The Winter of the Witch (Winternight Trilogy 3)

She wasn’t prepared for his reaction. The cloudy flesh of his head and shoulder sheared away. The chyert crumpled with a shriek of pain, and Vasya was left standing, appalled, while Ded Grib went bloodlessly from white to gray to brown. Like a mushroom kicked over by a careless child.

“No,” said Vasya in horror. “No, I didn’t mean it.” Without thinking she knelt, put her hand on his head. “I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I am sorry.”

He stopped turning gray. She realized she was crying. She hadn’t realized how deep the last days’ violence had gone inside her, hadn’t realized that it was still inside her, coiled up, ready to lash out in terror and rage. “Forgive me,” she said.

The chyert blinked his red eyes. He breathed. He was not dying. He looked more real than he had a moment ago. His broken body had knitted itself.

“Why did you do that?” asked the mushroom.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Vasya. She pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. “I never meant to hurt anyone.” She was shaking in every limb. “But you’re right. I did—I did…”

“You—” The mushroom was examining his cloudy-gray arm with puzzlement. “You gave me your tears.”

Vasya shook her head, struggling to speak. “For my horse,” she managed. “For my sister. Even for Morozko.” She scrubbed at her eyes, tried to smile. “A little for you.”

Ded Grib stared at her solemnly. In silence, Vasya struggled to her feet and set about preparing for the night.

* * *

SHE WAS ARRANGING FIREWOOD on a bare patch of ground, when the mushroom-spirit spoke again, half-hidden in a leaf-pile. “For Morozko, you said. Are you looking for the winter-king?”

“Yes,” said Vasya at once. “I am. If you don’t know where he is, do you know who might?” The Bear’s words—his freedom for your life—beat at the back of her skull. Why had he done it? Why? And a deeper memory still, Morozko’s voice saying, As I could, I—

Her firewood was stacked in a neat open square, with kindling laid between the bigger branches. As she spoke, she was arranging pine-needles for tinder.

“Midnight knows,” said Ded Grib. “Her realm touches every midnight that ever was. But I doubt she’ll tell you. As to who else might know—” Ded Grib paused, obviously thinking hard.

“Are you helping me?” Vasya asked in surprise. She sat back on her heels.

Ded Grib said, “You gave me tears and a flower. I will follow you, and not the Bear. I am first.” He puffed out his chest.

“First to what?”

“To take your side.”

“My side in what?” asked Vasya.

“What do you think?” replied Ded Grib. “You denied both the winter-king and his brother, didn’t you? You made yourself a third power in their war.” He frowned. “Or are you going to find the winter-king to join his side?”

“I am not sure what difference it makes,” said Vasya. “All these questions of sides. I want to find the winter-king because I need his help.” That was not the entire reason, but she was not about to explain the rest of it to the mushroom-spirit.

Ded Grib waved this away. “Well, even if he does join your side, I will always have been first.”

Vasya frowned at her unlit fire. “If you don’t know how to find the winter-king, then how do you mean to help me?” she asked cautiously.

Ded Grib reflected. “I know all about mushrooms. I can make them grow, too.”

This pleased Vasya inordinately. “I love mushrooms,” she said. “Can you find me any lisichki?”

If Ded Grib answered, it went unheard, for the next moment she drew a sharp breath, and let her soul fill with the searing memory of fire. Her pile of sticks burst into flame. She added twigs with satisfaction.

Ded Grib’s mouth fell open. All around, a whispering rose, as if the trees were speaking to one another. “You should be careful,” said Ded Grib, when he could speak.

“Why?” said Vasya, still pleased with herself.

“Magic makes people mad,” said the mushroom. “You change reality so much you forget what is real. But perhaps a few more chyerti will follow you after all.”

As though to punctuate his words, two fish flopped out of the lake and lay gasping, red-silver in the light of Vasya’s campfire.

“Follow me where?” Vasya demanded in some exasperation, but she did go and take the fish. “Thank you,” she added grudgingly in the direction of the water. If the bagiennik heard, he didn’t answer, but she didn’t think he’d gone away. He was waiting.

For what, she didn’t know.

12.

Bargaining

VASYA GUTTED THE FISH AND wrapped them in clay to roast in the coals of her fire. Ded Grib, true to his word, scampered off and brought her handfuls of mushrooms. Unfortunately, not only did he not know which were lisichki, he didn’t know which were edible. Vasya had to pick through alarming handfuls of toadstools. But the good ones she stuffed into her fish, along with herbs and wild onion, and when they were done, she burned her fingers eating them.

A full stomach was pleasant, but the night itself was not. The wind blew sharp off the lake, and Vasya could not shake the sense of being watched, of being measured by eyes she could not see. She felt like a girl hurled unwary into a tale she didn’t understand, with folk all around waiting for her to take up a part she didn’t know. Solovey’s absence was a gnawing misery that did not ease.

Eventually Vasya fell into a chilly doze, but even sleep was no respite. She dreamed of fists and enraged faces, of shouting for her horse to run. But instead he turned into a nightingale, and a man with a bow and arrow shot him out of the sky. Vasya jerked awake with her horse’s name on her lips, and heard somewhere in the darkness the thud of uneven hoofbeats.

* * *

SHE HAULED HERSELF UPRIGHT, stood barefoot in the cool summer bracken, painfully stiff. Her fire was down to a few red-edged coals. The moon hung low on the horizon. A light was coming through the trees. She thought of men with torches, and her first instinct was to flee.

But it wasn’t torches, she realized, squinting. It was the golden mare, alone. Her glow from the night before had dimmed; she was stumbling on a bad foreleg, her breast spattered with foam. Vasya thought she heard whispers in the wood beyond the horse. A foul smell gusted on the wind.

Swiftly, Vasya threw wood onto her little campfire. “Here,” she called.