Koschei was bored. He’d been waiting for almost a full day, and there was no sign of “Mr. Tolstoy.” Not that he expected him to actually find the right tree. He just hoped he’d come back and concede defeat, so he could find something more fun to do with him. The hot blood of gargoyles was said to give them a high tolerance for cold temperatures; it would be interesting to find out just how cold. Or see how strong their tough skin was when faced with the opposite extreme of intense heat.
Koschei had won yet another game of chess played against his oldest and most loyal manservant, Igor. The man had some talent, yes, but he was only a hundred and fifty years old, and his opponent had centuries of experience ahead of him. If he did say so himself, Koschei viewed himself as a chess master.
Sometimes he wondered if he could ever persuade Baba Yaga to play with him again. The crone so hated to lose at anything, and hated even more to admit how talented he was, but they had enjoyed a few games together in their lifetime. Maybe if he gave her the sword willingly, she’d be willing to join him for a few rounds…
The Deathless One sipped thoughtfully at his vodka. There was another day and a half yet; he had plenty of time before-
His body jerked violently, spilling vodka all over himself, staining the fur of his robe. Koschei leaped up, spluttering and cleaning himself off. He’d felt something strange in that moment-something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time…
“Sir?” Igor asked. “Are you all right?”
Before Koschei could answer, his arm moved on its own, and he found himself casting a spell. A spell that opened a portal.
Before he could try to close it, a gargoyle-bedraggled, pale, with one wing dragging broken at his side, covered in mud and blood, and carrying a very ugly duck under one arm-stepped through. In one claw he clutched a golden egg.
***
Believe it or not, getting ahold of the soul was the easiest part of my trip. Because yeah, I broke my wing and lost some blood I couldn’t afford to lose fighting a giant rabbit-duck automaton that sprang out of the chest when I opened it, but the solution for that was simple: destroy it before it could destroy me, then remove the egg from its innards.
Oh, sorry, were you actually interested in reading about that part? About the big, dramatic action scene? So you like reading about me getting beat up by some eldritch abomination and having to scramble frantically to a position where I can dig my claws into its belly and rip it open and pull out its wiring, getting myself splattered with oil and grime and being generally crushed and tossed about the whole time? What kind of monster are you?!
Hefting the egg, I said, “Found it.”
Koschei glared at me. “So you did.”
“Now give me the sword, before I smash it.”
With a world-weary sigh, the sorcerer handed it over. Then he asked, “Out of curiosity, how did you find it?”
I nearly said A little bird told me, but I didn’t want him exacting retribution on the innocent creature, so I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
His eyes strayed to the duck anyway. And he realized, as I did, that it was under a spell of some kind, and his face twisted with a kind of dark hatred. “You!”
Whatever connection he had with it escaped me, but I quickly stepped back and brandished the egg. “You’re not allowed to do anything to hurt this creature, in duck form or whatever its original form is. Or come after me, or my family or friends. Promise you won’t do any of those things, and you can have this back.”
Koschei blinked. Then he said, “Then why bother returning it at all? It’s nothing short of foolish. And you could have all you want and more if you just keep my soul.”
Meaning he’d be my servant, like the Dark One’s dagger.* But I just said, “I don’t think I’m qualified to bear that kind of responsibility.” Then, more firmly, “Deal?”
He sighed. “Deal. I will not do anything to harm you, those you care for, or this-” his lip curled- “vodyanoy.”
So that’s what it is.
“You also need to promise not to entice anything to harm any of us, or act in any way, shape or form that will do so.”
Maybe I should have created a contract.
Looking exasperated, Mr. the Deathless agreed to all my terms. Once I was sure that the bases were covered, I started to place the egg in his hands. But then I hesitated.
“One more thing. What’s Kladenets do?”
He grinned mirthlessly. “It gives the bearer the gift of making very excellent borscht. Nothing else.”
You have got to be kidding me.
“Is that the truth?” I jiggled the egg a bit.
Koschei flinched, but told me, “I swear it on the souls of my ancestors.”
Dramatic, but I decided to believe him. I placed the egg in his arms. And for a split second, I saw a bit of a change in him. The washed-out-ness faded a bit, and I saw something more...human** in him. Then he glared, and opened a new portal, which swept me and the vodyanoy-duck away.
*From Once Upon a Time, a human TV show that was good, but sucked after season 3.
