Mistress of the Solstice, Page 3

  Raven didn’t stir when I walked in. He could be a very sound sleeper when he wanted. I wished my serving women had his tact and could sense my need for solitude as they fussed over me, taking off my dirt-stained cloak and preparing a bath for my tired feet. The bath was welcome, actually, but I was still relieved when they finally departed, leaving me alone with Praskovia.

  “You look tired, Maryushka,” Praskovia took the thick wooden comb to my hair as I sat on a chair, relaxing my back, sore from the day in the saddle, against its smooth, polished wood. She didn’t often use my childhood nickname, and just by this address I realized how worn I must look.

  I wished I could forget who I was and hide my face in Praskovia’s large bosom, like I sometimes had when I was a child. Or, at least, sit with her like we used to, and talk about what was on my mind. But how could I tell her that I had been shaken by a daft villager down at the plaza? What would she think of me then? She was right. I was tired. After a day’s worth of travel I had every reason to be.

  “It was a long ride,” I told her.

  “You need to eat,” Praskovia said. “You are so pale. Let me send someone up with a bowl of borscht.”

  I considered it. She was right, again. I probably needed to eat. But I felt no hunger. And I couldn’t bear to think of the fussy kitchen maids invading my room with their cheerfulness that they tried so hard to hide in my presence.

  “Maybe later,” I said. “I want to be alone.”

  She stood for a moment, looking at me. I sensed her worry, but I distanced myself from it. I had had enough of emotion for one day.

  When I failed to meet her gaze, Praskovia turned and walked towards the door with smooth, graceful steps. She must have been quite a beauty in her youth. I wondered if I would look like her when I got older.

  When the door closed behind her, I went straight to my Mirror. Its surface was misty-gray, reflecting nothing until a request was made. As usual, I started with the one I had been asking the Mirror ever since I was twelve.

  “Show me the most beautiful woman in the world.”

  The gray mist thinned and disappeared, revealing my own face. I knew I would see myself, and I could have simply asked the Mirror to show my reflection, but what fun would that be? Pride was an emotion far enough from love to allow me to indulge in its simple pleasures. I smiled, and my face in the Mirror smiled back at me, pale and powerful. Mistress of the Solstice. Daughter of Kashchey.

  “Show me my thoughts,” I told the Mirror absentmindedly, watching the reflection of a tiny vertical line in the middle of my forehead where the dark arches of my eyebrows came together, a line that hadn’t been there before. My face disappeared, the gray mist wavering beneath the smooth surface of the glass, and then…

  I was staring into a pair of shiny eyes, blue like cornflowers, innocent like a child’s. His freckled face was smiling, his straw hair standing on end just the way it had on the plaza. His lips moved, mutely uttering the stupid phrase from before: “You are very beautiful.” And a spark in the depth of his eyes pierced me to my very soul.

  “Stop!” I drew back, nearly tripping over my feet in my haste. My heart pounded as I watched his face melt away into the mist.

  The Raven awoke on his perch and shrieked, but I could see nothing except the cornflower eyes, could hear nothing except his soft voice, which sent shivers through my body: “beautiful, beautiful, beautiful…”

  “How dare he!” I whispered. “How dare he tell me I am beautiful!”

  “Because you are beautiful, Marya,” Raven replied in a hoarse whisper. “The most beautiful maiden in the world.”

  “I am not a maiden!” I retorted. Maidens are virgins, and by my father’s Death I was not a virgin! I will not be caught by those bonds!

  I wished I could see Father, draw strength from his pale, handsome face; let the light in his hawk-like eyes drive the memory of silly cornflowers right out of my head. I wanted to go to him, to touch his hand, to hear his calming voice. But I didn’t dare. I didn’t want to show him my weakness.

  I knew what I had to do.

