Mistress of the Solstice (23 page)

I considered it. It didn’t make sense.

“That’s all?” I
asked in disbelief. “How do you know what it
means?”

“It’s a prophecy, Marya, a rhyme. It
doesn’t mean anything. Yet, it can be interpreted in
many ways. Since your father insists on calling himself Immortal, and
there are many who want to see the end to his rule, we all have been on
the lookout for the appropriate signs.”

“Such as—?”

“Such as a boy with unexpected powers, who happens to
wonder into our kingdom almost on the eve of the Solstice. Such
as—certain signs that make everyone wonder who this boy really
is.”

“You can hardly call this one a hero of
legend.”

“He doesn’t have to be.
It’s about the signs.”

“Signs?”

The Raven sighed and ruffled his feathers, settling up on the branch.
“You need to give me and your father a bit more time
to sort this out, Marya. Trust us.”

“I do,” I said.
“But maybe you should also trust me? The boy has
already once caught me unawares. It would have helped if
I’d been prepared.”

Raven only shook his head.

“How do you know there’s a connection
between the rhyme and the boy?” I insisted.
“How do you know a prophecy is even involved? What
makes you think this boy is different from any other fool who comes to
seek my hand?”

“This rhyme,” Raven ruffled his
feathers again, “is almost as old as the Solstice
itself. Of course, we don’t know for sure, but we
aren’t the only ones taking it seriously. There are
many who would like to see this one come true.”

“How do you know he is the one to
fear?”

“He has a birthmark on his shoulder. It looks exactly
like an arrow.”

“An arrow-shaped birthmark?” I
scoffed. “I stopped believing such tales when I was
five. It must be a trick. Nothing that soap and water
couldn’t take care of. Come, Raven. Such a possibility
surely must have crossed your mind?”

“Of course it did, Marya. You are missing the point.
It is not about the boy. It is about those who are behind him, helping
him to bring down your father’s rule. And, whether it
is magic or cunning, we have to deal with it.”

“How?”

“By learning what it is we are dealing with. Who is
our enemy?”

“A boy. Perhaps a talented one, but no hero for
certain. Why do you think there is more to it?”

“Perhaps no more than a boy,” Raven
said quietly. “But there are things about him. Have
you noticed his eyes, Marya?”

His eyes. Cornflowers on a bright sunny
day.
The mere thought made me warm.

“It couldn’t have been easy to find a
boy who fits the rhyme so well. Think about it.”

I did. The rhyme did fit. And yet, when someone talked about fire in the
eyes that can serve as a weapon, they usually meant something
else—like the cold hellfire of my father’s eyes that
could destroy his enemies with a single glance. Not the warm,
mischievous fire that invited a smile. And a longing. Oh, such
longing…

I grasped on to the shreds of my sanity. “But a
prophecy has to fit exactly, doesn’t it? Not just sort
of. And, according to the rhyme, he’s supposed to come
on the night of the Solstice. It seems that your magic hero is a little
early.”

The Raven gave me a thoughtful look.

“What was the task you gave him,
Marya?”

“To find the Hidden Stream and bring back the Water of
Life by the Solstice.”

“That gives him almost a fortnight. What makes you
think he won’t do it?”

“Here are my reasons, if you will.”
I forced myself to speak evenly, as if answering not a mockery but a
real question. “It takes at least six months to walk
from here to the Hidden Stream and back, perhaps three on horseback, if
he has a really good horse. Besides, the stream is called
‘hidden’ for a reason. It will only
reveal itself to an Immortal if he knows the right song. Yet, an
Immortal cannot touch its waters. Why, in the past thousand years only
Baba Yaga has used the water, once, to bring back a dead warrior she
fancied. As far as I know, she used all of the water she had, and no
one, mortal or immortal, could ever convince her to go back and find
the stream again. So, our magical hero will either come back too late,
or empty-handed, in both of which cases he will be killed. If of
course he comes back at all.”

“Perhaps your task has given us the advantage we
need,” he agreed. “It was a
stupid move, to ask for your hand. Of course, he is not on foot. And
his mount is not a horse.”

