Uprooted (61 page)

“I’ll clean up before it’s time to eat,” I said, stealing a mushroom, and went to go sit with Wensa in the front room of her house. She was better, but still spent most of her time sitting in a chair by the window, only sewing a little. Kasia had written to her, too, but a stiff, stilted letter: I had read it to her, and softened it a little where I could. Wensa listened to it in silence. I think there was a secret guilt in her to match Kasia’s secret resentment: a mother who had resigned herself to an unnecessary fate. That would be a long time healing, too, if it ever did. She did let me persuade her to come to the green with me, and I saw her settled at the tables with her daughters.

There wasn’t a pavilion this year: it was only our own small village festival. The big festival was in Olshanka, as it was in every year without a choosing: as it would be every year from now on. We were all too hot eating in the sun, an odd sensation for harvest-time, until it finally sank low. I didn’t care. I ate a big bowl of sour zhurek with slices of boiled eggs floating, and a plateful of stewed cabbage and sausage, and then four blini full of sour cherries. Then we all sat around in the sun groaning how good the food had been and how we’d all eaten too much, while the small children ran around wildly in the green until little by little they lay down under the trees and fell asleep. Ludek brought out his suka and put it across his knees and began playing, quietly at first; as more of the children drowsed off, more instruments came out and began joining in, people clapping and singing as the mood took them, and we opened the beer-casks and passed around the cold jug of vodka brought up from Danka’s cellar.

I danced with Kasia’s brothers and mine, and after that with a handful of other boys I knew a little. I think they were off to one side daring one another to ask me, but I didn’t care. They were a little nervous that I might lob fire at their heads, but in the same way I had been nervous to go creeping across old Hanka’s yard at twilight to steal the big sweet red apples from her tree, the best ones for eating. We were all happy, all together, and I could recognize the song of the river running through the ground beneath our feet, the song we really danced to.

I sat down in a breathless heap in front of my mother’s chair, my hair tumbled loose around my shoulders again, and she gave a sigh and put it in her lap to braid it back up. My basket was at her feet, and I took another of the tree-fruits to eat, golden and bursting with juice. I was licking my fingers and half lost in the bonfire when Danka stood up abruptly from the long bench corner to ours. She put down her cup and said loudly enough to make everyone pay attention, “My lord.”

Sarkan was standing at the opening of the circle. One hand perched on the table nearest him, firelight leaping to pick out his silver rings and fine silver buttons and the winding silver embroidery along the edges of his blue coat: a dragon whose head began at his collar and ran all along the borders of the coat until the tail came back up to the collar on the other side. The lace cuffs of his shirt spilled past the sleeves, and his boots were so brightly polished the fire shone in them. He looked grander than the king’s ballroom, and perfectly improbable.

All of us were staring at him, me included. His mouth thinned with what I would have called displeasure, once, and now named prickly mortification. I climbed to my feet and went to him, licking my thumb clean. He darted a look at the uncovered basket behind me, saw what I was eating, and glared at me. “That’s appalling,” he said.

“They’re wonderful!” I said. “They’re all coming ripe.”

“All the better to turn you into a
tree,
” he said.

“I don’t want to be a tree yet,” I said. Happiness was bubbling up through me, a bright stream laughing. He’d come back. “When did you arrive?”

“This afternoon,” he said stiffly. “I came to receive the taxes, of course.”

“Of course,” I said. I was sure he’d even gone to Olshanka for the tribute first, just so he could pretend that was the truth for a little bit longer. But I couldn’t really bring myself to pretend with him, not even long enough for him to get used to the idea; my mouth was already turning up at the corners without my willing it to. He flushed and looked away; but that wasn’t any better for him, since everyone else was watching us with enormous interest, too drunk on beer and dancing to be polite. He looked back at me instead, and scowled at my smile.

“Come and meet my mother,” I said. I reached out and took his hand.

About the Author

N
AOMI
N
OVIK
was born in New York in 1973, a first-generation American, and raised on Polish fairy tales, Baba Yaga, and Tolkien. Her first novel,
His Majesty’s Dragon,
the opening volume of the Temeraire series, was published in 2006 and has been translated into twenty-three languages and optioned by Peter Jackson, the Academy Award–winning director of the Lord of the Rings trilogy.

She has won the John W. Campbell Award for Best New Writer, the Compton Crook Award for Best First Novel, and the Locus Award for Best First Novel. She is one of the founding board members of the Organization for Transformative Works, a nonprofit dedicated to protecting the fair-use rights of fan creators, and is herself a fanfic writer and fan vidder, as well as one of the architects of the open-source Archive of Our Own.

Novik lives in New York City with her husband, Edgar Award–winning mystery novelist Charles Ardai, their shiny new daughter, Evidence, and a recently and ruthlessly winnowed set of
four
five computers.

You can find out more at her website (http://naomi novik.com) and follow her as naominovik on Livejournal, Twitter, and Facebook.