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Chapter Two

Kolakolvia

Illarion Glazkov

Warmth drew Illarion to the waking world. He blinked the blurriness from his eyes and reached up to rub his face. Sharp pain greeted the movement, causing him to gasp in pain.

“The boy wakes. Finally. I was growing tired of waiting.”

Illarion used his other arm to lever himself into a sitting position. He found he was on a small bed inside a humble cabin. Shadows danced from the light cast by flames in a nearby fireplace. Once he was sitting, his head bumped into bits of bleached, carved wood hanging from long strings tied to the cabin rafters.

“Try not to disturb my charms.”

The voice came from the direction of the fireplace, but no one was there. He closed his eyes and put a hand to his aching head. When he opened them again, an old woman stood by the fire, stirring the contents of a large pot with a wooden spoon.

Illarion blinked. The old woman looked younger. He blinked again, and she shed another decade.

“What is . . . who are . . . ”

“You nearly made your way into the afterlife, Illarion Glazkov,” she said. Even her voice sounded younger. “You still have venom in your blood from the beast that bit you. It confuses your perceptions but should pass in time. Would you like some stew?”

“Uh . . . I . . . yes?”

The woman—she now looked to be just younger than his mother had been.

His mother. Memories crashed down on him. The monster, red-stained muzzle buried in her chest. Splashes and streaks of blood everywhere in the town. Everyone dead. Babies missing.

Hana.

Tears brimmed in his eyes then spilled down his cheeks. He wiped them away as quickly as he could, not wanting the woman to see.

“You may weep without shame, Illarion. Nothing is wrong with tears. They are quite powerful actually, and I don’t mean in just the manner of having your emotions released. There are those that use them in quite useful concoctions. Sadness, happiness, anger . . . all hold great power.”

She crossed the small room and handed him a wooden bowl and spoon. The contents were thick, like a paste made of vegetables, meat, and just a hint of broth. The aroma was unfamiliar at first, but then it smelled just like his mother’s cooking. A small smile stole its way onto his face, and when he looked up at the woman’s face, he saw his own smile mirrored there.

“There,” she bent down and kissed him on the forehead. The touch of her lips was searing hot, then burning cold in the same instant. Then gone, and Illarion wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it. “Eat up. There is more in the pot if you decide you like it.”

The first spoonful was absent taste, but with each subsequent one, the stew seemed to get better. Rabbit. Potato. The sweetness of a snowpeppers. Before he knew it, he’d eaten the full contents of the bowl, and was holding it out for seconds.

The woman refilled his bowl with a kindly smile, then waved him to the edge of the bed. “I need to check the bandage over the wound on your shoulder.”

Her touch was light as she carefully peeled back the layers of cloth to reveal a compress of leaves and a dark paste that looked suspiciously like the stew he was eating. Between bites, Illarion looked again into the woman’s visage. She looked . . . familiar. When she was younger, she must have been heartachingly beautiful. She still was, but with an edge of hardness.

“Can you move your shoulder a little for me? Tell me if it hurts?”

Illarion hesitated, remembering the earlier, burning pain, but rolled his shoulder gingerly. It was the least he could do for the woman who had apparently found him, and taken him in. He was surprised when the pain was significantly less than before. It should have made him nauseous just to move the joint. Instead he felt only the smallest of aches, like a wound months after healing. He rolled the shoulder forward, then backward, both confused and relieved the pain was gone. She took a rag from the folds of her dress and wiped away the leaves and paste.

His shoulder where the monster had bitten him was covered in . . . scars?

“How long have I been here?”

The woman smiled and patted his cheek. “Never you mind that. Not too long, I assure you.”

“Then how . . . ” He trailed off.

The woman took the bowl from his hands and stared back at him, expectation in her gaze.

“Ask it.”

“Who are you? How do you know my name?”

