Chernevog (v1.2) by C. J. Cherryh

Author:C. J. Cherryh [Cherryh, C. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Del Rey
Published: 1991-10-22T04:00:00+00:00

14

Nothing had worked the way it ought, in Sasha’s reckoning: the owl ought not to have died, the leshys ought not to be standing motionless and unhealthy as they were, and Chernevog ought not to be alive—but for the latter fact at least he had only himself to blame. He could not understand what he had done—or why he had not shoved Pyetr’s hand the other way.

“Get up,” Pyetr said, and Chernevog struggled to his feet against the thorn hedge, grasping branches that stabbed his palms with a cruelty that made Sasha wince. Blood came—droplets shaken from the thorns spattered the leaves.

God, I’ve seen this, I’ve seen this, and now it’s happening.

“Move!” Pyetr said, and Chernevog, seeming dazed and lost, went where Pyetr sent him, back through the thorn-hedge maze to the clearing and the stone.

We have to kill him, Sasha thought miserably. Surely that’s the only sane thing to do. Nothing can ever be safe so long as he’s alive.

“Misighi!” Pyetr called to the leshys, who stood all about them, still as trees. “Misighi, he’s awake, we’ve got him, now what in hell do we do with him?”

The leshys gave no answer. Chernevog had knelt by the owl, blood still dripping from his fingers, falling to the ground between his knees—Chernevog wiped his cheek with the back of his hand, looked utterly overwhelmed.

God, this is where it was telling us we’d be, this is what the bannik meant. But he’s not fighting us, he doesn’t act as if he understands anything—

“Don’t put on with us,” Pyetr said, “damn it all.” He had his sword in his hand. Everything about him said he was ready to use it: Sasha wished he would, before Chernevog recovered his wits and wanted their hearts stopped.

But Chernevog looked up, cradling his wounded hands one in the other, his face white with pain, eyes holding only bewilderment.

Pyetr’s sword trembled, rose in a wide, glittering sweep, and with a sudden wrench of Pyetr’s arm, hit the ground at Chernevog’s knee.

“Hell!” Pyetr said in disgust.

Chernevog had never flinched, only looked at them with that terrible lost expression.

“Is he doing that?” Pyetr asked angrily. “Is he wishing at us?”

Sasha said, “I’m not sure.”

Pyetr came back to him, and turned and looked again at Chernevog, the sword still in his hand. “He is doing it, dammit.”

The books, Chernevog’s with them, were all lying out in the brush somewhere—Sasha tried not to think about that. He caught Pyetr’s arm, drew him half about and whispered, “The owl shouldn’t have died, we’ve left my bags out mere, and I’m not sure the leshys are watching anything right now.”

“Let the damn bags stay there! Don’t let’s go off in separate directions like fools, all right? It’s exactly what he’d want!”

“I don’t know, Pyetr. I don’t know! If the owl did have his heart, and it did come back to him— Maybe that’s what the leshys wanted, maybe that’s what they’ve been doing with him all these years—”

“We don’t damn well know what the leshys have done, do we? They’re not talking to us.

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