mask an abrupt edge, anything. He caught a stitch in his side, kept going, shaking water from his eyes, in the erratic white flicker of lightning.
And in that flickering the fern moved on the hill opposite, rippled in a swift line headed straight for him.
He wished his welfare and drew Pyetr's sword, for what good it was to him: the disturbance streaked at him and flung itself with considerable weight onto his leg, scrambled with a frantic strength up his body despite his grabbing to stop it, reached his neck and clung there with all its might—a most familiar grip, perfectly reasonable that his wish had not fended it off.
“ Babi? ” he said, still shaking. “ Babi, thank the god, where's Pyetr? ”
It hugged him the harder, burrowed its head against his collar, a most desperate and rained-on Babi, in a dark nearly complete now, except for the lightning flashes.
The rain settled into a drizzle, at what point m this interminable night Pyetr had no idea. He thought if he had the strength he would try to gather such weeds and fern as he could and make a pile of it to keep the chill off; but he kept putting that effort off, thinking how cold he already was, hoping for dawn to bring him warmth: very soon now the sun would come, he thought as he clung close to Volkhi's side, any moment now the sun would come up—it was only the storm clouds making the dawn late.
But when the weather did settle, and the sun had not come, Volkhi shook himself and started to wander out into the open despite the cold sprinkling from the trees. “ Whoa, lad, ” Pyetr murmured, held him, and Volkhi stood for a while, but restlessly.
So, he decided, he had kept Volkhi warm, and Volkhi could return the favor: he found purchase on the rock with his foot, got the reins and a handful of Volkhi's mane and shoved himself up to sprawl out flat on Volkhi's wet back, to travel again in the dark, wherever Volkhi took the notion to go.
East, he reminded himself, trying to draw from his muzzy wits which way that was or what he was doing hi this place, or whether he had only been dreaming about going east and finding a river. He was stiff, he was sore, he could not remember w here or why he was riding half-frozen in the woods with no sad nor proper bridle.
But eastward he had a wife waiting for him. A warm fire. Sasha, The Cockerel's fey stableboy, the one nobody wanted— Sasha was there, too. He could not imagine what they all had to do with each other, but he had a conviction that they were friends—that they all lived together in a house—
Which had a garden, a porch, a bathhouse he and Sasha had built—
His wife had wonderful blond braids, hair like light when it flew free, so much of it she could wrap in it ...
She liked blue. She had a favorite gown with leaves embroidered down its sleeves, and petticoats with flowers on their hems. They were spells she stitched, she had told him so. She had a garden, and little plots she tended in the woods, where she grew trees and plants that would not grow in other ground.
But he could not see her face now, except details that would not fit together—and he fought to keep them, even if they did not match what he thought was true any longer, everything he loved slipping away from him faster and faster-He was in a room with Sasha; Sasha was (but that was wrong Sasha could not read) writing something. Sasha had grown up. His face had lost its boyish look—become a young man's face—
And the river would lead him—
Home, somehow. He knew so little for certain. Things in woods, the old folk said on winter nights, wore their feet backwards and led travelers astray; Forest-things shifted shapes, and Things that looked like trees could move and change a man's path, leading him to disaster.
How did I get here? he wondered, finding his lids heavier and heavier as he rode—until of a sudden Volkhi shied sideways, came full about under his hand, bringing an old man into his sight—a white-bearded,
And in that flickering the fern moved on the hill opposite, rippled in a swift line headed straight for him.
He wished his welfare and drew Pyetr's sword, for what good it was to him: the disturbance streaked at him and flung itself with considerable weight onto his leg, scrambled with a frantic strength up his body despite his grabbing to stop it, reached his neck and clung there with all its might—a most familiar grip, perfectly reasonable that his wish had not fended it off.
“ Babi? ” he said, still shaking. “ Babi, thank the god, where's Pyetr? ”
It hugged him the harder, burrowed its head against his collar, a most desperate and rained-on Babi, in a dark nearly complete now, except for the lightning flashes.
The rain settled into a drizzle, at what point m this interminable night Pyetr had no idea. He thought if he had the strength he would try to gather such weeds and fern as he could and make a pile of it to keep the chill off; but he kept putting that effort off, thinking how cold he already was, hoping for dawn to bring him warmth: very soon now the sun would come, he thought as he clung close to Volkhi's side, any moment now the sun would come up—it was only the storm clouds making the dawn late.
But when the weather did settle, and the sun had not come, Volkhi shook himself and started to wander out into the open despite the cold sprinkling from the trees. “ Whoa, lad, ” Pyetr murmured, held him, and Volkhi stood for a while, but restlessly.
So, he decided, he had kept Volkhi warm, and Volkhi could return the favor: he found purchase on the rock with his foot, got the reins and a handful of Volkhi's mane and shoved himself up to sprawl out flat on Volkhi's wet back, to travel again in the dark, wherever Volkhi took the notion to go.
East, he reminded himself, trying to draw from his muzzy wits which way that was or what he was doing hi this place, or whether he had only been dreaming about going east and finding a river. He was stiff, he was sore, he could not remember w here or why he was riding half-frozen in the woods with no sad nor proper bridle.
But eastward he had a wife waiting for him. A warm fire. Sasha, The Cockerel's fey stableboy, the one nobody wanted— Sasha was there, too. He could not imagine what they all had to do with each other, but he had a conviction that they were friends—that they all lived together in a house—
Which had a garden, a porch, a bathhouse he and Sasha had built—
His wife had wonderful blond braids, hair like light when it flew free, so much of it she could wrap in it ...
She liked blue. She had a favorite gown with leaves embroidered down its sleeves, and petticoats with flowers on their hems. They were spells she stitched, she had told him so. She had a garden, and little plots she tended in the woods, where she grew trees and plants that would not grow in other ground.
But he could not see her face now, except details that would not fit together—and he fought to keep them, even if they did not match what he thought was true any longer, everything he loved slipping away from him faster and faster-He was in a room with Sasha; Sasha was (but that was wrong Sasha could not read) writing something. Sasha had grown up. His face had lost its boyish look—become a young man's face—
And the river would lead him—
Home, somehow. He knew so little for certain. Things in woods, the old folk said on winter nights, wore their feet backwards and led travelers astray; Forest-things shifted shapes, and Things that looked like trees could move and change a man's path, leading him to disaster.
How did I get here? he wondered, finding his lids heavier and heavier as he rode—until of a sudden Volkhi shied sideways, came full about under his hand, bringing an old man into his sight—a white-bearded,
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