C. Cherryh - Chernevog

Sasha flung things onto Missy’s back, took Pyetr’s assistance up, took the reins, prey to shivers himself—the notion that at any moment they might be overheard here. Whatever-it-was might make another try—by whatever agency.

He thought, as Pyetr led off, He’s not gone, thank the god, he’s not gone— But he tried desperately hard not to listen to his heart again, because there was no reason in it at all right now, only fear, and a willingness to give anything he had to give to get Pyetr free.

Chernevog had stretched one of their two canvases between two birches, made a fire—it was a proper camp Sasha saw when he and Pyetr came riding in, Chernevog rising to meet them. Sasha had his apprehensions that it might indeed be a trap they were riding into—that Chernevog might have some way to use Pyetr and him to his own advantage that his own poor knowledge could not anticipate.

But Chernevog offered no immediate treachery: in truth he looked disquieted and anxious. They dismounted—Sasha held Missy’s mane, and slid off the careful way, face to the horse, not trusting his legs for Pyetr’s leg-over slide, having nothing of Pyetr’s balance or Pyetr’s grace—he thought about that at such a moment, that he was not going to grow up like Pyetr, the chance for that was past, growing up had happened and left him a little awkward, a great deal deliberate—

He said to Chernevog, not aloud: What you didn’t do— deserves something.

Chernevog said, Everything you can give. And don’t ask me to change our arrangement. It’s worked so well.

Snake, Pyetr called him. Sasha drew a deep breath, and said, If things were working well, you wouldn’t risk him coming after me.

It was two wizards standing and thinking at each other in complete silence, that was what went on, for longer than would let anyone think they were sane: Sasha was not happy and Chernevog was not happy—that was what Pyetr saw, standing there with two horses in better condition than they possibly had a right to be.

Two wizards discussing his wife, and him; and the god knew what else of the world’s fate.

“Uulamets knew it?” Chernevog had said early in this, and after that, nothing, while Sasha frowned. Something went on that made that cold spot next to Pyetr’s heart very disturbed.

He turned his back on it in despair, leaned on Volkhi’s shoulder and tried not to think what they might be saying to each other. Wizards did these things, and wizards fought over things that sane people could not even see…

And the god only knew, the god only knew whether Sasha was holding his own at all, or what Chernevog might ask or want of them, with him for a hostage and his wife being threatened.

He had his sword. He had his hand on its hilt without thinking he even had it.

But something stopped him—perhaps the thought that they needed Chernevog; and he no longer knew if it was his thought or Chernevog’s cynical dismissal of him.

Not a damned chance, that thought said. The dark spot stirred and sent a chill down his back.

He recalled Chernevog mocking him, saying: I’ll love what you love, hate what you hate, I’ve given you that power over me—

Then adding: Of course it can also go the other way…

—Damned if it can’t, Snake. Listen to me!

He thought of Sasha and thought of ’Veshka, not their worst and not their best either, only the way they were; he thought about that cold spot that slithered about in him and that boy that had long ago shed it into Owl, whatever its condition might be now: that boy had known smothering and spoiling and betraying in his life and Pyetr understood that very well—those guilt-driven, terrified searches after a drunken father, as if a grown man’s troubles were at all a young boy’s fault—

The boy he had been could not have understood The Cockerel’s mouse-quiet spook of a stableboy—and damned sure the young man could not have understood Eveshka. He would have walked away from Sasha, once, been a scoundrel with Eveshka… he had wasted a good deal of his life in that condition, seeing only the outside of people and missing the substance…

You’ve made the same mistake, Snake. Damned if you haven’t. You’ve missed everything so far.

Snake turned and looked at him—looked straight into him, in a way he only let Sasha and ’Veshka do, in his whole life: but he thought with a shudder, Well, hello, Snake, come on ahead, Snake, I won’t stop you.

Snake was not sure what he was up to or what kind of trap it was, but Snake thought curiously— Will you not?

Sasha wanted something then. Strongly. Snake did. Pyetr felt it going on, and said, out loud, the only way a plain man was sure things were heard: “Sasha, it’s all right. Snake’s all right. He’s just—”

He felt pain, sudden drowsiness. “—Scared,” he said, “aren’t you, Snake?”—straight to Snake’s pride.

Snake felt Sasha behind him, saw him standing in front, Snake felt surrounded and vulnerable and Snake had made that arrogant, foolish bet with him, in giving him his heart, Snake had said himself—

It can go the other way…

Walk the roof, Snake? Walk it drunk and blind with me?

Chernevog’s face was ghost-white and grim. But he laughed, then—at least life touched that grimness, his eyes lightened, a dark amusement pulled one corner of his mouth. “I’m ever so much older, Owl. Ever so much older than that boy.”

“So am I,” Pyetr said.

There was, in truth, a smile—most appalling, a grin. Chernevog gave a twitch of his shoulders, laughed softly and still laughing, walked away from them toward the fire.

“God, Pyetr,” Sasha said.

Pyetr wondered that he was not more shaken than he was, and put a hand to his heart, asking himself if that cold spot did not feel a little less uncomfortable.

Chernevog sat down at the fireside, poked up the embers, looked up and grimly beckoned Sasha, not him, Pyetr understood. To him, Chernevog said, a silent voice he could quite well hear.

“Ever so much older, Owl. You can’t imagine.”

He watched Sasha walk away to that fireside. He stood there thinking there was nothing he could do, and sank down on his heels and watched them there, in that silent conversation—about Eveshka.

He thought, What about her? What’s she done? What’s going on? He thought if there were any good news they would not be talking like that, without looking at him, and Sasha would reassure him.

But Sasha was not inclined to lie to him, Sasha would not tell him a lie that important, that much he was sure of. That Sasha had said nothing at all about Eveshka, and evaded his thinking and wondering and worrying about her—meant it was not good news he had found.

He thought, She doesn’t like to do magic. What’s this messing with sorcery? She wouldn’t do that. Surely she wouldn’t do that…

He recalled how she had kept him about the house, how she had worried and fretted over him, near smothered him with her worrying—

And loved him. He was sure she did. She loved him, as far as she was able—one got used to Snake, and one could understand a little more how very careful she had been.

Ever so much older, she might say. Like Snake. Ever so much older, Pyetr. You can’t imagine…

I can’t be rid of the dreams… Eveshka had written. And, with chilling accuracy, I dream about wolves… Wolves tearing me in pieces. I dream of water. And being wider it…

Chernevog turned the page, thinking,

Draga…

He looked up into Sasha’s face—a jarring thing still, to see this boy looking at him with such frankness, the way only ’Veshka had looked at him, and he never had trusted. He was afraid now, to take this boy on Pyetr’s judgment, Pyetr knowing so little beyond the natural world, so damnably little, and trusting the world worked by what he saw. Pyetr he could believe in, the way he believed in trees and rain and sun. Pyetr was exactly what one saw, and exactly what one believed—and he had relied on that when he had had to rely on something.