Chernevog (7 page)

In Vojvoda, patrons in The Cockerel had looked askance at him: That's the witch listening, they would say, nudging each other with their
elbows. Be careful what you say...

Or the baker's daughters, whispering to each other in the corner, Don't look in his eyes, he can't bewitch you if you don't look in his eyes-Aunt Ilenka, when a dish broke: I know who's the jinx around here.
.
.

Maybe there was truth in that, after all.

Certainly Eveshka wanted what she thought was right for Pyetr: that was one
c
onstancy he could believe in; that was,
perhaps, part of the trouble with all of them. And perhaps, he reasoned, if he could only retrace not only the business with the horse, but a number of small quarrels, and recover the kind of (twice with Eveshka he had had at first, if he only could get her to trust him and if he could avoid making some other foolish, selfish mistake to make her angry with him, Eveshka knew him In ways even Pyetr did not—being a wizard and knowing in her very bones what he meant when he said certain things, which Pyetr might well hear completely differently.

If, he thought, if he could get Eveshka to sit down and listen to him, really listen, just once, and listen—if that was truly what she was worried about—as if it was only himself who was talking to her, and nothing to do with her father and his advice
...
If, please the god, he could know that himself, and be sure his thoughts had no one else's wish behind them—including hers.

He lay abed until the birds nesting in the eaves began to stir, then quietly got up, built up the fire from last night's coals and started breakfast with as little noise as possible, a special breakfast, as he intended, cakes of the sort aunt Ilenka had used to make, the best flour, sweet dried berries
...
Sun rising beyond the branches, dew gathering on thorns-Reddening with the dawn-He
chased meandering, chaotic thoughts away with the soft rattle of the spoon against the bowl, one of Uulamets' wooden ones, pinch of spice, pinch of salt, a recipe against unwanted memories
...
spice and salt and grain they got from a freeholder downriver, an old man who had trouble, Pyetr said, in recalling it was no longer Chernevog or Uulamets living in the woods upriver—an old man who wanted mushrooms, simples, medicines for a cough and a good wish or two in the bargain, which Sasha gave whenever he thought of it.

So much the world knew of their doings: the old man felt safe from wizards and their doings, and had no notion what had happened up here in the woods, except herbs grew in the woods again.

That was all it meant, all that they had ever done, wizards had changed, the dreadful rusalka was gone, and herbs helped an old man's cough.

River water, dark and deep
...
Eveshka's ghost drifting above the waves, part of them
...

Eveshka had so much skill with growing things, she always had had: she could wish a garden to perfection, protect the seeds they planted, the creatures that ventured back into this woods She had all this love of life—even when foxes by their nature preyed on rabbits and on fieldmice. And she was wise about nature. He got attached to the mouse, he thought about foxes and he wanted it safe—because it was one particular mouse. But Eveshka had said to him, quite soberly, If you do that, he won't be free.

He thought about that. He told himself he should have listened to Eveshka long since, that she had given him good advice, over all, much of which counseled him plainly to want as little as possible and to ignore her father.

He heard voices from the bedroom, people he loved, people who did truly, in differing degrees and to their own capabilities love him:
“
Tie that, will you, Pyetr?
”

We'll be all right, he had argued with Uulamets. We'll manage; Pyetr can make the difference for us, because neither of us would ever hurt him.

To which Uulamets' ghostly voice still said: Fools.

Fool, Uulamets whispered again, plain as plain, while he was sitting on the hearth, stirring up the cakes and heating up the griddle. It was never Uulamets' advice that had brought them to live under one roof. In very fact, if one thought honestly about it, it was Chernevog who had thought wizards could live in the company of other folk. Chernevog had argued that a wizard could use wealth, rule cities—a wizard can do more good in the world, Chernevog had written in his youth, than tsars can ever do; and work far less harm than tsars have ever done.

But at the very time Chernevog had been writing that, he ha
d
been deeply under the spell of Uulamets' wife: had become boy that he had been, Draga's student and very soon after that her lover—

Draga ate him alive, Uulamets had said when he had found out.

Uulamets had written:
Two people can't have the same interests. They can't have the same wishes, not a man and his wife not a father and his daughter—not a teacher and his student.

And the end of Chernevog's book said:
Generations of cattle
...

“
Up early?
”
Pyetr hailed him, opening the door beside the fireplace. Sasha rocked in startlement and spilled a big splash of batter off the griddle, making the fire throw ash.