  Ivan

  Her eyes…

  Their green was like water, deep and treacherous, with silky weeds at the bottom that could hold you to your death in their sweet embrace. They were the eyes of a sorceress, powerful and merciless; the eyes of the most beautiful woman in the world. And so much more…

  He saw a vulnerability inside her eyes that held him tighter than her beauty, stronger than her commanding power. Behind her mask of cold detachment, he saw a pure, innocent soul, trapped like a bird beating in its tight impenetrable cage. It called to him, and in his heart he gave it a promise, which he was now bound to keep, just like his promise to Wolf, just like his silent oath to the fathers and brothers of the virgins sacrificed every year in the Solstice rites.

  He had no choice now.

  He had to save her too.

  “No more talking with her, I hope,” Wolf said.

  Ivan raised his arm and looked at the crimson whip mark that creased his skin from wrist to elbow. “Gleb was right. So were you.”

  Wolf edged forward and paused just short of touching, his muzzle very close to Ivan’s ear. “She is like that, you know. She never allows herself to care for anything or anyone. This is what makes her so powerful.”

  “Right.” Ivan slowly got to his feet and shook off bits of the forest debris.

  Wolf watched him intently. “Ready?”

  “Always.” Ivan’s smile seemed forgotten on his face. The way he stared into the darkness of the firs made Wolf doubt the boy was seeing their prickly fingers barring his way.

  Not a good frame of mind for Leshy’s deadly game.

  “Are you sure?” Wolf asked. “I can’t guess these riddles for you, you know. And if you lose—”

  “I will become a kikimora. Yes, I know.”

  “Kikimoras are not just swamp spirits. They remember who they used to be. They have full awareness of what they lost. And when you hear that hysterical laughter…they’re not laughing for joy.”

  As if in response, a wail rose in the distance—a gurgling, sick laughter, interlaced with such pain and anguish that Wolf saw goose flesh rise on Ivan’s arms.

  “I think I get the idea,” Ivan said.

  “Good. You do remember what I taught you, right?”

  “For the moment.” Ivan raised his arms in front of his face to protect it from the drooping fir branches and dove into their dark shelter, disappearing from view.

  “Good luck,” Wolf called out.

  There was a crackle and a muffled curse.

  “Thanks!” Ivan’s voice said eventually. It sounded faint, coming from a distance.

  The boy knew how to move fast when he wanted to. He was good. Wolf hoped he was good enough.

  The swamp looked eerie in the waning light. Ivan crept forward, painfully aware of the smacking sound his feet made on the wet grass. Among the deadly stillness of the gnarled trees draped by the curtains of the long lichen beards, his footsteps rang as loud as the church bells on a clear summer day.

  Not that he had hoped to creep up on Leshy unawares.

  He came to a small grass-covered clearing where the ground seemed firmer, a little island in the outskirts of the swamp. This had to be a good place.

  Ivan settled on a fallen birch trunk, among its fleshy protrusions of wood ear.

  “Just call him,” Wolf had said. “Leshy loves to play the game. He will come.”

  But how did one “just call” the mighty spirit of the forest, one of the most ruthless among the Immortals?

  Ivan raised his head and shouted into the still night air: “Leshy! Come out, Forest Father! I am here to play!”

  “Ay! ay! ay!…” said the echo.

  In the light of the rising moon Ivan could clearly see through the sickly swamp forest, but he could barely make out the bushes next to him. He tried to listen, but all he could hear was the buzz of a lonely mosquito in its determined attack
on Ivan’s neck. He waved it away. After a while the sound came back, closer, more insistent, and he turned, trying to catch the annoying insect.

  Then he heard a laugh.

  It was no more than a giggle, full of merriment and mischief. It almost made Ivan smile in an inadvertent desire to join in the fun. Then, as the sound sank in, he felt the skin on his back creep.

  He turned slowly toward the small beresklet bush that had been looming over his shoulder ever since he sat down on the fallen birch trunk. The moon was high enough now to make out a pair of glistening eyes, a bulb of a nose, a mischievous grin—

  A face, framed by a thick crown of leaves.

  The old man straightened out from his crouch and walked from behind the dead tree onto the open grass.

  “I thought you were going to let me freeze back there, boy,” Leshy said. “It surely took you a long time to notice me.”