** For lack of a better word
There seemed to be a million trees in this forest. I knew it was a fool’s errand trying to find the right one in so little time; Koschei covered his tracks so well. It wasn’t like he made frequent visits here, either, so any traces would have been washed away by the elements centuries ago. If I had more time to research, then maybe I would be able to find it more easily, but so far I was on a tight schedule, and so far I was getting nowhere.
Well, what a great hero I’ve been. I made it into the lair and got my claws on the sword, only to get captured, tortured, and lose any connection to anyone who might help me. And now I’m blundering around in a forest, without much hope of finding what I seek in time.
I wasn’t giving up...but I sent out a silent plea to anyone who might listen.
Help me. Please. For the sake of my family. That includes Calla.
As if on cue, a few minutes later my ears picked up the sound of wings flapping. Ungainly-sounding wings, accompanied by a squawk, then a crash up in the branches above me. I looked up...just in time for a duck to land on my head.
This is not a typical occurrence in my life. It was messy and feathery. And smelled like pond scum. I hurriedly clawed it off (without actually harming it), and held it at arm’s length.
Something was odd about this duck, as I took a good look at it. It was an unusual shade of green all over, and something about its feathers seemed more like they should be scales. The bill was all flattened out, making it look like a frog masquerading as a duck, and its webbed feet a murky green. In some ways, this was the ugliest duck I had ever seen.
It looked at me out of big golden eyes (also unusual for a duck), and quacked at me.
“...What’s up, duck?”
It quacked again, and squirmed indignantly until I set it down on the forest floor. Taking a second to get its feathers back in order, it then waddled up and grabbed my pant leg in its bill, tugging. I tried to shake it off, but it tugged more insistently.
Hmm…
“If this were a fairy tale,” I said aloud,* “following you would help me to find the tree where Mr. the Deathless keeps his soul.”
The duck nodded its head excitedly, and continued pulling.
This could be a trick by Mr. the Deathless. But really, what have I got to lose?
“Okay. I’ll come. But if you’re here to lead me astray, I’m having duck a l’orange for dinner. Got it?”
It nodded again, and began waddling away. This time, I followed.
After a while, I realized that it would be faster to carry the duck, and have it nudge me whenever we needed to make a turn or something. It did seem to appreciate not having to waddle across the forest floor, and even nestled itself into my side.
And finally, we found the tree, next to a rushing stream.
*In Russian, just in case.
Morgan and Xen had been digging for half an hour through ancient transcripts and texts. When the little ones complained of hunger, Morgan gave them packets of fruit snacks and told them to go play again. But she knew that sooner or later they would have to go home.
Xen hadn’t stopped to eat. She didn’t even notice what her companions were doing; she was reading frantically through everything, claws tapping agitatedly and chewing her lips, not paying attention to the amount of blood she was drawing.
Suddenly, she made Morgan jump with the loud whisper of “I’ve found something!”
“What?”
She shoved the vellum manuscript under Morgan’s nose. Pushing it back so she could actually read it, Morgan said aloud, “The writings of Bogdana Ivanovna Volkana.”
“Yes! Look down there!” Xen jabbed an excited claw at a particular paragraph.
Scanning it, Morgan saw that-once again-it had to do with Koschei the Deathless. But it was the story of how he first hid his soul.
“The only creature that saw him do it,” she read, “was a vodyanoy that happened to live in the nearby stream, and knew the woods like the back of his webbed hand; he saw the exact place where the chest was hidden. But when Koschei realized that he had seen, and because the vodyanoy had been charmed by another sorcerer long ago, so he couldn’t kill him, he instead sent him far away, to a part of Russia where nobody would dare go: near the home of his rival, Baba Yaga.
"When the hero Ivan accidentally freed Koschei many years later, however, he and Marya came to the vodyanoy for help, because they found out that he knew where Koschei’s soul was. They went to the place the soul was kept, stole it, and controlled Koschei into giving up his hold on the couple. They intended to destroy the soul, but the sorcerer successfully stole it back; after that, Koschei realize who had told them about it, and this time locked the memory away in the vodyanoy’s mind, so it would never be spoken again.”
Xen’s eyes sparkled feverishly. “It’s not much, but it’s something.”
Morgan pulled out her phone and rapidly texted the information to Calla. That done, she said, “I need to get the kids home now. But call me if you need anything.”
“I will.” After a pause, Xen became perturbed. “I should see how Mom and Phil are doing…” She looked torn between wanting to further help her husband, and taking care of her son.
Her friend gently reassured her, “There’s probably nothing more to be done for Tristan. But you can take care of your son. It will probably help.” She didn't have to disguise the longing in her voice. Xen knew how much it had affected Morgan to lose her baby three months into the pregnancy.
