Enchantment

9

Honeymoon

Nowhere was the difference between the ninth century and the twentieth century clearer to Ivan than when it came to the little matter of the wedding night. Americans in the eighties and nineties had prided themselves on their openness about sex, but to Ivan those open-minded Americans seemed like prudes compared to the ribald—or downright lewd—comments, gestures, and charades that surrounded him and Katerina as they led a huge troop of villagers to the king's house.

Nor did an R or PG-13 rating seem to be much in evidence, for seven-year-old boys were making obscene suggestions and movements right along with their elders. There was so much of it that after a few minutes Ivan couldn't even bring himself to be shocked. He was numb.

Numb—that's just the feeling you hope for on your wedding night.

With all the discussion of his and Katerina's marriage as an antidote for Baba Yaga's curse or as a strategic move in the struggle to keep Taina free of the witch's rule, it all came down to this: Ivan was supposed to perform. But perform what? How? Like any other male American of even minimal alertness, Ivan knew that he was expected to be both masterful and sensitive, that the worst sin he could commit would be to finish before starting—in all the comedies people acted as if it were only slightly less awful than throwing up on the salad—and the second-worst sin would be to find himself unable to start at all.

Or maybe the worst sin of all was this: Ivan had no idea how it was supposed to go. Beyond what you got in health class and dirty jokes and bad movies, he simply had no serious hands-on experience.

All the statistics suggested that the only males who hadn't had sex by age sixteen were either quadriplegics or insufferable geeks. Ivan was neither—in fact, he was an athlete who had dated a normal amount in high school. And with the time he spent in locker rooms, he had heard all the boastful talk about how often and how manfully all the other guys performed. Only a few, like Ivan, didn't join in the locker-room brag; but Ivan suspected that the difference between the talkers and the quiet ones wasn't experience, it was honesty. If these clowns had really treated the girls they dated the way they claimed, why did women not fall over themselves clamoring for more of the miraculous pleasure that these love gods supposedly provided?

Not that nobody was getting any in high school. But the statistics in those social-science surveys were such hoke. If those "scientific" results came from teenage boys telling the truth about their sex lives, the scientists should be doing horoscopes or reading palms—they were more reliable. Or so Ivan had said to Ruth once, and Ruth laughingly agreed. She was a virgin, too, and didn't know any girls who admitted to anything else. There were girls with reputations as mattresses and guys whose reputations as cocksmen Ivan believed, but they were a lowlife fringe that didn't touch Ivan's life.

All this he had concluded years before; but there was one complication. About half the time, he didn't believe it. About half the time, he looked at the people around him and thought, They all know the secret, they've all done it. Any girl I marry will have slept with enough men to have some serious expectations, and I won't know what I'm doing. I'll fumble around, I'll give her no pleasure at all, she'll hate sex with me and within days she'll have an annulment going, if not a lawsuit for infliction of emotional distress. Or assault and battery.

So it didn't help one bit that every single person in Taina above the age of six seemed to know all about sex and have inflated ideas about exactly what Ivan's sexual prowess would be like. The crude comments about how he was going to keep the princess turning on the spit longer than a suckling pig gave him a new appreciation for the Jewish ban on pork. And the children who asked if they could come play in the tent that his erection would make of the bedcovers left him speechless.

It's all jokes, he told himself. It's a celebration of life. It's a holdover from pagan fertility rites.

One thing was sure, though. If somebody talked like this coming out of a wedding in upstate New York, they'd better be drunk or they'd never get another invitation anywhere in their lives.

Through it all, Katerina seemed not to hear a thing. At first Ivan thought she was as embarrassed as he was. But of course that could not be so—she must have attended other weddings in Taina. For all he knew, as a child she had invented some of the ribald jokes now being retold at top volume along the path to the king's house. Her grim silence had another cause entirely, he was sure. For to her, marrying him was a vile duty forced on her by the needs of her country.

And to him, she was a woman far more magnificent than he would ever have selected for himself.

