C. Cherryh - Chernevog

So finally her mother talked about things as they were. Eveshka sat down, coat and all, holding the teacup in her lap, and looked her mother in the eye, saying, “So what else don’t I know, that you think I should?”

“A great deal.”

“I’ve an hour or so in mind.”

“Aren’t you warm in that coat?”

“Let’s get to the point, mama.”

Draga sipped her tea. “Kavi Chernevog.”

“What about him?”

“He’s awake, he’s looking for you, and he has your husband and his friend prisoner.”

“That’s a lie!”

“I’d be very careful trying to bespeak young Alexander at the moment. You’re liable to get a very unpleasant answer. —Let me tell you, daughter, you’re a lovely, intelligent young woman with your father’s manners, my wits, and both our gifts in measure enough Kavi finds you very dangerous. I wanted you here. I would have wanted your husband and young Alexander with you, but that part of it your young friend prevented. At least Kavi doesn’t know about me yet and Kavi doesn’t believe you have any help now that the leshys have fallen asleep.”

That, she had not known. The rest of it—She threw one small item onto the pile, hoping it was harmless. She said, “Hwiuur’s loose. The vodyanoi.”

“I know him. Where is he?”

“In your woods, mama. Is he yours?”

“No, he’s not mine. Hwiuur belongs to whoever scares him. And since Kavi’s waked—I’ve no doubt whose he is. You say he was in my woods. Where?”

“You should know that, mama, you should know it, he was close enough. You knew I was there.”

“I saw you. I didn’t see him. I don’t like this at all.” Draga shut her eyes a torment, and wanted something. Of a sudden something large stirred beyond the curtains, claws clicked across the boards and a huge bear thrust a nose into the room—came shambling in as if it owned the place.

“His name is Brodyachi,” Draga said. “He is a bear.”

Brodyachi rocked from side to side, swinging his head and managing to look at Eveshka sullenly, eye to eye. He had a terrible scar across his head and other scars that looked like burns, about his shoulders.

“Trespassers, Brodyachi!” Draga went and opened the door.

Brodyachi got up and slouched out of the house into the night.

“I had him indoors tonight,” Draga said, “knowing you were very close. I’m afraid Brodyachi’s rather a sullen fellow. Be on your guard against him. —Would you like some tea to drink this time, dear? That cup must be cold by now.”

“This is fine.” She had an idea what Brodyachi was, and that it would be no easy thing to overcome the spells that protected him.

So her mother had her heart well protected. But she had hers in her, and there was nothing but her wishes to defend it.

Her mother said, “Won’t you take off the coat?”

They lay down to sleep, with the fire built up, their canvas tied between two rocks and the surviving wall of the bathhouse. It was dry, it was warm, it should have afforded them comfort. But the sight of Chernevog reading by firelight afforded none, and as for what had happened to him, Pyetr felt a decided queasiness about his stomach—not pain, not acute fear: he told himself that nothing substantial had happened, that he still had his own heart, whatever the substance of it was, and Chernevog’s could not be that well-used, however old it was.

Sasha touched his shoulder. He turned his head and saw the worry on Sasha’s face.

“This time it is my fault,” Sasha whispered, and wanted something, Pyetr had no idea what, except it upset his stomach further.

Sasha gave up whatever he was doing and looked thoroughly upset.

“Don’t believe him,” Sasha said. “Whatever you do, don’t start believing him.”

“Hell,” he whispered, “I have trouble enough believing in Babi.” He elbowed Sasha in the ribs, “Get some sleep. At least we don’t have to keep one ear awake for Snake tonight. We know damn well where he is.”

Bad joke. It was the best he could do. Sasha said, touching his brow— “Go to sleep, Pyetr.”

Damned dirty trick the boy had, Pyetr thought, opening his eyes in the sunrise. But he was, all the same, grateful.

Eveshka waked facedown in a comfortable nest of pillows and blankets and felt a moment of cold fear, having no memory of railing asleep, or having lain down in this bed which was clearly in her mother’s house. Somehow she was in a clean white gown, somehow she was washed and barefoot, and with her hair braided with pale blue ribbons. And someone was stirring about beyond the curtains, clattering pottery. The house smelled of breakfast.

“Mother!” she cried, irate. She flung her feet out of bed, looked in vain for her pack, her boots and the clothes she had been wearing. There was only a light robe on a peg and she put it on and stormed out into the kitchen.

Her mother looked at her, mixing bowl and spoon in hand, and said, “Set the table, dear.”

“Mother, where’s my bag?”

“Breakfast first.”

Eveshka walked about the room, peering under benches and behind curtains.

“The dishes are in the cupboard,” Draga said.

“Where are my clothes, dammit? Where are my belongings?”

“You sound like your rather.” Draga nodded toward the other curtain. “Your baggage is there, your boots are clean, outside the door, your clothes are drying. You’re quite the slugabed, my dear.”

Eveshka went to the curtained closet, drew out her bag and her coat and laid them on the bench by the fire, where her mother was putting cakes on a griddle. She walked to the door, opened it and retrieved her boots, standing in the open door to pull them on.

“Eveshka, dear, you’re making a draft in the fireplace.”

“I want my clothes,” she said, and closed the door and walked out across the clearing in a nightrobe and her boots to collect her clothes off the oak that stood at the edge of the woods.

Thank the god, she thought, her book was on the boat. She could remember nothing of how she had gotten to bed—sleeping like the very dead last night, since she supposed it was her mother who had washed her and braided her hair and dressed her like a ribboned doll.

She reached up to get her clothes from off the tree and heard a loud grunt, looked, still standing on tiptoe, and saw the bear get up from behind the oak and look at her.

“Nice Brodyachi,” she said, wishing absolutely nothing at him, knowing how touchy a wizard’s companion could be. “That’s a good fellow.”

She gathered the clothes, backed carefully away, one eye to the bear. It walked with a sullen swing of its head, faster and faster. Moaned in a bear’s warning voice.

“Mother!” she yelled.

And dashed for the door and slammed it as Brodyachi charged. She braced her shoulder against it and dropped the latch as he flapped the wood.

Her mother was taking up the cakes.

“Brodyachi,” Draga said, rising to her feet, and Eveshka could hear the bear’s harsh sigh, hear the boards of the door creak as it sat down against it. Her mother said, “After breakfast, you can feed him a cake or two. That may win him. —Do get the dishes, dear. I’m standing here with nowhere to put these.”

They packed up, they picked up the bags and the bedrolls to take out to the horses. Chernevog took the bag with the books and the herb-pots, which answered the question whether Chernevog would turn a hand himself, and certainly what he wanted to keep out of Sasha’s reach, Pyetr reckoned bitterly.

He also reckoned very well which horse Chernevog would want for himself, and when Chernevog wanted to walk out to the horses, Pyetr kept his mouth shut and planned to keep it that way, wishing at the bottom of his heart that Volkhi would have the discrimination to give a sudden pitch and break Chernevog’s neck—but the very thought that Chernevog might harm Volkhi or magic the spirit out of him made him sure he wanted to do nothing to provoke him. Volkhi came wandering up to them, and he attached the reins, trying to think nothing at all.