“
Thinking,
”
Sasha said, rising, dusting ash off his knees as Eveshka followed Pyetr into the kitchen.
“
Breakfast is almost ready.
”

“
God,
”
Eveshka said,
“
how many berries did you put in those cakes?
”

“
A fistful.
”
Eveshka had her ways in the kitchen, her very precise ways, and he was instantly concerned about the things he had not yet cleared from the counter, wanting no offense, god, no quarrel in the house this morning.

Pyetr said, sharply,
“
They're just
fine,
Eveshka.
”

“
It's quite all right,
”
Sasha began to protest, in Eveshka's defense; but Eveshka was already stacking the spice-pots and the
berry-cannister back the way she wanted them, rearranging things he had disarranged, saying,
“
God, Sasha, you must have used half the stores. Let a man in the kitchen—
”

“
For the god's sake, Eveshka!
”
Pyetr cried, turning around; and Sasha quickly said, handing Pyetr the spatula:
“
Pyetr, watch those, will you?
”
The shelf Eveshka wanted the berries on was too high for her convenience: Sasha hurried over and put them up himself.

“
Thank you,
”
she said quite pleasantly, and smiled at him, seeming not to have noticed any upset in her wake, perfectly cheerful and intending to put her kitchen and both of them in the order she liked, too.

Which left him standing there numb, wondering if he were the one losing his senses. Of course he could talk to Eveshka, he talked about a great number of things every day with Eveshka, they worked together to make their medicines and do simple householder things that Pyetr, not having grown up doing un aunt's various chores, had no notion how to do.

He was Eveshka's friend, dammit, he trusted her; he did not know why he had suddenly begun to fear dealing with her, or how he had ever started thinking he could not make her understand his concerns.

Of course she would give him good advice. He had just failed
to listen to it, since it mostly said, Do nothing; stop worrying over things; let things take their own course. He found that very hard to do.

She said, mercifully shoving plates into his hands:
“
Set the table.
”

He did that, while Pyetr started to turn the cakes, but Pyetr tended to miss his mark and sometimes even the griddle.
Eveshka
shooed him to the table and took over
her
fire and
her
hearth, thank you, bidding the two of them make tea, do something useful this morning and stay out from underfoot.

Pyetr gave him an apologetic look, a shake of his head, as glum as Sasha had seen him in months.

Which was not at all what he wanted, if he dared wish anything at all without upsetting the house.

“
God,
”
he said to Pyetr,
“
it's all right, it's her kitchen, don't worry about it, Pyetr. Please.
”

Pyetr gave him a second distressed look.

Sasha bit his lip
till
it took his mind off wishing, while the domovoi made the timbers creak under the floor. He poured the tea and Eveshka slipped the cakes onto their plates.
“
They do smell wonderful,
”
she said brightly, a peace offering to one or the other of them—now that she had her way, Sasha thought; and sternly chided himself not to be so contrary-minded.

We fight about things like that, we fight about cakes, but that's not what we really fight about, it's never what we should fight about so we can ever really settle things. She scolds Pyetr about her kitchen, but that doesn't matter to him—nothing like that matters to him, he really is an awful cook. It's when she does it to me that bothers him, and she knows that, absolutely she does. Why does she do that?

Charred timbers against gray sky. Chernevog's house. Rain washing half-burned beams
...

“
Sasha?
”

He blinked, his heart skipping a beat, realized she had sat down and said something about the honey in front of him.
“
Excuse me,
”
he said, and pushed it into her reach.

She put honey on her cakes and passed it to Pyetr, who wondered whether it was the new pot or the old-God, Sasha thought, what's the matter with me?

Is it my doing?

“
Isn't it?
”
Pyetr asked him about something, he had no idea what. He became aware of Eveshka and Pyetr both looking at him, aware of Eveshka wishing him to get his wits about him, not to upset Pyetr with his foolishness.

“
Did you get any sleep last night?
”
Pyetr asked.

Sasha took a breath, trying to recollect what the two of them
had
been saying most recently, mumbled,
“
Some.
”

“
Liar. Eveshka, —
”
Pyetr laid his hand flat on the table.
“
Sasha. Both of you. Answer me, a simple question: do we send the horse back or not?
”

“
No,
”
Eveshka said firmly.

“
Sasha?
”
Pyetr asked.