C. Cherryh - Chernevog

“Master Uulamets, I’ve no choice—you can’t help me and I’ve no damn choice, have I?”

He felt as if master Uulamets had gathered him up and hit him in the face—repeatedly. He felt cold, and weaker, and weaker.

It was theft—he knew what Uulamets was doing, the same deadly robbery that he had done to the trees, the same that a rusalka did to her victims. He wished it to stop—but he felt the cold deepen, until his jaws locked and his teeth were chattering, the lamp flame making wild shadows about the deck as the wind swirled about him.

“Don’t,” he said, “master Uulamets, stop… stop it!”

The book fell open in his lap, wind blew at its pages.

It wanted him to look at it. He could hardly hold the book, he hugged it in his arms and braced it against his knee, cramped up to turn it to the light. A second time the wind whipped the pages, driving the lamp flame in giddy shadows.

He read, I’m not sure this is the best thing to do—but something’s terribly wrong. I’ve dreamed about water. I dream constantly about water and something wanting me. I know Pyetr’s safe now, at least. This time it was so close to taking him, so close — I don’t know where, I don’t know for what purpose, I only know I can’t stop it without going there myself…

The cold grew worse. Pages escaped his hands, and the wind died. He could scarcely hold the book, his fingers were so cold. The first word his eye fell on now was—

Draga.

Volkhi should have been exhausted and footsore by now, carrying two men’s weight through this damnable bog. Pyetr thought so—so far as he could think at all—but Volkhi showed no signs of tiring, and that unnatural endurance began to scare him, so for as he could stay awake to worry. He tried—damn it all, he tried to move, if only to inconvenience Chernevog, but every time he succeeded in moving he abruptly fell asleep again in Chernevog’s arms—while Volkhi kept traveling and for all he knew, killing himself. Little Chernevog cared for that.

But finally Chernevog said, “No. I’m doing no harm to him. None to us either: blackest sorcery as old Uulamets would have it. Or magic—it’s all one. I haven’t your young friend’s limitations.”

“A horse can’t go on forever!” he cried.

“While I wish it, he can. And be none the worse for it, I promise you.”

He thought about that a moment, in the haze his thoughts occupied, thought about it and began to worry about where they were going, and where Sasha was, and whether Sasha and Missy had a chance of staying ahead of them—

“But I want them to,” Chernevog said. “Remember?”

He did not remember. He thought, it’s another damn trap. He’s playing games again.

“All he’d have to do,” Chernevog said, “is he reasonable and deal with me. Remember that, too.”

He thought, muzzily, Have anything you want, as long as you want, any time you want? It’s hell on Sasha—hell on ’Veshka— the god knows Volkhi and I aren’t damn happy right now, either.

He felt himself going out again, abruptly, dizzying as a fall. “No,” he said, fighting it. But it never did any good.

Perhaps he did sleep. Perhaps it was immediately afterward that Volkhi stopped and Chernevog said, shoving him upright, “You can get down now.”

Something vast and pale shone through the trees. His eyes could not make sense of it until he realized it for the flapping sail of the boat.

Chernevog wanted him to find out what the situation was. He needed no order to do that. He flung a leg over Volkhi’s neck and slid off to a landing steadier than it had any right to be and a well-being greater than it sanely ought to be. He let the reins tall: Chernevog could fish for them if he wanted to stay ahorse; himself, he was very willing to board the old ferry, hoping—

—hoping for rescue if the boy was there and had his wits about him; and fearing the god knew what kind of terrible discovery aboard; but he tried not to think of that.

Chernevog said, above him on Volkhi’s back, “The boy’s slippery, if nothing else. Damned difficult to track, but I don’t think he’s here. Catch!”

Chernevog flung the sword at him. He snatched it by the hilt in surprise, and had instant and uncharitable thoughts of slinging the sheath off and running Chernevog through.

His breath came suddenly short. Chernevog said, “Go on. You haven’t all night.”

“Damn you,” he muttered, clenched the sword in his hand and turned and went toward the boat, where Chernevog wanted him to go. Anger choked him, while that dark cold spot stirred in the middle of him and wanted his attention, now, sharply, to what regarded their mutual survival.

There was ample evidence of a horse on the open ground near the water—Missy, he was well sure. Sasha had gotten this far, Chernevog thought so, too, but when he stood and called

Sasha’s name there was no answer from the boat. He saw a way to get to the deck, hauled himself up onto a low limb, grabbed a handful of willow-wands and jumped for the boards.

The thump would have waked any sleeper. His shouting certainly should have. He saw the deckhouse door open, and the far rail splintered with a very large piece missing. That was not at all encouraging.

“Sasha?” he called. And in remotest, most painful hope: “ ’Veshka?”

The sail filled and flapped, boards creaked and the water lapped at the hull, but of a single sound of any living presence-there was none.

He gave a perfunctory look into the deckhouse, he saw only the expected baskets, he walked around to the stern and saw the securing loop of rope over the tiller bar—that was better news, At least the hand that had last had the tiller had left it in good order, no matter that nothing short of cutting the forward stay might ever get that spar down and nothing but loosing the rest of the stays and unstepping the mast might make it possible to haul the boat free: it felt grounded, rocking on the water, but not quite floating free.

One only hoped… god, one hoped that that splintered rail and the boat having come to such a predicament did not mean Eveshka had left the boat before it ever came to rest. That break in the rail was twice Volkhi’s girth, at least.

He dropped to his heels, wiped a finger across the boards underfoot—carried it to his tongue. He tasted salt and dust.

There had been a defense.

Chernevog wanted him back, Chernevog thought the questions answered, he had looked, there was no likelihood anyone had hidden and the fact that the horse was gone meant Sasha had left along the shore.

He wished he were utterly as sure of that. He walked to the broken rail, looked over the side there—saw ripples and a sudden roiling of the water, a fish perhaps.

Perhaps not. There was no scarring of the hull to evidence any impact with the other shore. He looked out as far as he could see, and felt Chernevog’s insistence pulling at him—worried, not forcing him—but about to.

Only good sense, he thought. Sasha had gone. If Sasha was riding into trouble, and trouble of the sort that had broken that rail, he was willing to follow. He crossed the deck, snatched a handful of willow-wands and vaulted off to a landing on the spongy ground where Chernevog stood with Volkhi.

“Do you know where he’s gone?” he asked Chernevog.

“I know which direction he’s gone. I’m relatively sure of that.”

Perhaps he was losing his last sane thought, perhaps he was terribly misled even to think of finding Sasha when he had no wish to be found—perhaps the thought that the boy was into more than he could handle was entirely from Chernevog, deceiving him. But he offered the sword to Chernevog on what he reasonably believed was his own impulse, saying, “If you can use it, Snake. Or if you can’t—”