A thought which made him feel utterly disloyal to Ruth, as if he hadn't already. Ruth was a pleasant, attractive young woman, but Katerina was heartbreakingly beautiful, translucent with inner glory. Men like Ivan didn't imagine for a moment that they were worthy of approaching such a woman. In fact, the only men who tried to date such women were the arrogant assholes who thought every woman wanted them to drop trou and let the poor bitch have a glimpse of Dr. Love. Even if Ivan hadn't known his script from the fairy tales, he certainly would have known that the only way he could ever kiss such a woman was in her sleep.

At long last—and yet far too soon—they reached Katerina's flower-strewn room and waited while the charivari continued for another few minutes. Ivan even submitted to letting the teenage boys strip off his outer clothing and throw it out the window to the amusement of those who hadn't been able to fit inside the house.

There were limits. No one laid a hand on Katerina. Indeed, she was surrounded by women primping her and whispering to her and glancing pointedly at Ivan from time to time, as if to make last-minute assessments of just how badly he was going to treat her and how to keep herself from screaming her way out of the room. He could imagine them saying, "Just lie there and endure it. It's the burden of a woman."

Then the rest were gone. The door closed.

The singing and hand-clapping continued outside their window. The people were waiting. Ivan had vague memories of some culture or other in which the people would expect to be shown bloodstained sheets. But surely that wasn't ninth-century Russia, was it?

He just wasn't getting into the spirit of this. Standing there in his linen tunic, he was keenly aware of how unready he was for any kind of sexual performance. He was so utterly unaroused that for the first time in his life, he actually wondered: Am I gay? After all, I did wear women's clothing.

She looked at him, her face hard-set. Still beautiful, of course.

But grim.

"Ivan," she said. "Come closer so I can talk softly."

Stiffly he walked toward her. To his horror, the very act of approaching her changed everything. Instantly he became aroused, a fact which his simple linen tunic did nothing to disguise. She glanced down and then looked away—in disgust?

"I'm sorry," he apologized feebly, wondering what he was apologizing for. When he wasn't aroused, he had felt the need to apologize for that, too.

She put her hand up to silence him.

Her voice was soft. "There's a plot to kill you as soon as our marriage is consummated."

It was amazing how fast his poor libido went slack again.

"We aren't sure who," she said. "Sergei overheard the plotters and told Father Lukas, and he warned me, and I've been wracking my brain trying to think of what we can do about it."

The obvious answer, he saw at once, was never to consummate this marriage. He offered the suggestion.

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, excellent plan. Then the Widow gets her way, and everybody is convinced you really do belong in women's garb."

"All right, then, we hop on the bed and do the deed and then I go out and have them stand in line for the privilege of killing me. It will end the suspense."

"All the way up here from the wedding," she said—ignoring him as if he hadn't spoken—"I've been thinking, and I finally reached a conclusion."

He thought she meant she had reached a solution to the problem. But it was nothing so helpful.

"My father has condoned this. The druzhina would not do this unless they believed they were doing his will. And that means I don't dare ask for his help in getting you away."

"Getting me away?" asked Ivan.

"If you and I don't consummate this marriage, you can't stay here. Don't you see? If they've decided to kill you after we're married, but before we know I'm with child, it means they've decided to defy the witch's curse. They have just as much reason to get you out of the way if you don't become my husband. I have to get you back to your own world."

"Oh, now you decide it's time."

Her eyes burned through him. "I didn't choose you. I've done my best to help you. I know you've done your best as well, but it wasn't enough, was it? We've both failed, and now my people are going to pay the price of our failure. There's no reason for you to go down with the rest of us. You didn't know what you were setting in motion when you woke me. You thought you were saving a woman trapped by a bear. You don't deserve to die for it, even if you aren't the stuff that kings are made of."

Ivan had never felt more worthless in his life. But he was going home.

Sergei was glad he had rushed straight to Ivan's room after the wedding and tucked the parchments under his robe. Thank heaven that Ivan had finally started rolling them up to store them. He was leaving the room when Father Lukas arrived with King Matfei. "Ivan won't be needing this room now, so you're welcome to use it until a new church can be built."

"You're very kind," said Father Lukas. "Sergei, there you are. Where is that book of Gospels? It's the only treasure left to me."

