C. Cherryh - Chernevog

Pyetr had not failed him—he believed that at least from moment to moment, more than he had ever believed anything. He thought, How do I know anything? Draga deceived me from the beginning, down to this very day she could lie to me—I could see her die, and not know she was still alive.

He had seen Eveshka die—in dark water, drowning, the way he had died in his own dreams, in Draga’s house. He gave that thought to Sasha, the whole ugliness, to stop Sasha’s intrusive staring at him.

Sasha said, I know. And said further: Uulamets knew. He lived with her.

He had not given those dreams to Pyetr, had not hurt him to that extent. Sasha knew that, too. Sasha said, the way Eveshka had said to him once—I owe you.

Damn, he hated that. He hated it.

He got up from the fireside, he walked away into the drizzle, saw Pyetr stand up from where he was sitting and look at him anxiously. Pyetr did not threaten him. He felt his fears absurd, looking Pyetr in the face; and absolutely justified, feeling Sasha’s presence at his back.

He heard Sasha warn him back from Pyetr, Sasha quite ready to fight him for Pyetr’s safety.

He turned around again, preferring Pyetr at his back, even with the sword. He said to Sasha, Don’t crowd me, boy. I’m not your friend.

Sasha said, Remember I’ve read your book. And Uulamets’. And ’Veshka’s.

I’ve seen yours, he said. It’s astonishingly short.

Mostly, Sasha said—I’ve studied. I did like your early ideas— some of them.

He said, I was a fool in those days.

Sasha said, You had Draga. I had Uulamets—and Draga wasn’t herself when she came to live with Uulamets. She wasn’t the young girl he remembered, wasn’t at all the young girl he knew in Malenkova’s house.

Chernevog shied away from that thought. And came back to it. If Draga was alive, there was no turning his back on any bit of knowledge.

Sasha said, She was much longer with Malenkova than he was. Years. —What became of her book?

In my house, he said. You didn’t find it?

Sasha shook his head. No. No, we didn’t. A great deal burned. The rest—the leshys gave us. Hers wasn’t with it.

He had a very cold thought, then—the leshys fading, their missing that book, while they turned all their watchfulness on him—

Draga? Sasha asked.

Chernevog looked Sasha in the face with less and less and less confidence in their lives and in what they knew. He said, Right now I’m not sure of anything.

Sasha recalled what he had met in the woods ahead—that confusion, that violence—that spoke in Eveshka’s voice—

He thought of Eveshka’s book, where she had written, asking, What am I made of? My father’s wishes?

Chernevog said distractedly, Her life is her father’s. Heart and soul are hers. The substance? The god only knows. Not mentioning the child…

Wizard business went on and on with never a word aloud. Pyetr brushed down the horses, sat and sharpened his sword, for what good it might be, then gave the horses another currying, all the while trying not to think, trying not to wonder anything, while Sasha and Chernevog in unsettling cooperation looked through the several books, with a great many shakes of the head, a good many frowns, and an occasional stirring of Chernevog’s misplaced heart—a slithery anxiousness Pyetr could not ignore.

Chernevog was increasingly disturbed. That was very personally clear.

Pyetr thought, There’s something going on. Something very bad happened this morning while I was asleep. Something changed, something both of them know and Sasha won’t talk about.

Sasha looked his way and said, “Pyetr, you won’t bother us if you get something to eat.”

“Do you want anything?” he asked, hoping this meant answers, and Sasha said distractedly: “That might be a good idea.”

So he built the fire up again and got into the packs and made supper. Eveshka said he was hopeless at cooking; but a man could not go far wrong with sausages and hard-baked bread, which Sasha had gotten from the boat, evidently—along with Eveshka’s book. He recognized it, with its familiar scars.

And Sasha had said nothing to him about finding it, not a word. One might be tempted to believe that Sasha was wary of him in present company—but he bit his lip and distracted himself from that line of thinking: he wondered nothing about Sasha’s reasons, no, he refused even to consider why Sasha had come here or what had made him accept Chernevog’s offer: Snake was too clever. Snake might well be asking him questions he could not hear—he put nothing past Chernevog, and nothing beyond his reach.

He did not know, for another thing, what whatever they were afraid of might be doing out there—Draga, Sasha had said, the only name he put to it. Sasha had always said that distance made a difference with wizardry, and Chernevog had talked about a little farther dh in this woods being more dangerous than where they were now—but it did seem to him that whatever-it-was could damn well get up and walk a bit and close that gap. Whatever-it-was… which involved Draga, and Eveshka’s book, and her life, and whatever mess she was in—he was sure it did.

He wanted answers, dammit. And none came. The west was rumbling with thunder again—he listened with a little rising hope, thinking that the storm coming might be their doing, that something might be in the making.

But with dusk coming on, and the storm still delaying, he got up and got the vodka jug, and took it back to his place beyond the firelight, beside the horses. He sat down and had himself a drink—had another, and thought—

Babi.

He poured a drop on the ground. Nothing caught it. He tried another, wishing very hard, if that should make a difference. The thunder seemed closer of a sudden, and he wondered if the coming storm was on their side. He thought, Damned rotten night coming. He thought about the Things that disliked the light, and he thought about ghosts, and the one they had come here looking for.

It was too much to ask, that the old man put in an appearance.

But something cold did touch him. It brushed his face and whisked away.

No, Chernevog insisted. He did not think it a good idea to attempt Uulamets at this point. No, no, and no, no matter the reason in Sasha’s arguments. The old man had no liking for him, the old man would not tolerate his presence, they were likely to get a very unpleasant manifestation-Afraid, Sasha thought, and maybe Chernevog overheard that. Chernevog gave him an offended look. But it was true—it was fear that made Chernevog pull back and there were things he feared that Chernevog suggested:

Be rid of your heart. Listen to me. You can take it back later. It’s not irrevocable, for the god’s sake… look at me. Magic and a heart don’t go together. You can’t do anything against her until you settle that question!

Sasha thought, with the thunder rumbling frighteningly close, Master Uulamets said, Wish no harm…

“God,” Chernevog exclaimed aloud, “you’re not still listening to that old fool. Wizardry won’t help us, boy, it’s not going to help—it can’t defend your friend and it damned sure—” Don’t, Sasha wished him, for fear of Pyetr hearing: he already knew what else Chernevog thought of that wizardry could not do: it could not overcome what had happened to Eveshka.

How much longer are you going to delay telling him? Chernevog asked, with a thought toward Pyetr. Boy, he has my heart, I know the truth. I don’t know but what it spills over—I’ve never dealt with anyone but Owl, and Owl wasn’t much on understanding.

It offended him that Chernevog chided him about Pyetr’s welfare. He said, It does him no good to lose myself, does it? You don’t love anything, you never have. You don’t understand how much it hurts.