“You’ve always been a clever one, Illarion. More clever than anyone ever gave you credit for.” The woman turned away from him. She lifted a hand to absently brush at the countless charms hanging from the ceiling. They made an oddly musical noise as they clattered against each other. “You know who I am. As I know all the true sons and daughters of this land.”

He hadn’t been able to place the seemingly familiar face because he’d never seen it in the flesh, but he’d seen it, carved on wood blocks at the church. Her likeness was often fashioned into charms to beseech her kindness or to protect the bearer from her wrath. Both beautiful and terrible.

Fear seized him. “You’re her.”

She simply nodded.

He opened his mouth to speak the name that most called her . . . Witch. Except the sharpness in her eyes made him reconsider, and instead he said, “The Sister of Nature.”

She smiled at that, and tension left the room like the breezes she was rumored to command. “That’ll do. The Witch of the North, the Baba Yaga . . . so many names. So many expectations. Did you know, dear Illarion, that some legends have it I live in a hut that walks about on giant chicken legs? Some of the tales border on the absurd.”

He was in the presence of a great and terrifying legend. “Thank you for saving me.”

The immortal Sister of Nature, one of the three daughters of God first placed on this world, reached out and patted Illarion on the knee. “I could hardly leave you out there to die. I’ve been watching you for some time. It is a shame, what happened to the good people of poor Ilyushka.”

“You saw what was happening? But why didn’t you help us?”

She laughed as if he’d just said something incredibly amusing. “Oh, child. There is so much you do not understand. My Sister took their lives, as is her way.”

All the half-remembered church lessons and superstitions about the Sisters lurched forward in his mind. Illarion realized there was something moving in the back of the cabin. A raven flew over and landed on her shoulder. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“The monsters weren’t yours?”

The Sister’s face fell into an expression of hurt and sadness. “What makes you think I would ever command such foul things?”

“They say you rule over all the beasts of the forest.”

“Those were not nature’s creation. They are from another realm, sent by my Sister to punish you.

“Me?”

“This should never have happened. For generations, I kept your village safe. Alas, I could not stop this tragedy, because sadly Ilyushka was no longer under my protection.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Long ago I made a covenant with this people. Of mankind’s many kingdoms, Kolakolvia is the one that I chose to be my children. My despised Sister chose the Almacians. As long as you make war against my Sister’s chosen, I shall bless and protect this nation. In exchange, every young man is required to present himself for a period of service to your Tsar. Most are faithful, and serve in the army, even the city dwellers who have long since forgotten my face . . . except the young men of Ilyushka shirked their duty. Thus, our covenant was broken. You removed Ilyushka from my protection. You caused this slaughter, Illarion.”

“No.” His mind recoiled at the thought. “It can’t be.”

“Alas, it is. My heart breaks for you. I ache knowing I will have to send you back out into this cruel world. But it is to be your burden. Your atonement to me.”

Everyone he’d ever known was dead, and it was all his fault. Despair threatened to crush him. “I’m so sorry.” Illarion met her eyes, dark orbs that had no bottom to their depth, completely lacking humanity. On her shoulder, the raven cocked its head to the side, and regarded him with the same, inhuman eyes. “I didn’t realize, I swear.”

“That does not absolve you of your guilt. Betrayed souls do not go to their rest easily. Your loved ones will walk the north, tortured ghosts, until you make things right by them.”

He could not abandon Hana to that fate. “What must I do?”

“If you wish to atone, fulfill the oath made by your ancestors. You will go to the heart of my land, and you will deliver yourself into the hands of those who deal in war. There are many threats aligned against my people. Fight them on my behalf. Serve the Tsar, and through him, you will serve me. Will you serve, Illarion?”

He wondered if the image of Balan’s body strewn across that clearing in bloody pieces would ever leave him. By rights, Balan should have been here instead. He had been the brave one. Guilt clawed at Illarion’s heart. It should have been me in that clearing.

“I will.”

“So be it. There is one last thing I must give you. Be silent.”

