believe me you've got only two.

  Pyetr took another drink, while Volkhi and Missy fretted quietly. The approaching storm had them disturbed. The god hope there was no other reason in the woods around them. He had them tied. He did not trust Sasha's attention to details at the moment. He very much wished for Babi, he even wished for Uulamets. But the cold touch that swept past him from time to time did not seem to have anything to do with the old man, unless it was that damned raven of his—because whatever was bothering him glided in and out again with that kind of feeling; and as the light faded from the sky, when less and less detail distracted a man's eye from what his mind saw—he imagined a wide, winged shape . . .

  Continually now, from the direction of the fire, he felt the disturbance of Chernevog's heart, he saw the frowns and felt there was a quarrel of some sort going on over there, a very dangerous quarrel.

  Sasha had said very little to him on the short ride to this place: he had talked about the vodyanoi, and how the rail had gotten broken on the boat. About having found Uulamets, and how Uulamets had moved the pages in the book, how he was certain that Uulamets had done the most he could do—

  He's not like ' Veshka was, Sasha had said. I don't know if an old man could do what she did—I don't know if Uulamets would. He protected these woods. What she did to it upset him terribly. I don't know that he could have made himself do what she did, no matter how he needed it.

  Then Sasha had said, And I don't know if an old man could believe in his own life the way she did. It's not enough not to disbelieve your own death, I think—that only makes a ghost. What makes a rusalka is a kind of believing I'm not sure one can even do past fifteen or sixteen...

  Like the jug, he had said, inelegant comparison.

  Exactly like the jug, Sasha had said, and said nothing else for a few moments.

  Then: —I think, dead, Uulamets has found so many doubts, so much that wasn't the way he thought—

  Another silence. And:

  What I have to tell Chernevog isn't going to make him happy either. He's been tricked—unless he's lied to us all along.

  He had said, distressed at that thought: Lied to us—about Draga? He wouldn't have to. If he was hers, he could have turned us both over to her. He could have done it that night at the house—

  Sasha had said: Not necessarily. And gone on to say: I'm stronger than might seem. I know that I am.

  Somehow that had failed to comfort him. Are you as strong as he is? he had asked.

  And Sasha, a very soft voice, very faint, What's happened to Chernevog is doubt. What's happened to me is certainty. I know certain things, I know what I want. That's why I won't give up my heart. That's why I can't give it up. That's exactly what he'll want and I won't give it.

  He had asked, carefully, scared Chernevog was listening: Can you want me free?

  And Sasha, equally carefully: I don't dare. You have his protection. That's not inconsiderable.

  That had upset him. It still did. He thought, Dammit, don't I have a choice? He doesn't have to live with this. He doesn't have Snake putting him to sleep any time it suits him. I hate this! What's 'Veshka to think if she does reach me? All she'll touch is Kavi Chernevog . . .

  —Maybe she thinks that already—maybe she thinks we've just gone over to Chernevog, that we're his creatures. . . .

  And aren't we? Aren't we now? We're fighting his damn fight, we're keeping him alive, we're going right down the track of his wishes, and "Veshka's his enemy the same as Draga is.

  I shouldn't have gone after Sasha. I should have fought him on that point. Snake's using me, exactly the way he said he would. Sasha's over there in a damn dice game—and at any moment Snake's going to switch the dice, I know he is. I know that damned slithery heart of his. He's not done with us ... he's not done with being what he is, he's only learned how to want us, and want company, and want us—

  God, he wants us with him, wants us to be his the way Sasha and I have been together, his to keep—to damn well own, down to the breaths we take. Only he's not Sasha. He's not any good-hearted stableboy.

  That cold touch brushed his face again. He saw it glide away this time, broad wings, broad, pale wings-Owl.

  And beyond the light, a shadow-shape with glowing eyes.

  Wolves and tearing jaws—

  Eveshka's face, cold and calm—

  He snatched up his sword and scrambled to his feet, while the horses snorted in alarm, pulling at their tethers.

  Draga's face . . .

  And a pull at his heart, so fierce it took his breath away.

  "Pyetr!" he heard Sasha cry, a thin and distant voice. He caught a breath, heard a maelstrom of voices, calling to him—

  'Veshka's voice among them, saying, Pyetr, Pyetr, I need you—oh god, I need you—

  The bannik pulled the other way. He felt the pain, felt Snake's heart stirring in wild panic. The bannik flew from where it was and turned up face-to-face with him, wild eyes glaring, hands reaching, nails like claws, teeth like a rat's—

  He struck at it, he tore himself away, with Eveshka shrieking at him, wishing it away from him.

  Thunder cracked. Lightning burst a tree in the woods beside him.