“Of course not. It has to be no
less than a creature of magic and wisdom, to fit into your rhyme. But
who could it be? Zmei Gorynich the Fire Serpent, perhaps? Or has
Solovei-Razboinik
,
the
Mugger Nightingale,decided to serve him out of the goodness of his
heart?”

“Why don’t you go home and ask your
Mirror?” Raven stretched his wings.

I felt very tired. I didn’t want to think of the boy
anymore, of his eyes, of his birthmark—whatever shape it was—or his
magic steed. I’d given him a good task and he was going
to die. And I, Mistress of the Solstice, had other things to do, not
the least of which was to get out of this forest without skewering
myself on a branch my dove eyes could not see.

“I will go back,” I said.
“I may even talk to my Mirror, if I have time. But I
think you worry too much.”

“Perhaps,” Raven said.
“Perhaps.”

I flapped my dove wings and rose into the air, starting my slow journey
through the thicket of branches. Back to my stone tower in the
Tzar’s castle.

 

Ivan

W
olf was waiting at the forest hedge. He had a full bucket of water
standing next to him.

Ivan stumbled to the bucket, dropped on all fours, and
drank as much as he could. When he felt his stomach fill up like a
grain sack at full harvest, he pulled back with regret that he could
drink no more, and sank down heavily next to Wolf.

“Well?” Wolf asked.

Ivan exhaled, catching his breath, forcing his tongue to move inside his
mouth. It still felt dry, as if he hadn’t gulped half a
bucket of water just now. “Baba Yaga. She is the one
who can make it there fast enough. She also knows the song that can
make the stream reveal itself. And maybe she still has half a vial of
water stowed away somewhere.”

Wolf stiffened. Ivan noticed but was too weak to care why.
“And I assume you, boy, believe that she would be
kind enough to give it to you.”

Ivan didn’t respond. It was nice to have Wolf his old
self again. It was even nicer to be alive. He didn’t
feel like arguing.

Wolf sighed. “It’s been three days. I
would never have thought you could last that long.”

“Neither would I,” Ivan admitted.
“But thanks, anyway.”

He lifted the bucket to his lips again, feeling the water splash around
in his stomach. But he was still thirsty. He felt as if he would be
thirsty for the rest of his life.

“Don’t drink it all at once.
You’ll burst.”

Ivan put the bucket down regretfully.

“I suggest you wash yourself with
whatever’s left,” Wolf said,
“and then we get up and go. We have very little
time.”

It was impossible to see any distance in the eerie gloom of the dense
forest undergrowth. Walking became more and more difficult. Sticky
branches grasped clothes and fur, as if trying to prevent the intruders
from going any further. Every step through the moss-covered mud was a
struggle.

“Are you sure she lives out here?”

There was a growl and a muffled curse before the answer came.

“It clears up over there.” Wolf
sounded as if his mouth were full of leaves. Ivan thought best not to
ask.

The ground began to rise. Ivan’s feet no longer produced
the smacking sound they’d made as he’d
dragged them through the mud. The undergrowth of aspen, raspberry,
and sickly fir gave way to the healthier thickness of young birch and
hazel. The eerie forest dimness acquired some shades of yellow,
reminding Ivan that somewhere out there the world was bathed in the
afternoon sunlight.

He spotted the purple and yellow of Ivan-and-Marya and bent to pick a
flower. After his encounter with Bayun the Cat, he’d
promised himself he would always carry one around.

Only when he straightened again did he become aware of the clearing that
seemed to have crept up and opened itself right in front of him. How
could he forget that Ivan-and-Marya always grew near the edge of the
trees?

A strange object dominated the center of the clearing,
imposing, like a noble boyar in a village marketplace. It was
technically a house, an
izba
built of unevenly
hewn logs. The beams of its thatched roof were carved in ornate images
of a raven and a wolf, so masterfully that their fur and feathers
seemed real, their deeply set eyes watching the
intruders. The house also had a small and rather murky window that
looked badly in need of a wash. What lay below, however,
didn’t make any sense.

The
izba
was standing on a
pair of thick poles, ending in tripods at the bottom that made them
look more than anything like giant bird legs. As Ivan watched in
fascination, the legs stepped from place to place, making the whole
contraption look like a giant square chicken pecking in a yard.