Mistress of the Solstice (13 page)
Raven shrugged. “You didn’t
ask.”
“I thought I did.”
Raven’s dark eyes met his. “Listen,
boy, you captured me. But, don’t expect me to help you
as well. Ask your smart tutors, whoever they are, to get you out of the
mess you’ve gotten yourself into.”
He closed his beak with a snap and turned away.
Ivan frowned. “I have you in my power! You are bound
to answer me.”
Raven shrugged. “I have answered your every question,
haven’t I?”
A retort froze on Ivan’s lips. True, Raven had answered
every one of his questions. Yet, Ivan hadn’t learned
anything. Why?
The answer, when it came, seemed so obvious as it taunted Ivan from
the shadows of his own mind that he almost laughed out loud.
Ask the right questions, you fool. Ask, and he will answer them, each
and every one.
Could it really be this simple?
“Answer me,” Ivan said firmly.
“What is the first trap?”
There was a pause before the dark shape turned to him again, moving
stiffly within the airy bonds of the Net.
“You’re not as daft as you look, boy.
Now, listen.”
I
landed on the windowsill of my bedroom and folded my dove wings,
shaking off the dampness of the night air. My head still swam with
memories as I stood before my Mirror, changing back into my normal
form. My darkening hair, growing to its normal length. My cheeks,
losing their fullness and rosy color. My long black dress, its silky
folds caressing my skin, enfolding me down to my bare feet. Kirill
would wonder when he woke up and saw my peasant clothes still
heaped at the foot of his bed. I smiled at the thought.
There was one more thing I needed to do before I could sleep.
Noiselessly, I took the narrow winding stair from my
quarters to the kitchens. The damp, salty smell of boiling meat hit my
nostrils. My nose twitched. The Mistress of the Solstice did not eat
meat. Yet our castle, like any other royal dwelling, had to feed many
mouths. Every day the butchers in the back yard slaughtered a cow to
feed our household. The meat was cooked throughout the day and all the
bones and unwanted cuts were thrown into a giant pot constantly boiling
on the stove. The thick soup it became, called
‘
varevo
’,
was the late-night favorite of the tired kitchen staff.
The meaty smell of
varevo
made my stomach
turn. I hadn’t eaten since morning, before
I’d embarked on my journey to the Pine Village. It
seemed ages ago. I swayed and clasped the wall until my balance
returned, before proceeding deeper into the warm belly of the kitchen,
its very stones saturated with the smell of food.
I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and froze.
The side door creaked open and torchlight hit my face.
“Mistress?” The voice was more
frightened than surprised.
“Pavel?” I guessed, straining to
see against the blaze.
He lowered the torch and hesitantly stepped forward.
Despite his height of almost a
sazhen
, his fear made
him look small.
The commoners believed I brought bad luck. While understandable in the
villages, I thought the superstition surprising for the inhabitants of
the palace. Yet, many of them were born in villages and raised by old
wives. Solstice legends of the loveless, love-free Mistress who hunted
for virgins on Midsummer eve traveled far across the lands. Except for
Prazkovia and my handmaids, everyone in the castle took care to keep
their distance.
“I—um—was out late,
t’tend to the horses. It’s mighty
chilly out there. Klava told me there’s some
varevo
left.
Er—forgive me, Mistress, for disturbin’
you.”
He edged back into the doorway. He looked so miserable that I almost
smiled.
“Go on, Pavel,” I
said. “You won’t disturb me. My
business here is short.”
He nodded. “Should’n ye
wan’ that I shine some light for ye,
Mistress?” he asked.
“It’s mighty dark
n’there.”
“I’ll be fine,” I
assured him. It felt strange to talk to the stableman. I never saw the
servants up close. I could smell hay and horse sweat on him, and
fancied I saw callouses on his rough hands.
I found my way into the small storeroom, a heady smell of herbs
guiding my way. Moonlight from a narrow window faintly illuminated the
rows of jars on the shelves and the bundles hanging from the ceiling.
Moving by habit rather than by sight, I picked out nine herbs, breaking
a bit off each bundle and putting them into the mug I found on the
shelf. By the end of it, my head was swimming and I could no longer
tell the smell of one herb from another.
Feeling my way in the dark, I brought my trophies back
into the kitchen. At the far table, Pavel loomed over a bowl of
varevo
. He was dipping a
chunk of bread into the thick meat broth and smacking his lips with a
dreamy expression. I regretted for a moment that I could not enjoy
simple food the way he did.
As I made my way into another part of the kitchen, where the smaller
kettle with water for tea still hung over the hot embers, a shape
blocked my way. I paused, making out the features of a plump woman, her
head wrapped in a gray woolen scarf.
“Klava?” I asked.
“What are you doing up?”
“Mistress,” she said with firm
respect. “I am under Praskovia’s
orders.”
“Oh.” I stepped
back, glad I could still feel amused and not merely angry.
“And what would those orders
be?”
“Well,” Klava
took a deep breath, obviously gathering her courage,
“Praskovoia—she said you didn’t
send for your herb drink tonight, and that you haven’t
eaten since morning. She said you’d come for the drink
for sure and that I ought to catch you when you do and give you some
borscht. She said it’s no good for you to go hungry,
with all the important work you do for us all, and you are already so
thin—” she paused, sensing with a good
servant’s instinct that she was about to go too far.
Praskovia. I should have realized she’d notice my
absence. She knew of my adventures and never offered any judgment, as
long as I was well fed and cared for. I should have sent for my herb
drink before I went out. Was I really so affected by my encounter of
the afternoon?
Weariness swept over me. I had no energy left to pour hot water into my
brew. I had no energy to make my way up the stone steps to the top of
the East Tower. It suddenly seemed so desirable to have this plump,
kind-faced woman take care of me.
“Very well,” I said, handing her
the mug. “You can make the brew for me yourself. And,
I will eat just a little borscht.”
I walked past the stunned cook’s helper and sank onto
the stone bench across the table from Pavel. The stableman almost
choked on his bread. His large hands clenched the edge of his bowl and
again, despite his size, he looked small.
“Relax, Pavel,” I smiled to him.
“I don’t bite.”
“Right ye are, Mistress,” he
mumbled and hurriedly finished his meal.
The borscht was delicious. No one besides our cook could achieve such a
deep beet-red color that, as you mixed in the sour cream, turned into
golden orange, shiny droplets of oil suspended among the vegetable
slices. My borscht was made special, without meat, yet rich enough to
replenish my strength. As I finished the generous bowl and washed it
down with my aromatic herbal brew, I felt my exhaustion turn into the
normal tiredness after a well spent day. I made my way up to my room
and fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