She nodded slowly. “You’re probably right.” Then, with a sigh, she looked at the piles of books and manuscripts sprawled across the table. “Do you think if we hurry, we can get away before the librarians see the mess we’ve made?”
“Bet I can beat you to the door!”
“Not with two girls to supervise, you can’t!”
***
It was quiet up here. Nothing but the wind, and the occasional bird, and the repetitive motion of paddling the mortar through the air (Calla’s arms had finally stopped aching after every trip she took in it), and wisps of clouds overhead. No need to think. Just row, and stare out at the vast Russian landscape. Focus on what you can control, not on the fact that you’re a useless weakling who can’t even stand up to the most powerful witch in Russia.
Thinking that made it sound a little silly for her to be so disgusted with herself; of course it would be difficult to do anything when going up against Baba Yaga. But-but she’d fought Desmond Jessup once. Sort of. She’d pushed him into a cage. Even if he didn’t have much magic, he was crazy and evil on a level equal with the witch’s power. Surely if she could handle him, she should be able to take down Baba Yaga. Instead she’d let her break the scrying glass, and was powerless to do anything about it. Useless.
I’m not doing a very good job of not thinking about this.
Just then, her phone buzzed. New text message.
Stopping the mortar (and giving it a stern rap with the pestle so it wouldn’t drop and lose altitude on her), Calla slowly pulled out her phone and read the message.
As she did, the despairing glaze fled her eyes, and a new fire erupted in her belly.* Her body moved out of its hunched-over state, and she shoved the phone into her pocket, seizing the pestle and frantically changing direction until she was pointed towards the lake.
It seemed like an unbelievable coincidence...but something in her gut told her it was the case. He’d been there for such a long time, and while vodyanoi weren’t that uncommon in Russia, perhaps he’d at least know who she meant if it wasn’t him.
Barely remembering to tie up the mortar, Calla leaped out of it and ran down to the lake.
“Pavel!” she shouted.
Nothing but bubbles in the water.
She spun a hand over it, creating a sort of tunnel, and shouted the name again, before closing it up over the sound.
Five seconds...ten...twenty…
Three red heads poked up out of the water. The heads belonged to three beautiful young girls, all with fetching green eyes (with slitted pupils), pearly skin, and wide grins filled with sharp teeth.
Staring up at her, they giggled behind their pale webbed hands.
“Where’s Pavel?” Calla demanded, using her best Russian.
“Why do you want that sack of lard?” one of the rusalki giggled.
“He’s no fun at all to talk to,” another said.
“He smells like the moss he lives in,” the youngest-looking squeaked. Even though their insults weren’t particularly clever, they all laughed, with high, musical voices.
But Calla was out of patience, and knew she was running out of time. She flung out a hand, and a spell wrapped itself around the first rusalka, lifting her squealing all the way out of the water.
To Calla’s hidden relief, she was wearing what appeared to be a kind of sarong. It showed off her long legs and big webbed feet, as well as quite a bit of the rest of her, but better than nothing.
The other rusalki screamed, and grabbed her around the legs, trying to pull their sister back into the water. Calla just used the spell to pull tighter, and asked again, in a clipped tone of voice that really wasn’t like her, “Where’s Pavel?”
“He-he’s in the middle of the lake somewhere! Probably taking a mud bath or something!” her prisoner (it made her feel guilty to think of her like that, but she had to admit that it was probably true) wailed.
“Go and get him for me, now.” After a second, Calla added, “Please.”
She released the rusalka, who fell into the water with a splash, and was off like a shot, sisters in tow.
Calla waited, hoping that they weren’t just running away, so she wouldn’t have to chase after them.
Finally, the waters parted, and the familiar frog-like head rose up into the air.
With a sigh of relief, Calla dropped to her knees beside him, and without preamble, placed her hands on his shoulders and stared into his eyes.
The vodyanoy was astonished. Had she really threatened the rusalki?
Calla admitted that she had, kind of. But she wouldn’t have actually hurt them, she just needed his help. Did he know where the soul of Koschei the Deathless was being kept?
Pavel froze. He tried to deny it, shivering in repressed fear. But thoughts can’t lie, and there was something, back in a corner of his mind…
Calla touched the area, covered as it was by black shadows and chainlike spells. Where was the weakness...show me the weakness...there. It was powerful, but also old and frail from lack of use. She had done this before; granted, it had been one she had made herself, but still. She broke it open, releasing the memory.