  His voice croaked like that of an ancient, but at the same time it was so cheerful and energetic that, against reason, Ivan smiled.

  “Hello, old father,” he said, doing his best to sound casual, as if talking to a forest spirit had nothing to it. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “What, to miss a chance to play riddles with someone who thinks himself clever enough for the old man?” Leshy chuckled and settled down on an old stump.

  Now that Ivan could better see the Forest Man, it was hard to understand how he could have mistaken him for a bush. His clothes were similar to the kind worn in villages—a long linen shirt tied at the waist with a rope, baggy pants, and lapti—the wicker shoes held in place by pieces of string wrapped around the ankles. His hat was woven out of fresh twigs that looked like they were still growing, and the rope at his waist seemed to have a fringe of green leaves but, all in all, the outfit didn’t seem that unusual.

  Leshy’s face was a different matter. It looked like a crude woodcarving, rough and grotesque. Dark, deeply set eyes glistened from underneath bushy lichen eyebrows. A bulb-like nose hung over the crack of a nearly lipless mouth. Ivan couldn’t tell if the Forest Man had any hair. All he could see was a wavering mass of long beresklet leaves with pink-and-red splotches of berries glimmering from his neck and shoulders like delicate pieces of jewelry. They made a strange contrast with the bark-like skin.

  “So, what is your name, brave boy?” Leshy asked.

  “Ivan.”

  The old man chuckled. “I must have at least a dozen Ivans lurking out in the swamp, boy. You must have a nickname of some sort, eh? Something to tell you apart from my other kikimoras?”

  Ivan sighed. It never had been easy to tell his nickname to strangers. “Ivan the Fool.”

  Leshy threw his head back, shaking with gurgling laughter. “The fool, eh? You do know the rules of my game?”

  “Yes. I have to guess three riddles. Then I can ask you anything I want.”

  “Wrong!” Leshy chuckled again, laughter dancing off his skin. “Then, if you don’t guess, I get to play with you in my swamp. I do ooh sooo need a new playmate. The other ones are becoming oooh sooo boooring…Although, a fool? I don’t know.”

  He snapped his fingers and a pale wavering shape appeared in front of him, a ghostly outline of a naked hairy man. Once, this man must have been big and strong. Ivan could see it in the set of his square shoulders, in the way wiry muscle sculpted its way along his long arms, in the way he crouched, trying in vain to look shorter than his master. His skin hung in folds, as if he had lost a lot of weight in a very short time. His haunted wild eyes watched Leshy the way a dog might watch its abusive master raise a stick.

  Ivan could see the dim outline of the forest through his misty body.

  “What do you say, Nikola the Wise?” Leshy asked. “Want to play with Ivan the Fool here? Is he smart enough for us?”

  For a moment, the shadow man looked at Ivan with an inexplicable plea in his eyes. Then, just as suddenly, his face twisted into a laughing grimace and he produced a long, gurgling wail.

  Only a very sick man would take the sound for laughter. Nikola the Wise’s ghostly face spoke of nothing but agony. The laughter made it worse.

  “That’s enough!” Leshy commanded. He snapped his fingers and the kikimora was gone. “I think he likes you,” he added, throwing Ivan another mischievous glance.

  Ivan took a much-needed breath. “Are we playing or not?”

  Leshy regarded him for a moment, his eyes glistening from deep within their bushy sockets. “What could Ivan the Fool want so badly that he would risk coming here to play with the old man?” he mused. “What could be so important that the fool of a boy isn’t even afraid of our old Nikola the Wise, a learned man who came to my swamp thinking he could guess any riddle in the world?”

  “I’ll tell you what I want,” Ivan promised, “after I guess your riddles, old father.”

  Leshy chuckled again. “You must have a beast of a father, boy, if you think old Leshy is anything like him.”

  My father, Ivan thought. My sweet, old, gullible father. You have no idea, old man.

  He waited.

  “I have taken a liking to you, fool boy,” Leshy finally said. “I will let you change your mind if you want.”