She crossed the room to the fireplace and began rummaging through a series of glass jars and small, clay pots on a shelf. Illarion frowned at that. Had that shelf always been there, next to the fireplace? Smoke from the fire seemed to be getting thicker in the room, making his eyes sting and water.

The Sister pulled down several jars and took bits of their contents to put into a stone bowl. From the folds of her dress, she pulled a pestle and ground the ingredients together. She looked up at the hanging charms around her and plucked three of them down. Those she ground into the mixture as well.

“This mixture will bind you to my world and mark you as mine to those who have the sight. Every ingredient has a purpose. From the dried tails of lizards, to the feathers, to the grave dirt, and to the bones.”

Illarion’s eyes drifted up to the charms. Bleached pieces of wood, he’d originally thought. Now he knew he’d been wrong.

Bones.

They didn’t look like animal bones.

He tried to speak, but the cloying smoke choked away his words. His vision swam, and between one blink and the next, he found he was again lying down, staring up into the rafters. Above him, perched on a wooden beam, was the Witch’s raven. His vision faded briefly, then returned. The space on the beam was filled with ravens. They all moved from foot to foot, jostling for space. As if they all wanted to see what was happening.

In the haze, Illarion’s vision blurred, focused, blurred again. The Sister leaned over him. She looked older than she had a moment before. Her dark hair streaked with white and gray. She mouthed the words to some incantation, and in her mouth, Illarion swore her teeth had grown sharper. His perception stuttered. She was young, and achingly beautiful. Old, with skin nearly falling from her skull. She held up a hand. His hand.

She put a blade in between their grasping hands and pulled it free. He felt the bite as the edge sliced into his palm. Their mingling blood spilled down their arms until she held the stone bowl beneath the leaking redness. The Sister brought the wounded hands to her lips and kissed them like they were her lovers, blood smearing across her lips.

In the corners of the room, shapes which hadn’t been there before resolved into skulls. Some were obviously animal, some looked like they were almost human. Their teeth were longer, the eye sockets larger.

Illarion wanted to scream as terror gripped him. The Witch—he now understood where those stories had come from—leered down at him, the too-wide smile making her look unhinged. She dipped her fingers into the bowl and brought them out again covered in the thick paste. Again Illarion was reminded of the meal he’d eaten, and his stomach clenched. She smeared the mixture on his forehead. It felt like she was scrawling some word there, but he couldn’t make it out from the feel of it alone.

She dipped into the bowl again, her whole hand this time. The Witch tossed the bowl aside, then rubbed her hands together until they were both covered. When she spoke, her voice came as if from a great distance. The image of her younger form blurred together with that of the crone, but they never quite settled.

“Do not fail me.”

She slapped both hands down on his chest.

Blue fire leapt from her hands and engulfed him. The light illuminated the entire room, and the ravens launched from their perches to escape the conflagration. Charms burst into flame, then disintegrated. No scream would leave his lips. He didn’t have the breath for it. Tears evaporated and rose from his face as steam. The pain seared his soul. Burned his nerves in torment unending.

Then the flames were gone. They didn’t die down, but simply vanished. Ash from the cremated bones fell down like snow in the Witch’s cabin, covering him.

* * *

Illarion opened his eyes and sat up with a gasp.

Snow—not ash—spilled off him. He took several deep breaths to steady his nerves. His skin and nerves felt raw, like they had been ground by a millstone. The shovel he’d used as a crutch lay partially buried at his side.

The Sister of Nature must have been a dream. Except when he reached up and touched his forehead, dried gray mud flaked off onto his fingers. He reached up and rubbed his right shoulder where he’d been bitten by the monster. The shoulder was still tender, but even that ache faded by the moment. The shirt and coat covering it were ripped and bloodstained. Illarion took a handful of snow and scrubbed the wound. It was a mass of twisting, red scar tissue.

Impossible. If he’d laid here unconscious long enough for his wounds to heal, wolves would’ve eaten him. Nor was he starving or dehydrated. He’d thought the Sister had been a dream, but everything about it was clearer than he could see the real world.