Pavel gasped with relief. Yes. Yes, he remembered the place where the soul was. He hadn’t been there in years, but he could point out the exact tree. He hadn’t spoken of it since he’d met that nice couple ages ago who needed help finding it.
If I sent you there now, could you help my friend retrieve it?
The vodyanoy was hesitant. If Koschei found him, he might actually kill him this time, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it would be hard if he couldn’t get out of this lake…
Leave that to me.
*This one slightly more pleasant than her previous rage.
Calla felt a sudden stirring of hope. If Tristan could find the soul of Koschei, then he could get Kladenets, and then they could go home. The problem, of course, was getting the information to Tristan once they had it. This scrying glass only appeared to be a one-way model, so she could see Tristan, but couldn’t communicate with him.
Or could she?
Thoughtfully, Calla pushed on the edges of the glass, using it to zoom in on the detective’s face. And, despite her hesitation, on his eyes.
There was no way it would work. At least, it didn’t seem possible, since she’d only ever thought she could do it while in close contact with the other person. But somehow, she was suddenly sharing thoughts with Tristan.
Naturally, she felt his alarm and instant attempt to escape what he assumed was an attack. But she hurriedly thought at him, Tristan, it’s okay! It’s me!
...Calla? How the blazes-
I’m using a scrying glass. Apparently this...thing I do can work through that.
Interesting.
They spent a moment immersed in each other’s thoughts, looking at what had happened to each other in the last few days. Calla was shocked and affronted by seeing how Koschei had tortured Tristan, and when she examined the physical and mental state he was in. Then she caught a glimpse of a memory of his reflection that he’d seen in a window.
You look terrible.
Thanks. At least his sarcasm was still intact.
Sorry.
Don’t be. Tristan saw that apparently Xen and Morgan wanted to help. You think they’ll find out how to find the soul?
Hey, if we find something it’ll make your job easier. And it’s better than just sitting and doing nothing. Xen’s been researching the different stories about Koschei’s soul, where it’s kept.
Tristan scanned the results thoughtfully, then gave a mental nod.
I’m thinking the best place to start looking might be the oldest part of the forest. I’m going to head over there, look in any hollow trees I can find.
Good idea. We’ll keep you posted on anything we find out-
The scrying glass shattered itself into hundreds of pieces.
***
Calla? CALLA!
She was gone. There had been a crashing sound, and her presence had vanished from my mind. A lot of words ran through my mind, making it possibly for the best that she was no longer there.
She must have gotten caught. Confound it all!
I hated that witch. Hated Baba Yaga and Koschei and the whole bloody pack of Russians who were making my life miserable right now. Especially when I opened my pack to try using the glasses which would help me decipher the types of spells present here, and found that the lenses had been conveniently removed.
Right then. I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.
With a growl of frustration I made my way (silently, though) into the oldest part of the forest, where the smell of magic was the strongest. It had to be here. Somewhere.
***
Slowly, Calla looked up from the remains of the glass.
Baba Yaga glared back, her hair billowing wildly, even though there was no wind in the hut. Her eyes glittered with red fire, and her iron teeth gnashed in a snarl.
“No fair helping Chernobyl,” she said softly. Even though it wasn’t a shout, the words chilled all the way to Calla’s marrow.
“That wasn't in the contract.” Calla surprised herself with her own boldness. “There’s nothing in there against my offering him assistance or information.”
The witch looked like thunder, and for a moment Calla thought that she was about to be smited (Smitten? It was hard to tell which word was more appropriate under the circumstances) into ashes. Instead, after a second, her bony shoulders relaxed, and she smiled.
“Too bad the imp that controlled the glass is gone, then,” she said with a bit of a chuckle at the end. “Good luck helping him now, myshka.”
And she went into her room for her afternoon nap, shutting the door behind her.
Calla sat there for a second, perfectly still. Then a fire lit in her stomach; a hot, burning coal, that rushed up her back and into her arms and through the veins of her neck into her brain. She was about to explode. She needed to do something-anything-to make it stop, before she let it loose and seriously hurt someone like last time don’t think about it you might make it happen something needed to happen NOW-
She leaped to her feet, and her hand slammed onto the witch’s table, sending the raging magic fueling her at the moment into the wood and everything on the table, blasting it with what felt like the strength of a nuclear blast in concentrated form.
A moment later Calla was standing next to a pile of ash. She dropped to her knees into it, heedless of how it affected her jeans, slamming her fists into the floorboards. As soon as the anger came, though, once it was purged it was replaced by cold, numbing-defeat.
