C. Cherryh - Chernevog

She liked him. It was a good thing for him.

There was nothing left in either of them but aches. He had fed Missy, gathered what he could, not forgetting the salt, which he had dumped in a bag to itself and kept slung from his shoulder. Damn, he wanted Babi back. He did not count the vodyanoi gone in any reckoning; bright sun drove it deep under water or earth, but there was none, and dry land inconvenienced it, but there was damned little dry this morning.

Damn, damn! he did not like the feeling he was having, as if something was out there, pacing him—and ahead of him—

Just ahead was a place that did not match the rest of the forest. He could not decide how it was different: it felt like forest, it felt almost like this one, but it—moved toward him—like a cloud boundary coming across the ground: but this was nothing visible: it was a sound, a feeling of coolth or earthiness. He had time to think: I don’t like this, —and to take Missy’s bridle and to wish them both well before it broke over them like a sudden dizziness, a sudden lack of breath—

“Oh, god!” he cried, wishing not, but it widened, sweeping over them and rolling through the woods, well past them before it stopped and held. He wanted to keep breathing, he wanted himself and Missy safe from it, and when he wondered, he could not help it, who was doing this—

Eveshka wanted him, right now, Eveshka was—

It felt like echoes, as if Eveshka was talking to him from the bottom of a well and echoing so he could not make out what she was saying, the sense of her presence and her wanting him doing the same thing, wanting the way a horde of ghosts wanted—it felt like that; and Missy started to sink down, her legs buckling.

“No,” he wished her, pulled on the bridle and drew up strength out of her body and his, pulled her around and kept pulling at her, step after faltering step. “Come on, girl, come on, keep going, ’Veshka’s being a fool—we don’t want to talk to her.”

Anger echoed around him, a change in the sense of things, at least. His head spun, his heart skipped beats, he had no idea what Eveshka wanted.

But there was the edge in the woods ahead. He pulled violently at Missy’s halter, wanted her, dammit! to keep going, he was not going to leave her on this side of the trouble, not going to let her die here. He could feel the edge coming, the place where the magic stopped—but he was so tired, and what swirled around them offered all the answers and all the strength he needed, if he would take it—

The strength it was taking it would give back—it promised.

“Come on!” he wished Missy, pleaded with her, being only Missy then, only Missy, who, suddenly understanding a way out, called up something on her own, remembering town and the hill and her person shouting to her. She drew up her own strength and shoved with her legs, one heave and another, hauling against the heaviest load and the steepest hill she had ever known-She went down, not on stone, on soft dirt—threw her head up and tried to get up again.

Sasha wished not, told her she had done it, she was safe-down on his knees himself, and lying on Missy’s shoulder, with the whole world spinning and fading a moment.

It did not want to kill him. It had let him know that. It wanted his silence and his compliance and his heart.

No, he told it, and he was not sure what it would do, but it was not going to get any of that—no.

The babble started again, near him, and he leaned against Missy’s shoulder and tried just to hold on and not listen to it— while it told him he had to listen, it wanted Pyetr, it wanted him, it offered them a refuge where Chernevog could not reach them, and he had to see to that—do something—where his hands could reach and her magic could not.

It said, out of the confusion—he thought it sounded like Eveshka, at least it had her voice: I can stop Kavi. But not while he can use Pyetr against me. Get him out of Kavi’s hands. Get him away. Do just one thing right, damn your pigheaded arrogance, and I’ll forgive you what you’ve done.

It said, in a quiet tone: You’re nothing but my father’s wish, Sasha. You’re his last damned wish in the world, and you’ve made all his mistakes. Don’t kill Pyetr for him. Hear me? And don’t come here until you have him. Rain spattered down, a patter through the leaves, cold huge drops, that hit like blows and left numbness where they struck. But not enough. He clung to Missy’s shoulder and held on, eyes shut, with a knot of pain inside that he had to hold, had to go on thinking about—

Most of all, not go crazy with—god, not let it loose-Aunt Ilenka saying, I know who’s the bad luck in this house— A cracked teacup, that a wish still held— Missy grunted, moved one leg, another. Missy had a cramp.

She was getting wet and the ground was cold. She did not know why she was sitting here, but she had caught her breath, and this was not comfortable.

Sasha thought, himself, We can’t go any farther. He thought Missy needs help.

He got up, he got her reins untangled, he got the packs off her back and shoved hard at her rump, shoved hard a second time as she got her feet to bear. She stood, dropped her head and shook herself, a spatter of muddy water.

He hugged her neck, he said, “Good girl,” and patted her shoulder, while the rain came down. The knot had gone from his chest to his throat, and stung his eyes—pain wanting his attention, which was not going to do a damned thing useful with the rain pouring down on them and whatever that had been telling him things that upended everything he had thought he knew. A heart could hurt. He could ignore it or he could let Missy carry it, but he thought, There’s time for that: I don’t have to listen to it. He gathered up the baggage, he got into the pack with the apples and gave Missy two. He wrapped up in the canvas with a fistful of dried berries and nibbled on them, in the notion that his body had spent too much and that borrowing was also a decision he did not want to make yet.

He thought, testing his reasoning, I’ve never felt anything like what just happened.

He thought, It’s much stronger than I am.

And, carefully: It was this way and that. It wasn’t like a wizard, but it sounded like ’Veshka. It said what ’Veshka might say. She would be mad at me. I don’t doubt that. But if it is ’Veshka she’s not doing well, is she? That’s what Pyetr would say. She’s not doing well…

She says I’m a wish. So’s a rusalka. A rusalka’s a terribly strong wish. She’s her own wish. In some measure she’s her father’s. He wanted her alive. She says Uulamets didn’t know what he was doing. But the leshys never said that. The leshys said, Take Chernevog to Uulamets…

I didn’t do that, did I? Things went wrong. Things are still going wrong. And of magical things I’d trust the leshys. I’d trust Babi. Babi just doesn’t trust me right now. Why?

He thought, We’re on the forest’s side. That’s all. Maybe the leshys are gone, maybe there won’t be any help, but that’s still the side we are. It’s not wise to forget that. If I’m anyone’s, I’m Misighi’s. If he’s dead, if they’re all dead, maybe I’m the wish they made.

He felt the disturbance in the woods. He felt where the center was, he felt more than one presence there. He thought,

Draga —

Uulamets had said, Draga.

Nothing made sense. One moment riding through the woods in a light drizzle, the next waking in a pouring rain on a horse standing very still, with Chernevog’s arms locked about him, Chernevog saying, “Your friend’s in trouble. Your friend’s in deep trouble.”

“Where?” he asked, never mind the rain, never mind his ribs ached where Chernevog had been holding him—he wanted to go there, and he gathered up Volkhi’s reins.