The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy #3)(42)

She turned away.

From behind the bagiennik said in a new voice, “I will hold you to your word.”



* * *





VASYA COLLECTED HER BASKET, the remains of her fish. From the grass, Ded Grib piped, “Are you leaving me behind?” He was sitting on a stump now, glowing an unpleasant green in the darkness.

Vasya said, dubiously, “I may go far from the lake.”

Ded Grib looked small and determined. “I am going with you anyway,” he said. “I am on your side, remember? Besides, I can’t fall to dust.”

“How comforting for you,” said Vasya coolly. “Why be on my side?”

“The Bear can make chyerti angry, stronger with wrath. But you can make us more real. I understand now. So does the bagiennik.” Ded Grib looked proud. “I am on your side and I am going with you. You would be lost without me.”

    “Perhaps I would,” Vasya said, smiling. Then a note of doubt crept into her voice. “Are you going to walk?” He was very small.

“Yes,” said Ded Grib and marched off.

Pozhar shook her mane. Hurry up, she said to Vasya.



* * *





THE GOLDEN MARE WALKED into the night, taking mouthfuls of grass as she went. Sometimes if she found a good patch, she would put her head down to graze in earnest. Vasya did not hurry her, not wanting to irritate the gash in Pozhar’s foreleg, but she was anxiously wondering when she would start to get sleepy, wondering how many hours it would take…

No point in thinking of it. She had decided. Either she would succeed or she wouldn’t.

“I have never left the lake,” Ded Grib confided to Vasya as they walked. “Not since there were villages of men there and the children dreamed me alive, when they went mushrooming in autumn.”

“Villages?” asked Vasya. “By the lake?” By then they were walking in a strange glade, with rough grass and mud under her feet. The stars were low and warm in the generous sky: summertime stars.

“Yes,” said Ded Grib. “There used to be villages of men on the borders of the magic country. Sometimes if they were brave, men and women would go in, seeking adventure.”

“Perhaps men and women might be persuaded to do so again,” said Vasya, fired with the idea. “And they could live in peace with chyerti, safe from the evils of this world.”

Ded Grib looked doubtful, and Vasya sighed.

On they went, walk and halt and walk again. Now the night was cooler, now warmer. Now they were walking on rock, with wind whistling past Pozhar’s ears, now they were skirting a pond, with a full moon lying like a pearl in the center. All was still, all was silent. Vasya was weary, but nerves and her long sleep in the house by the lake kept her moving.

    She was barefoot, her boots tied to her basket. Though her feet were sore, the ground felt good on her skin. Pozhar was a silver-gold glimmer between the trees, a little short on her wounded foreleg. Ded Grib was a fainter presence still, creeping from stump to rock to tree.

Vasya hoped that Midnight had been right about the Bear not following her. But she looked often over her shoulder and once or twice had to stop herself from telling the mare to hurry.

Walking through a wooded hollow, with tall pines on all sides, she found herself thinking for the first time how pleasant it would be to make a bed of boughs and sleep until first light.

Hurriedly seeking a distraction, Vasya realized that it had been a while since she’d seen the mushroom-spirit’s green glow. She peered into the darkness, searching. “Ded Grib!” She scarcely dared to speak above a whisper, not knowing what dangers stalked this place. “Ded Grib!”

The mushroom-spirit popped out of the loam at her feet, sending Pozhar skittering backward. Even Vasya jumped. “Where have you been?” she asked him, sharp with fright.

“Helping!” said Ded Grib. He thrust something into her hands. Vasya realized that it was a sack of food. Not wild food, like her strawberries and dandelions, but flat camp-bread, smoked fish, a skin of mead. “Oh!” said Vasya. She tore off a piece of flatbread, gave it to him, gave another to the offended Pozhar, and tore off a third for herself. “Where did you get this?” she asked him, gnawing.

“There are men over there,” said Ded Grib. Vasya looked up and saw the faint glow of fires between the trees. Pozhar backed, nostrils flared uneasily. “But you shouldn’t go any nearer,” the mushroom-spirit added.

“Why not?” asked Vasya, puzzled.

“They are encamped near a river,” said Ded Grib matter-of-factly. “And the vodianoy there means to kill them.”

“Kill them?” said Vasya. “How? Why?”

“With water and fear I suppose,” said Ded Grib. “How else would he kill anyone? As to why, well, the Bear probably told him to. Most water-creatures are his, and he is putting forth his power all through Rus’ now. Let’s get away.”

    Vasya hesitated. It was not pity for men drowned asleep that decided her; it was wondering why the Bear would want to kill these men in particular. You travel by midnight through affinity. What affinity would have drawn her here? Now? She peered again through the trees. Many fires; the camp was not a small one.

Then Vasya heard a faint, familiar rumbling, as though horses were coming near at a gallop over stones. But it was not horses.