It wasn’t like she knew how to summon an imp and trap it in a scrying glass; that was something she had never really wanted to learn, since it was basically slavery. And sure, there were other ways to send a message, but she needed something that would do so quickly. Tristan didn’t have much time left. Even if Morgan and Xen found the information now…
Finally Calla stood up again, and used a spell to repair all the damage she’d done. Then, feeling that* blanket of numb complacency and resignation covering her again, she slowly walked out the door, climbed into the mortar, and methodically began paddling her way into the air. Part of her considered trying to go to wherever Tristan was, but had the feeling Baba Yaga would stop her somehow. So she just steered blankly into the sky, not caring where she went. She should probably get used to this thing, just in case. Even though it continued to be uncooperative.
*Eerily familiar
Author's Note
Just a few things: first, I have decided to change gargoyle physiology somewhat. Gargoyles no longer turn to stone while sleeping. Now it's only when they die.
Second, this upcoming month is Nanowrimo, and I am planning on participating. This involves writing a 50,000-word novel in just thirty days. To help me keep working on this, I intend to post it here, as soon as I'm done with this one. So keep your eyes peeled, and if possible, please help me feel motivated to keep writing.
Morgan Hartford was walking down the street, on the way to pick up her daughters* from nursery school, when she saw Xen Wormwood sitting at a table outside of a cafe.
Even though her head was buried in her claws, that red hair was recognizable anywhere.
“Xen? Are you okay?”
She jumped a foot when she heard her voice, and quickly glanced up.
“Wha-? Oh. Hi.”
Her face looked normal, not blotchy at all, but her voice had cracked the tiniest bit.
“Tristan isn't back yet?” Morgan sat down across from her. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”
She sighed, running a claw through her hair. “My mom’s here, helping look after Phil. I just-feel very helpless right now. I don’t even know how he’s doing. Or if he’s even alive. I’d like to think he is, since he’s a survivor, but-you know.”
“I think I understand. What if we try to do something to help you feel less useless? Calla could tell us what he's trying to do, and maybe we can find something useful and Calla can think of a way to get the information to him.”
“I know what he’s trying to do. He’s trying to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless.” But she sat up straighter, and pulled out her phone. “Maybe Calla can create a scrying glass or something that can help her find him.”
A few minutes later, the reply came back, and she held it out to let Morgan see.
Baba Yaga let me use her glass. I haven’t told her everything, because she might try to stop me from helping, even though that wasn’t strictly speaking in the rules. He’s alive, but looks awful.
Xen sagged against the table in relief.
“There’s one less thing to worry about,” she whispered. Then she typed furiously, Where?
In a forest, it looks like. He’s paying a lot of attention to the hollow trees.
Xen frowned, and rubbed her forehead.
“That sounds familiar…”
“Koschei the Deathless... Hollow trees... He's looking for the soul!”
“Yes!” The frown intensified. “That doesn’t bode well. Maybe he’s planning on using it to bargain for the sword. Anyone who gets the soul could control him with it. Or even kill him.” She tapped her claws agitatedly. “Things are getting serious over there if he’s going that far.”
“It must be. Can you think of any way we could help him?”
“We need to check the library.” And before she could protest, Morgan found herself being grabbed by the wrist and pulled in the direction of the library. It wasn’t until they were there and halfway through their research that she remembered, in horror, that her children were still at the nursery school waiting for her.
“I'll be right back, Xen!”
“What-”
Morgan didn’t stop to explain, just running out as quickly as she could.
Poppy and Rebecca’s teacher, Mrs. Flaversham, was waiting anxiously outside the building.
“There ye are, Mrs. Hartford! The girls have been worried to death! Rebecca’s been thinking ye’ve abandoned them!”
A familiar tearstained face peeked out from the door behind the caorthannach, looking somewhat relieved to see Morgan there.
“Oh, Rebecca, I'm sorry!”
Poppy looked out next. “Momma!” She glanced at Rebecca. “I told you she’d come for us.” But she looked equally relieved that Morgan had finally showed up, skipping out into her arms.
“I was about to take them home myself, but I’m glad you came,” said Mrs. Flaversham, mollified.
“I'm so sorry!” Morgan hugged her children to her, trying to console them. At least Friedrich had an extra hour of school left, so she didn’t have to worry that she’d forgotten him too.
Xen looked very shamefaced when Morgan returned with her little girls.
“Sorry. I forgot that you probably needed to pick them up.”
“It's all right, I forgot too.”
Xen showed her the pile of books she’d picked out. Many of them were old Russian fairy tale books, or just completely in Russian. A few were very ancient-looking, leather texts.
