C. Cherryh - Chernevog

But Chernevog said, preventing him moving, “Listen to me. Don’t argue. Listen. I want you to go to him. He’s not far from us. I want him to come back here. I don’t want to quarrel with him. You’re my offer of good faith. Do you understand me?”

“No.” He did not understand. He sat still, unable to move, unable to do anything but answer. “It’s a damn trap!”

“I want you to do this,” Chernevog said, “but I’m also explaining to you. If something goes wrong I want you to come back here, immediately.”

He had no such intention. If something went wrong he knew where he wanted to be, and he tried not to think that, because then Chernevog might never let him go. He would do as he was told. Absolutely he would.

Chernevog said, tightening his arms, “My dear friend, you are so damned poor a liar. And I want you back. I want both of you, dear Owl.”

“Damn you,” he said.

“The best have tried,” Chernevog said, and let him go and slipped from Volkhi’s back, taking the baggage with him. “I’m wishing you to find him. Follow your vaguest notions. They’ll be mine.”

He looked down at Chernevog, taking up the reins. Chernevog gave him nothing but that damnable cold smile, and the idea, he was sure it was Chernevog’s, that he had finally to let that cold spot in his heart have its way completely—that being his only guide.

He knew his directions, he turned Volkhi that way and went, and Volkhi picked up speed—whether Volkhi’s inclination, free of half his burden, or whether moving at a wizard’s wish, Pyetr did not know: god, he could not answer for himself any more why he was doing this or whose he was.

The rain diminished again. The heavy drops that splashed in the puddles now were all from the trees. Sasha listened—touching Missy’s senses as well as his own, a comforting presence, Missy stretching legs still a little uncertain, and enjoying here and now with a small measure of grain and a lump or two of honeyed cereal. Missy was not much on worry when the woods were quiet, and that was a very good way to think when a young wizard was occupying a very dangerous borderland. He had a little food to settle his own uneasy stomach, and sat wrapped in his canvas, warm against the rain-chill, simply resting and listening to the woods; and reading, to keep his thoughts from straying into noisy wishes, from the only book he had.

When I was a very little girl I used to sit and watch the people going on their travels. I wasn’t supposed to talk to them. I was supposed to stay hidden. But I didn’t. They gave me trinkets. I wished them well. I wore flower-crowns and ribbons they gave me and I hid the trinkets from Papa —

That made Papa mad when he found out and he said he’d wish the road less convenient…

And, seeking cautiously to know more recent things: Pyetr really doesn’t know a thing about gardens. He planted the beans so deep so I don’t think wishes could grow them…

Sasha made me so angry today. There are hardly any wishes in this book. Just things that happen, no matter what he says. I don’t even wish our happiness. My father’s heir — says not to, as if I’m afoot I wish he’d quit suspecting me, every time something goes right or wrong. That is a wish. It could even be dangerous. And I’m not sorry…

He thought, carefully, It was dangerous. It is. To be blind to her—god, that’s very dangerous… Why didn’t she talk to me? Why didn’t she tell me how she felt?

Maybe she did. Maybe I didn’t want to hear. I’m not beyond fault in this, god, I’m not. I should have seen, I should have tried, but she was so damned private about her magic—

The dreams won’t let me alone. I’m so scared… I can’t want them to stop: that’s so dangerous. I’d tell Sasha — but I’ve heard his advice: Papa would say, Find out what you’re doing before you do anything. But I don’t know the consequences, god, I can’t know, because I don’t know what I am. I doubt my own life, I doubt my own substance, I want to know what’s still in that cave under the willow — and I’m afraid to know, I’m afraid to go there alone. I can’t ask Sasha, he can’t keep secrets from Pyetr, and most of all I don’t want Pyetr to go in there and find out I’m still in that grave. I don’t think he thinks about that now — but after that, how could he forget? When I came back from the dead, did the bones come out of that cave? Where did the flesh come from? Or what am I made of? My father’s wishes? I wonder sometimes, what terrible thing Pyetr’s sleeping with… and what I’m still borrowing from, to keep the life I have…

We finished the bathhouse. I tried not to want anything about it. I’ve tried not to think about it. Nothing happened, thank the god…

Missy lifted her head from her search for remaining grains. Her ears were up. Sasha wished her not to make a sound and she stood with a little shiver down her foreleg—listening and smelling.

Volkhi. And the friendly person. Missy was glad.

Sasha was not. He shut the book and got to his feet, thinking of shapeshifters and vodyaniye and wishing to the god Babi would show up now, please the god, he did not want this…

It certainly looked like Pyetr coming through the trees. It looked like Volkhi. But eavesdropping could not always unmask a shapeshifter once the creature had gotten well into stolen shape and stolen thoughts.

Pyetr rode up to Missy, slid off and started toward him, but Sasha wished not, and Pyetr stopped, made a small helpless gesture toward him. That hurt. “He sent me,” Pyetr said. “He’s not far from here. He wants you to come there—”

“What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” Pyetr said shakily. “I don’t know. He’s been tolerably reasonable—for a snake.” He touched his heart. “It’s still with me, you know. He eavesdrops most of the time…”

He did not want Pyetr in this pain, he did not want to go back to Chernevog, he wanted Pyetr free, dammit!

“It’s a short ride back,” Pyetr said, and gathered up Volkhi’s trailing reins. “He wants me back. He says—tell you—don’t argue, I don’t know what’s going on. He says—how do you want me to find it out?”

“Don’t do that to him, dammit! Don’t treat him like that!”

“He says—the question stands.” Pyetr gave a twitch of his shoulders, threw the reins over Volkhi’s head, looked back. “Sasha, —it’s all right. Don’t do what’s stupid. I thought—you should make up your own mind—I didn’t argue. I should have made him work for this. God, don’t be a fool—I should never have done this.”

“Wait!” He snatched up the canvas and started rolling it, while Pyetr hesitated with his hand in Volkhi’s mane.”Dammit, Missy can’t carry me, she’s had enough.”

“He says—says she will.” He left Volkhi, came and picked up the heaviest of the sacks, stopped then, looking at him as if he wanted to argue, and was in so much doubt—of himself, of what they were doing and where they were going. Sasha did eavesdrop, he took those thoughts, he told Chernevog go to hell, said, to Pyetr, as bluntly and brutally as he could, “’Veshka’s in trouble. Her mother’s alive.”

He felt Chernevog’s panic; he felt Pyetr’s, like a knife to the heart, and said, sharply, snatching up the rest of the baggage. “Don’t. I’ll talk to Chernevog. If she’s wishing you in her direction, everything may be working that way, everything we’ve done—everything Chernevog’s done.” He grabbed Pyetr’s arm and made him look him in the face. “Pyetr. We’re going to deal with this. He has to. You understand?”

“Good,” Pyetr said in a shaken voice. “Good. I’m glad we’re going to do something. I like that idea.”