Read Online R1 - Rusalka by C. J. Cherryh - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: C. J. Cherryh
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bandits set in, and the tsar built the south road because it was just too hard to do anything about the bandits."
"You've heard," Pyetr said hoarsely, and dipped a hand in the icy water and washed his face with it before he worked himself, grimacing and biting his lip, into the coat. "Let me tell you about Kiev, boy. There's towers tall as mountains, with gold on the roof ridges. Have you heard that? The river goes down to the warm sea, where there are crocodiles."
"What's a crocodile?"
"A kind of dragon," Pyetr said. "A dragon with teeth like spears and armor on his sides. He weeps tears of pearls."
"Pearls!"
"So they say."
"You don't even believe in banniks! How can a dragon cry pearls?"
He should not have asked. Pyetr thought about that a moment, and his cheerfulness faded and he looked harrowed and wan. "Truthfully," he said, hard-breathing from his struggle with the coat, "I doubt the dragons. But the Great Tsar lives there. That much I know is true. The Tsar of Kiev is rich, his boyars are rich, and rich folk shed gold coins like birds in moult, never miss it, never care. That's what I've heard. All the gold there is comes sooner or later to Kiev. So there has to be a little of it for you and me."
Pyetr's eyes brightened when he talked about the gold. And he had said
you and me
, which nobody had ever said in Sasha's memory—
you and me
was much rarer and much more desirable, in Sasha's reckoning, than pearl-weeping crocodiles. Pyetr doubted the Field-thing; Sasha doubted Kiev and the gold-capped towers; but
you and me
was precious here and now.
For the rest, Sasha knew his luck, and hourly watched it fade—Yes, he said to make Pyetr happy. Yes, I want to see that, yes, of course I believe in Kiev.
Mostly he believed that they were lost, and that if they went back to Vojvoda the tsar's men would hang Pyetr and perhaps hang both of them; but if they went on there was no food in this woods and there was no hope either.
When we get to Kiev, Pyetr would say as they walked that afternoon; and told him about elephants with snakes for hands, and the great roc that laid eggs for the king of the Indee.
Truer than the bannik, Pyetr said with a wink, and shortly after that, hurt himself with a catch of his toe in a root and took a terrible stitch in his side.
"I'm all right," he said after that, white and shaking; and would not let Sasha open the coat to see his bandages. "Let be," he said, waving him off. "Let be."
But the pallor did not go away and Pyetr did not joke after that, or tell him stories while they walked.
The bed they had this night was a pile of rotten leaves next an old log, on an evening so chill breath frosted in the twilight, and Sasha tried, with rubbing sticks over tinder and with the most earnest attempt at a spell he had ever tried in his life, to wish a fire into life; but he only overheated himself and blistered his hands and got not so much as a curl of smoke.
Perhaps, he thought, the wood was too damp, even the driest he could find; or perhaps it was because in his heart of hearts he knew that fire was the one spell he most feared, fire had killed his parents, fire was his curse and his worst luck, and he was direly afraid of it, even as desperate as they were.
"I'm sorry," he said, panting, and Pyetr said:
"Boy, stop, your hands are bleeding. You'll get nowhere."
At least he was warm. He had that to lend. They shared the coat. Pyetr avowed he was not in so much misery this night, and that he would be better in the morning; perhaps, Pyetr said, they would get up early, and walk in the last of the night, when it was coldest, and sleep during the day, hereafter, when it was warmest.
But the last of the night seemed the only sleep Pyetr had gotten, and the road was tangled, and it seemed to Sasha the height of folly to go walking by dark, when they might lose the road and with it, whatever hope they
"You've heard," Pyetr said hoarsely, and dipped a hand in the icy water and washed his face with it before he worked himself, grimacing and biting his lip, into the coat. "Let me tell you about Kiev, boy. There's towers tall as mountains, with gold on the roof ridges. Have you heard that? The river goes down to the warm sea, where there are crocodiles."
"What's a crocodile?"
"A kind of dragon," Pyetr said. "A dragon with teeth like spears and armor on his sides. He weeps tears of pearls."
"Pearls!"
"So they say."
"You don't even believe in banniks! How can a dragon cry pearls?"
He should not have asked. Pyetr thought about that a moment, and his cheerfulness faded and he looked harrowed and wan. "Truthfully," he said, hard-breathing from his struggle with the coat, "I doubt the dragons. But the Great Tsar lives there. That much I know is true. The Tsar of Kiev is rich, his boyars are rich, and rich folk shed gold coins like birds in moult, never miss it, never care. That's what I've heard. All the gold there is comes sooner or later to Kiev. So there has to be a little of it for you and me."
Pyetr's eyes brightened when he talked about the gold. And he had said
you and me
, which nobody had ever said in Sasha's memory—
you and me
was much rarer and much more desirable, in Sasha's reckoning, than pearl-weeping crocodiles. Pyetr doubted the Field-thing; Sasha doubted Kiev and the gold-capped towers; but
you and me
was precious here and now.
For the rest, Sasha knew his luck, and hourly watched it fade—Yes, he said to make Pyetr happy. Yes, I want to see that, yes, of course I believe in Kiev.
Mostly he believed that they were lost, and that if they went back to Vojvoda the tsar's men would hang Pyetr and perhaps hang both of them; but if they went on there was no food in this woods and there was no hope either.
When we get to Kiev, Pyetr would say as they walked that afternoon; and told him about elephants with snakes for hands, and the great roc that laid eggs for the king of the Indee.
Truer than the bannik, Pyetr said with a wink, and shortly after that, hurt himself with a catch of his toe in a root and took a terrible stitch in his side.
"I'm all right," he said after that, white and shaking; and would not let Sasha open the coat to see his bandages. "Let be," he said, waving him off. "Let be."
But the pallor did not go away and Pyetr did not joke after that, or tell him stories while they walked.
The bed they had this night was a pile of rotten leaves next an old log, on an evening so chill breath frosted in the twilight, and Sasha tried, with rubbing sticks over tinder and with the most earnest attempt at a spell he had ever tried in his life, to wish a fire into life; but he only overheated himself and blistered his hands and got not so much as a curl of smoke.
Perhaps, he thought, the wood was too damp, even the driest he could find; or perhaps it was because in his heart of hearts he knew that fire was the one spell he most feared, fire had killed his parents, fire was his curse and his worst luck, and he was direly afraid of it, even as desperate as they were.
"I'm sorry," he said, panting, and Pyetr said:
"Boy, stop, your hands are bleeding. You'll get nowhere."
At least he was warm. He had that to lend. They shared the coat. Pyetr avowed he was not in so much misery this night, and that he would be better in the morning; perhaps, Pyetr said, they would get up early, and walk in the last of the night, when it was coldest, and sleep during the day, hereafter, when it was warmest.
But the last of the night seemed the only sleep Pyetr had gotten, and the road was tangled, and it seemed to Sasha the height of folly to go walking by dark, when they might lose the road and with it, whatever hope they
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