  He could not hear, then, he could not see—except Volkhi's rearing shape seared into his sight. He thought, My wife, dammit! 'Veshka's doing this! Damn her, she's our hope—she's the only hope-He ran, blind for that black shape his vision still held, he grabbed the tight-stretched tether Volkhi was fighting, slung the sheath off his sword and cut it.

  He dropped the sword. He needed both hands to get a hold on Volkhi. He wrapped his hand in the tether and hauled himself for Volkhi's neck, Volkhi's shoulder, grabbed a fistful of mane and flung himself in the direction Volkhi was bolting, landing astride.

  He had a little vision in his streaming eyes, he ducked low on Volkhi's back as branches raked over them and hoped to the god Volkhi was not as blind.

  He knew where she was. Volkhi was going that direction. He heard 'Veshka's voice, he knew she was in trouble and he wished to the god he had the sword—but he had enough on his hands, keeping Volkhi on his feet in the dark-hazed woods and telling his wife, the while he did it, Dammit, 'Veshka, stop it—listen to me, hear?

  28

  "Pyetr!" Sasha cried, "Pyetr!" Thunder cracked. Wind howled through the trees, pelting them with leaves, and Chernevog caught Sasha's arm, wanting him to stop, wait, use his head—

  "You've no choice!" Chernevog yelled at him, "you've no more time for dithering, boy! Make a choice—join me or join that! If he puts my heart in her hands we've neither of us got a choice at all! Help me!"

  Sasha spun on one foot and tore from his grip, raced through the lightning-seared dusk toward the remaining horse, and Chernevog wished not—

  Sasha stopped and swung about, in the gibbering chaos about them, the horse struggling and screaming in fright—Sasha wished, fighting his attempt to reason with him . . .

  Chaos and magic—wild wishes racketing about the walls in physical form-Wanting him—

  "God!" Chernevog cried, as a white shape flew in his face, buffeted him with icy wings. Sasha had caught up the fallen sword, beckoned him with it, shouting. "Come help me! Help me, for the god's sake!" "Nothing we can do!" Chernevog cried. "Dammit, he's giving Draga everything she wants—and a wizard's no help to me!

  Join me, boy, join me, or I'll be joining her, and then where will you be, where's hope for any of us?"

  Sasha squinted in the wind, shielding his eyes with his arm, and cried, "I'm going after him! You can do what you want, Chernevog!"

  Thunder cracked. A tree shattered, spun burning fragments along the wind. The horse reared, cracking the limb it was tied to. Sasha grabbed after it, hacked at the tether.

  Chernevog wanted the lightning elsewhere, he wanted Sasha to listen to him—he no longer knew anything for certain: no longer knew what had waked him or what had brought him here—Draga had shaped his magic, Draga had used it—

  "Come o
n!" Sasha shouted at him, wanting him.

  But a jagged shadow loomed between himself and Sasha, face-to-face with him—caging him with outstretched arms. He wanted help. It wanted—him. It was—him.

  The night he had tried magic on his own, to know enough to free himself—

  A wish unfinished, a desire Draga had ripped away and twisted—

  "Chernevog!"

  "All right!" he yelled at Sasha, waved his arm and swept up the fragment, crazed as it was—

  The shadow—the fragment—vanished; but Owl was still there, Owl flew ghostly white and unruffled by the gale as Chernevog ran toward him. Sasha grabbed Missy's mane, wanted her still just as long as it took: he heaved himself onto her back, pulled her about as Chernevog reached him—

  Wanting him to stop, wanting up with him—this . . . Thing along with him.

  It wanted to beat Draga—it saw lightnings and a rider on a black horse—

  It took his offered hand, clambered up over him and flung itself astride as Missy took out running, held on to him as Missy trampled a rotten branch to splinters and took the hill in a dozen long strides.

  He wanted to overtake Pyetr before it was too late. Chernevog offered help. And what he had taken up behind him and what was clinging to his back—he had no idea.

  ***

  Lightnings cracked, throwing the whole woods into white glare, a broken limb tumbled into their path, Volkhi sailed over it and kept going, along a hollow and up a bank, between two trees so close one braised Pyetr's leg.

  It was 'Veshka's wish guided him, Pyetr trusted that it was, it was her voice he heard wailing over the rest.

  Lightning showed an abrupt edge to the ground—it came up through the trees, under Volkhi's feet, and Volkhi plunged down a slope, took a shallow brook in stride and headed up again.

  A thunderbolt hit behind, showing brush between the trees. Volkhi crashed through it, under limbs, and Pyetr grasped mane along with the reins, tucked low and held on as branches stabbed his back.