“There’s a lot of contradictory tales about where Koschei’s soul is. In some stories, it’s already been found and destroyed. But we know that’s not true.”
“What’s a koschei?” asked Poppy.
“It’s not a what. It’s a who. Koschei the Deathless is a very bad man who has hidden his soul, and Tristan’s trying to find it,” Xen explained.
Rebecca looked a little perplexed. “If he doesn’t have a soul...then isn’t he dead?”
“I wish.”
“Poppy, how about you take Rebecca to the children's section?”
“Kay.”
Rebecca started to protest, “But-” But Poppy pulled her off.
Xen gave her an unapologetic stare. “It would solve a lot of problems right now if he was dead.” Then she looked horrified. “Did I just say that?”
“You're under stress. It makes sense.”
With a sigh, she went back to looking at the works. “Generally in the stories, if someone is looking for his soul, they need to get the help of some obscure bird or something which somehow knows its location. Two people who actually managed to beat him once, according to this-” she passed over a book- “are Ivan and Marya, centuries ago. Marya used to be a guard over Koschei, until Ivan accidentally set him free, but eventually they beat him together by finding his soul and commanding him never to harm either of them again.” Xen pulled out her phone, sending a text to Calla. “And, of course, the details are hazy on how they actually found his soul. D____t.” Then she glanced at Morgan. “Sorry.”
Morgan put a hand on her shoulder. “It might be in another book somewhere. Don’t worry, we’ll find it.”
*Besides Poppy, Morgan and Nathan had adopted a troll named Friedrich, and a little golden-haired girl named Rebecca who was half-mage, half-demon. Rebecca’s story is a very interesting one indeed...but it will have to wait for later.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get that far. Probably that had something to do with my being both outnumbered and woozy from blood loss; whatever the reason, I found myself being frog-marched (pun totally intended) into one of the blocked-off-from-tourists rooms in the Kremlin.
It was like entering a totally different place. Like a palace.
The floor was paved with shiny gold tiles, in different shades, in some kind of diamond design. Elegant tapestries depicting events long past covered the walls. Old-fashioned electric lamps shone here and there, making my eyes hurt even with the shaded glasses. And sitting at the other end of the ridiculously long room was Mr. the Deathless, sitting on a gilded throne. He was wearing another suit, still old-fashioned, and a heavy-looking diamond-covered crown.
“You heroes are so stubborn and reckless,” he said with a sigh as I was dragged close. “I was almost done deciding what to do with you.”
I wasn’t going to wait around for you to make up your mind, you dried-up bag of bones! I snarled internally. But since I was still cursed with silence, I could only give him the message by glaring venomously.
“You’re that anxious to steal this sword?” Mr. the Deathless produced Kladenets and waved it around, taunting me with it.
I gave him a look, and with a sigh he removed the spell from my throat, allowing me to croak, “If I thought I could get it from you any other way, I would.”
“Really?” He leaned forward on his throne. “What’s Baba Yaga going to do to your assistant if you don’t get it?”
“That’s none of your business!”*
Koschei gave me a knowing smile which I figured must have taken him centuries to perfect. Whether or not he actually had figured out my reasons was irrelevant; as long as he acted like he did, he had the satisfaction of feeling superior and trying to make me squirm. I knew that trick, however, being very much the connoisseur of it myself, so I kept my face blank.
“This is most entertaining, Mr…?”
He left the phrase hovering, waiting patiently for me to complete it. I finally said, “Tolstoy.”
One bushy eyebrow rose in a skeptical arch, but I didn’t change the pseudonym.
Unless you plan on feeding me phoenix blood again, I’m not volunteering raz”yem.**
Mr. the Deathless finally sighed. “Very well, Mr. Tolstoy. If you insist on using that name. How about we make this interesting?”
Not another one.
“How?”
He stood up, tossing his robes back from his shoulders and twirling the sword again.
“I’ve been waiting for Baba Yaga to entertain me by trying to get this sword back. You appear to have been a godsend, Mr. Tolstoy; being immortal can be so boring sometimes. You might not have noticed, but people of my age like to play games with people like you.” Ignoring my snort, he continued, “So, I will give you this sword freely-if you can find my soul.”
For those of you with more sensitive eyes, I will refrain from writing the string of curses that ran through my mind at this news.
As best I remembered, Koschei’s soul was kept inside a duck that was inside a rabbit inside a giant egg in an obscure tree, or something like that. This was next to impossible.