  Ivan shot him a glance. “Afraid to lose?”

  The Forest Man was silent for a moment. “Very well,” he said in a grave voice. “Listen carefully to your first riddle. I will only say it once.”

  Marya

  Few people know that immortality comes with a price. Every Immortal has a bane, a magical item that can render him helpless and force him to do someone else’s bidding. The Immortals guard their banes closely, making sure that no one else knows what they are or where they could be found. But secrets leak out. They always do.

  I know that Raven’s bane is a net, one that can capture him and hold him helpless until the Net’s wielder releases him. He can be captured for ages if need be. And he must do whatever the one who captured him wishes. Such are the rules of his immortality.

  I have no idea where Raven keeps his bane and who guards it against the chance fortune-seekers. His secret is safe, for his powers are not as desired as those of Yaga, or Domovoi, or Zmei Gorynych, the Fire Serpent. Raven cannot grant you riches, glory, or long life. His true price is in the knowledge he possesses. But very few know even that much about him.

  When my father created the Needle with his death at its tip, he wanted to present it as a bane, so that he can be talked of as a true Immortal like the others. But his secret leaked out, just like all of them do. His Needle is no bane, for it cannot render him helpless or force him to do anyone’s bidding. Nor is my father a true Immortal, for breaking the Needle would kill him. He had tried to keep this secret too, and failed.

  Ivan

  He recalled bits of his earlier conversation with Gleb.

  “Rendering Raven helpless is only part of the task,” Gleb had said. “You must force him to reveal the information to you, and that could be harder than Leshy’s games.”

  “Wouldn’t he be bound to do what I ask?” Ivan had frowned as Wolf snorted on his mat by the fire, hiding his muzzle in his folded paws. “Did I say something funny?”

  Ivan had been so tired of this conversation, where Gleb and Wolf seemed to bounce inaudible jokes back and forth, making Ivan feel more and more clueless as the old herb man revealed more and more information to him.

  “Couldn’t Wolf question Raven once we catch him?” he had asked.

  “This is your quest, boy,” Wolf had said, even as Gleb shook his head. “Rules are rules, sorry.”

  Back then, Ivan had left it at that, knowing that he wouldn’t learn anything more this time. In any case, capturing Raven seemed like a distant, unattainable goal. No one he knew of had ever bested Leshy at his riddle game. Most likely Ivan would be a kikimora by morning and none of this would be necessary. And if he did succeed, if he managed to render Raven helpless and bound to do Ivan’s bidding, surely he could get what he wanted out of the old bird.

&nbs
p; He would have all the time in the world to do it.

  Marya

  “It is your time to hunt,” I told Raven.

  He nodded, his dry, glistening eye piercing me from its feathered frame. Then he spread his wings and floated out of the window.

  I knew he would fly through the night forest without touching a single branch on his way. He would hunt, and eat his fill. And then, he would go to the lake and float over its mirror waters to the edge of the swamp and back, until the first light of dawn touched the sky in the east. As I watched his black winged shape melt into the moonlit air outside the window, I briefly wondered what bonded him to these waters, forcing him into this nightly ritual. But I knew he’d never tell me.

  When I was little, I used to question and plead with him until my voice grew hoarse. Now, I didn’t bother anymore.

  Especially not tonight, when I had a more important task on my hands.

  I turned to the Mirror and straightened out my dress. “Show me my reflection.”

  I cannot be bonded by love. All my life is devoted to staying detached from its destructive power. When I find myself dangerously concerned with thoughts of a man, I know a perfect remedy.

  I go and share my bed with another.

  I know my enemy enough to understand this. Love is sensual, but its sensuality has nothing to do with feelings, with a true bonding of two souls meant to be together for eternity. While many mistake sensuality for love, I, Mistress of the Solstice, know better. To keep myself free from falling in love, I have long learned to divide the desires of my body and mind, to separate them so that they would be weaker and easier to defeat. If my mind is set on one man, my body must find a different one to satisfy its urges.