Mistress of the Solstice (2 page)
I didn’t even know her name.
My eyes still closed, I sensed my father throw off his cloak and stand
naked, his arms open to the cool night breeze.
“Bring her to me, Marya,” he
whispered.
I stretched my thoughts, seeking out her body tangled
in the weeds on the bottom of the lake, seeking the spark of life that
still remained there, trapped, beating in terror against its dead shell
like a caged bird. I reached for it, brought it out,
and gave it to my father. I sensed the moment the
two of them became one, her virginal powers filling him with such a
force that the air around us crackled with the freshness of a
thunderstorm.
He sighed, slowly returning to his senses. I kept my eyes shut until he
found his cloak on the damp grass and wrapped it around his shoulders.
I sensed his aura returning as he once again became himself. The Tzar.
The immortal. The invincible.
The undead.
We could hear people singing in the main glade. The celebration was at
its full. Soon they would be jumping over the bonfire. As the night
reached its darkest, quietest hour, they would break into couples and
wander off into the forest. “Searching for a fern
flower” they called it. Fern has no flowers, of
course. But searching for it made a good excuse for seeking the
solitude of the woods. Besides, the blood of virginity spilled on the
Solstice night glowed like a rare, exotic blossom of true passion.
Those who found their fern flowers tonight were blessed by Kupalo.
I could hear the whisper of every leaf, every tree, and every flower in
the forest. This was the night when the powers of Kupalo roamed freely
in the world; this was the night when everyone’s mind
was clouded by Love.
Except mine. Love had no power over me. My mind was free.
T
he room smelled of dust and stale bread. It looked
far smaller than it had last night. The woman—Ivan had never managed
to catch her name—was scooping ashes out of the large stove. There
was a squeaking in the corner, and as he watched the
woman’s soot-stained hands, a gray shadow darted across
the floor past her skirt. She paid it no notice.
Ivan pulled his pack away from the wall and leaned on his elbow,
enjoying the warmth of the morning sunlight creeping in through a dusty
windowpane.
The man at the table raised his eyes from the mug and stared at Ivan.
“What is the chosen maid’s
name?” Ivan asked.
The man sighed. “I’m warning you one
last time. Let it be. You’re an outsider.
You’ll never understand.”
Ivan held his gaze. “I’d like to try.
If you would be kind enough to explain, old
father.”
The man’s gaze was heavy, unblinking. It was hard to
read his expression.
“We’ve had many heroes come to our
kingdom. They never asked any questions. They knew exactly what was
going on and what they needed to do. And yet, they all failed. Why do
you think you’ll get anywhere by asking
questions?”
“Because,” Ivan said,
“I’m not like any of
them.”
The man took a big gulp from his mug and wiped the foam off with his
sleeve. “You’re either very good,
lad, or very stupid.”
Ivan waited. The pause was long this time, yet he knew the man would
speak.
“Pyotr and Vassa have six
daughters,” the man said at length.
“It is an honor for one of them to be chosen. When
else can a common girl get to carry the fate of the kingdom on her
shoulders?”
“How exactly does it work?” Ivan
asked carefully.
The man’s bloodshot eyes looked glassy. At first Ivan
thought it was from the drink. Then he saw a tear standing in the fold
of the man’s sunburnt skin.
“Our kingdom is small,” the man
said. “In six days you can ride all the way across.
And yet over the years it has withstood the attacks of armies that
rolled from East to West, burning all in their
way.”
Ivan nodded. People in the last two kingdoms he’d passed
through were so wary of strangers that he’d had real
trouble finding food and shelter.
“Do you know what makes our kingdom
invincible?” The man leaned forward, his beady eyes
staring directly into Ivan’s. His breath was foul, but
Ivan didn’t turn away. He waited.
“Love,” the man said hoarsely. He
dropped his head and sat for a while, breathing heavily, as if this one
word had spent all his energy.
“Love?”
The man lifted his head and looked at Ivan for another
long moment. “Our Tzar, Kashchey. Kashchey the
Immortal, that’s what he likes to be called. But
village folks sometimes call him—” the man leaned
close, whispering in Ivan’s ear.
“The Undead?” Ivan repeated. He had
heard the name before, though no one had ever talked about it
openly. “But why?”
“Hush, lad!” the
man commanded. “Unless you want to be stripped naked
and thrown out of this village!”
Ivan shook his head. None of this made sense. Yet, it unnerved him to
see the large, boar-like man in front of him so disturbed.
“What’s it to you?”
the man asked. “Why do you care so
much?”
Ivan sighed. It was hard to explain to a stranger, especially one so
absorbed in his own worries. “It is a debt I must
pay. To a friend.”
The man frowned. “Does this friend mean so much to
you? Enough to meddle with the Damned?”
Ivan smiled and kept his silence.
“You must owe him a lot,” the man
said.
“I owe him my life.”
A shrug. “Lives don’t mean much. Not
in our parts, anyhow.”
Ivan held his gaze. “They do, to
me.”
The man’s chin trembled. He clasped it with his hand.
“You’re still young. Twenty summers,
at most.”
“Twenty four.” It hardly mattered.
“You couldn’t possibly
understand.”
“Try me.”
The man’s cheek twitched. Ivan had an odd feeling he was
holding back tears, but the impression dissipated as the villager
slammed his meaty hand on the dirty table top. “Leave
it be.” He pushed away and rose heavily to his feet.
“I expect you’ll want to move on as
soon as possible.”
Ivan narrowed his eyes, watching the man’s face, small
beads of sweat that rolled down his temple to rest in the folds of skin
under the eye. The man was afraid. Terrified.
After everything he’d learned in the last few villages,
Ivan was not surprised. He wondered how anyone could maintain a
pretense of a normal life under this kind of strain.
He nodded his response to the man’s prompting gaze and
scooped up his pack as he followed the man toward the door.
“Just remember,” the man warned
him. “The Mistress will be here tomorrow to pick up
the girl. It is an ancient ritual. We want no meddling do-gooders to
disturb it for us. If we find that you and your beast companion are
still nosing around—”
Wolf.
Ivan felt an
unbidden pang of worry. He dismissed it. Wolf had always been good at
taking care of himself.“Don’t
worry,” he assured. “We
won’t.”
“Don’t cause any
trouble,” the man persisted.
“Pyotr’s family is going through a
lot already. I just hope—we all hope—his daughter will
do.” His eyes wandered to the curtained alcove above
the stove where, Ivan knew, the man’s own daughter
slept. His face spoke without words.
I hope
it is Pyotr’s daughter and not
mine
, it said.
Not this
year. Not ever
.
“Right.” Ivan flipped his pack onto
his shoulder.
The man stood still for a moment. He appeared to be thinking hard.
“You might want to talk to
Gleb,” he finally said. “The herb
man in
Zabolotnoye
.”
Ivan turned, careful not to show any emotion. “The
village behind the swamp?”
“There is no swamp. Dried off a hundred years ago,
grandmother used to tell. It’s just a
name.”
“How do I get there?”
“Follow the path east.
It’s far from here—almost twenty
versts
. But, if
you’re lucky, if you stay out of
Leshy’s way, you’ll be there
tonight.”