But I conjured up an image of Calla, of her big brown eyes and her kind spirit and all the hell she’d gone through already, and asked, “How long have you kept me here?”
The old sorcerer looked down at me and said, “Ten years.”
My legs buckled, and I almost didn’t hear his laughter as he said, “Just kidding. Around two days, I believe.”
That means I have about three days left.
“Give me two more days to find it,” I said, hating how pleading I sounded, since it would probably give him an edge over me if he knew I had a time limit.
“You’re not asking for three?”
“Everyone asks for three. I need two.”
Hopefully I can find it before then, but let’s not trust to miracles.
That smirk was back; he probably at least suspected why I was so anxious. I hurriedly added in, “And give me back the pack of Baba Yaga’s things.”
Leaning on the throne, Koschei asked, “Why should I give anything to the thief who invaded my home?”
“Because there are rules to this sort of thing. And I’ll be far more entertaining if I have supplies that I can try to fight with.”
He didn’t look quite convinced, but at least my attitude seemed to amuse him again. “Deal.”
***
Koschei didn’t bother with a contract. He just had some of his henchfrogs give me the pack, and then I was booted out of the Kremlin. That at first made me wonder if maybe the soul was inside the place, but that seemed a little obvious. So, I went to a nearby restaurant, got a bowl of borscht and some bread, and sat outside eating (wolfing, really, since it was my first time eating in days) while I thought about where to look.
In the stories I’d heard, it was on an island somewhere. And was the rabbit inside the duck, or the duck inside the rabbit-?
Eventually I gave up and bought a book that talked about Russian fairy tales from a convenient store. According to it, there were different stories about where the soul actually was (Igor Stravinsky’s “Firebird” being just one example), but the general theme persisted of it being kept inside an egg, in a casket, inside a tree. And in some versions, the egg was inside a duck which was inside a rabbit.***
Leaning back in my chair, I thought about this. Since whoever could get hold of the soul could control Mr. the Deathless, odds were that he would want to keep it close by, just in case some fool would be lucky enough to stumble across it. So, since he seemed to have such a tree fetish when it came to his soul,**** the best place to start looking was the nearby forest.
Better get started.
*Hopefully none of you are surprised by my tendency to mouth off in tight situations by now. If so, then you really haven’t been paying attention if you’ve read my previous books.
**Jack
***Either it had to be the world’s largest rabbit, or the world’s smallest duck. And how would he get the rabbit to swallow the duck either way? Wait, stupid question: magic.
****I idly wondered if he’d liked to climb trees when he was younger, before he pulled out his soul and hid it, and that was why he kept it in one. Assuming that it was actually there.
Using the well that was in the nearby woods, a few heat spells, and lots of soap, Calla was able to take a nice warm bath, as well as wash her filthy clothes. Then, with her hair still wet and unbrushed, she hurried to make dinner, as it was almost the hour when Baba Yaga would announce that she was hungry. Calla had not yet done anything to make the witch cross, and she was afraid of what would happen.
Luckily, there was no complaint from Baba Yaga, who (as usual) devoured the roast chicken and potatoes and rolls, eating whatever Calla did not get hold of first. Mentally the girl was resigning herself to another quiet night, perhaps with a phone call to someone back home, when Baba Yaga suddenly said, “You did not kill the vodyanoy.”
Calla jumped, and after composing herself, admitted, “I did not.”
“Why not? He could have drowned you.”
“I’m not a killer,” she said quietly. “Once was enough; I don’t need more blood on my conscience.”
Even without looking up from her plate, she could feel those red eyes staring at her. She just scooped up a piece of chicken with her fork, and bit into it hungrily. It really was good chicken; soft and chewy, without that horrid dryness that white meat tends to get. Calla would not dare to call herself the best cook in the world, but she at least knew how to handle meat.
After another silence, the witch asked, “You enjoy talking with him?”
“Well enough. He doesn’t know about much besides the pond, but he’s a good enough soul. Just very lonely.”
Baba Yaga made a bit of a sniff, and continued masticating her own enormous piece of chicken. Then she swallowed, and spoke again.
“How about that young man whom you talk to sometimes when I’m asleep? You enjoy talking with him?”
Calla felt her cheeks grow warm.
Of course she knows about him.
“Y-yes.”
The witch smiled widely.
“He’s a very precious young man, then. Even if you haven’t told him about the blood bond.”
Calla’s shoulders and neck felt warm this time.
“How do you know that?”
Baba Yaga shrugged, and stabbed her fork into a potato. “I can see into people’s hearts, myshka. It’s something you will learn too, if Chernobyl does not get the sword and you’re around long enough.”