When he pushed himself to his feet, he turned in a small circle trying to determine where he was. He stood in a small clearing, but it was one he didn’t recognize. He knew the terrain well for miles around his village, but this wasn’t familiar. It was quite a bit warmer than when he’d passed out. The ground soft and muddy from the thaw.

Then he noted the giant tracks pressed into the ground, with three long toes like a chicken, so deep that they must have been made by something with a very great weight . . . Like a cabin. There were only a few of the tracks, and then they just vanished.

Magic had always been spoken of with a wink and a nudge in his village. Now he wondered how much of it was actually true. The Sisters were real. It wasn’t some allegory about the first sin, nor was it a tale of morality. The immortal being had said that he was responsible for the death of his mother. Of Hana and Balan. Of everyone he’d ever known. Their angry ghosts would curse his name.

To atone he had to make his way to Cobetsnya.

From his village, it would have been multiple months’ journey by horse. By foot? He had no idea.

A scratching sound made him look up. His heart leapt into his throat as he imagined another of the cat monsters preparing to leap down on him. Instead he saw a single raven. It cawed once, then took off through the forest. Illarion stared after it, unmoving. In the distance he heard it caw again. If he hadn’t known better, he would have sworn it held the mild tone of rebuke in it.

With a sigh he picked up the shovel—it was the only form of protection he had—and walked in the direction the bird had flown.

It was too foggy to see the mountains, so he couldn’t orientate himself by them. However, he could see the pale globe of the sun through the clouds, so he could tell he was going south. There were plenty of streams to drink from due to the melting snow but if he didn’t find a settlement soon, he’d have to forage for food. Still dazed by his ordeal, Illarion walked for hours, simmering in grief and guilt. As the day passed him by, he began to feel foolish for putting his faith in a raven.

In the silence of the forest, he finally heard a distant sound.

It was . . . laughter?

He made his way toward the source of the merriment, taking care to keep his steps as quiet as possible. It was difficult to shake the paranoia that stalked him in the dark corners of his mind. Every shadow held the threat of a creature. Every creak of a branch was one of the Witch’s minions watching over him to remind him of his failure. The forest broke suddenly, and Illarion found himself standing at the side of a road. Not a forest trail, but a maintained dirt road, wide enough for carriages to easily pass each other. There was nothing like this anywhere near Ilyushka.

Where am I?

From around the bend came a horse-drawn wagon. Illarion squinted up at the man driving it. A farmer from top to bottom. Straw hat, sunburned skin, and a long weed of some sort sticking out from the corner of his mouth. Next to him was an equally sunburned woman wearing a faded blue dress. They could have been from any of the villages near Ilyushka, but he’d never seen them before.

The couple must have thought the worst when they saw his sorry, bloodstained state. “Are you alright?”

He looked down at his tattered, filthy coat. “I’m fine.”

“Oh the poor dear,” the woman said. “He looks like he’s been dragged by a plough horse.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve been walking for a while, and I suppose I’m lost.”

“You, uh, need a ride, son?” the man asked.

“I don’t know. Where am I?”

“Oh, he must have hit his head,” the woman said to her husband. “Dear, you are on the Tsar’s road, just west of Alushta.”

Illarion had never head of that place. “Where?”

“We’re a day’s ride from Cobetsnya. Is that where you are headed?”

A day’s ride? How much time had passed since the massacre in his village?

“Yes,” he managed. “Would it be too much trouble to travel with you? It’s been a long . . . it’s been . . . ” Illarion trailed off. No words could do the emotions warring in him justice.

“Hop in the back,” the man said. “Take a load off. You look exhausted. We’ll be arriving in the city tomorrow afternoon.”

“Thank you.” Illarion walked to the back of the wagon and pulled himself up. It was loaded with frost-melons and basic traveling provisions. The wagon started up again, and soon the steady swaying lulled him to sleep.



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