The heat burned more fiercely; she’d thought she was growing numb to the idea, but hearing it spoken aloud in the witch’s pronounced Russian voice somehow brought all the pain back with a vengeance. Calla tried to hold it in, but she had to squeeze her eyes shut and take a gulp of water so that she would try not to cry in front of this woman.
Baba Yaga continued, relentless. “Even if he does win, if you go home and are no longer in my service, what are you planning to do about your young man? Will you want to bond him with a vurdalak as well? Or another of the Folk? Because otherwise, he is going to grow old and die long before you even start to taste old age.”
Calla stared at the old woman’s plate, unable to look at her face. “I haven’t really found a solution-”
“That is because you’re young and inexperienced!” she snapped. Then she used a bony finger to reach over and raise the girl’s chin, forcing her to look at her face. Though not at her eyes; Calla resisted that urge.
Baba Yaga smiled at her, teeth glinting in the light. “I might be able to help you.”
Internal alarms went off in Calla’s mind. But she forced her face to go blank, and asked softly, “How?”
Baba Yaga nodded over to the black sunflower. “Do you know why I keep this?”
Calla said, “I know it possesses some sort of powerful magic.”
She nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes! The sort that kings have quested for, and alchemists wasted their lives trying to find! Each of those seeds grants the one who eats it one hundred more years to live!”
So, sort of a plant version of the Holy Grail.
Calla managed to keep a straight face and not giggle at her internal commentary.
The witch went on, “If your young man were to eat these, there would be no fuss over age difference. You could be happy with him.”
“What would your price be?” Calla countered.
The reply was succinct: “Become my apprentice.”
While Calla was still trying to digest that, she said, “You would not have to live here. You could go back to your home in America, and solve your little problems with Chernobyl, assuming he gets back. But you would come here every so often, and I would teach you what I know. And every month, if you had learned well and been a good pupil, I would give you one of these seeds to give to your love.”
Slowly the mage sat back in her chair, blinking and searching for the words she wanted. Finally she settled on, “Why?”
Baba Yaga said, “Be specific.”
“Why do you want an apprentice all of a sudden? And why me, of all the people in the world?”
The witch shrugged. “Call it a whim.” Then she stood up, cramming the last of the chicken into her mouth and gnashing it to shreds with her iron teeth. “At least consider it, myshka.”
Morgan, if Baba Yaga wanted to make you her apprentice in exchange for a way to make Nathan live longer, what would you say?
Calla tapped out the text message after cleaning up the remains of dinner, and sent it before thinking, Wait. That might have been a very stupid idea. I think she is going to freak.
She was right. Morgan’s first text was a question mark, followed by one comprised only of exclamation points.
What are you doing with Baba Yaga? was the third.
...It’s for a case, Calla replied.
You and Tristan get the strangest cases.
I know.
Let me think about it a minute.
Calla waited anxiously, curled up by the fire, which she had built up a little bit. It wasn’t necessarily that cold, but it made her feel a bit more secure.
Finally the response came. I don't know that I would now, but that's because of the blood bond. If you had asked a year ago, the answer would have been yes.
Even if it meant he’d have to watch his parents grow old and die while he stayed young for longer than he was supposed to?
That would be his decision to make, not mine.
She nodded slowly, even knowing that her friend couldn’t see her. Then she leaned her chin in her hand, staring at the fire.
Her phone vibrated.
Are you okay?
Calla typed back, It’s kind of a long story.
I'm listening.
This is a text message.
You know what I mean…
After a hesitant second, she texted back, Tristan has to steal a sword from Koschei the Deathless or I’m going to be Baba Yaga’s prisoner.
Wow.
Yeah.
Any way I can help?
I doubt it. But thanks anyway.
Had she been more secure regarding her emotions, Calla might have jumped to Baba Yaga’s offer with a lot less hesitation. But she wasn’t.
To the best of her understanding, she loved Lars. But was it enough to make her want to make him immortal? After all, they were still in the process of getting to know each other. And frankly, sometimes she was afraid that he felt more passionately for her than she did for him. Or, to put it a bit more positively, he depended on her more than she did him. Probably because she was one of the first people he’d cared about outside his group of homeless children.
Is that really a healthy relationship, then? Maybe we’ve jumped into this whole thing too quickly...so is it really worth preserving his life for longer, especially because it wouldn’t be fair to Rosie?
Relationships are hard.
I wish Tristan was here, so I could talk to him about this. He’d know what to do.