Sergei felt a pang of guilt over the lie that was causing the priest such grief. But compared to the rage Father Lukas would feel if he knew the truth—that Sergei had written all over the parchments and that he and Ivan had both lied—it seemed preferable to go to hell for these sins later.

Whom would Sergei ever be able to confess these sins to? There was no hope for him, none at all. And now Ivan would be killed and...

"Sergei? Are you deaf?"

"Father Lukas, the book of Gospels is on the table. I have to go outside."

"No, come in with me and help me arrange the room for the two of us to share."

"Father, it's already arranged for two."

King Matfei became irritated. "Sergei, your master told you to—"

Sergei almost obeyed; but the idea of keeping the manuscripts tucked inside his robe while trying to serve Father Lukas was intolerable. Something would happen to reveal the secret. He could not do it. Besides, Father Lukas was not his master.

"Your Majesty," said Sergei, "I did not know that I, who was born a free man, had become a slave."

The king's face flushed with embarrassment, "I did not mean that you were his..."

"My master is Jesus Christ our Lord," said Sergei. "And in the infinite wisdom of God, I find that I am desperate to get outside to void my bowels."

Father Lukas waved him out. "By all means, go, go."

Sergei rushed away.

Outside, he looked around. Where could he possibly hide the manuscripts? He thought of hurrying home to his mother's house, but no, his mother, the poor trusting soul, had apparently befriended Baba Yaga unawares. She could hardly be relied on to keep such a secret as this—she'd confess it first thing to Father Lukas himself.

Is there time to bury it?

There was no place where Sergei had any privacy, no place where he could conceal something and hope that it would remain undisturbed. Should he leave the parchments under a rock in the woods and hope they would still be there when he had a chance to get back to them? He might as well have really put the parchments in the fire as to leave them exposed to the elements like that.

This was all Ivan's fault, thinking of this mad project in the first place Now Sergei was going to go to hell for another man's sin.

Be honest, he told himself. You thought it was crazy but you went along with it. And once you started writing, you warmed to it right enough. It's not for Ivan's sake anymore that you want to keep these parchments safe. It's because you love the way you wrote the stories on them.

Could there be a clearer case of loving your own sins?

Still, Ivan started it. Sergei might have no place to call his own, but Ivan was the husband of the princess. Let him deal with it.

Sergei headed back inside the king's house. In the corridor, he could hear the voices of Father Lukas and the king; they were still inside Ivan's old room. If they came out, Sergei would be right back where he started.

The revelers were still chanting and singing and laughing outside the house, but there was no one in the corridor. If Sergei knocked loudly enough to be heard over the noise outside the window, Father Lukas and the king would also hear, and would no doubt come out into the corridor to see who was knocking.

Sergei had no choice. He reached down, pulled the latch of the door, and slipped inside the bridal chamber, closing the door silently after himself. He was careful to keep his eyes to the wall as he fumbled inside his robe to pull out the parchments.

He had half-expected a screech from the startled bride or an exclamation from Ivan, but there was not a sound. Then he heard a chuckle from Katerina.

"Look what God has sent us," she said.

"You can turn around," said Ivan.

There stood the princess, fully clothed. And Ivan, in his linen tunic. Nobody naked, thank God. They were standing side by side, looking at him, the princess with amusement, Ivan with consternation.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Sergei. He held out the parchments.

Ivan strode to him, took them. "This isn't the moment I would have chosen."

"I didn't choose the moment," said Sergei. "The king has given Father Lukas the room you were using. Since you won't need it now."

"What sort of conspiracy is this?" asked the princess. "I thought these parchments burned."

Ivan unrolled them and showed her the back of one. He knew that she was literate; she had studied for her baptism far more rigorously than he had. In the ninth century it was not yet shocking for a woman to read—it was shocking for anyone to read.

She scanned Sergei's writing quickly, just a few sentences. "The story of I-Know-Not-What? Why would you write this down?" Then she shook her head. "It was for this that you wanted parchment, Ivan?"

"These stories have all been changed in my time. No one understands how old they are, and how they used to be."

"But they're just stories." Katerina shook her head. "Never mind. I have no hope of understanding you. I feel sorry for the trouble you'll get Sergei in, when this comes out."

"Why would it come out?" asked Ivan, looking her in the eye.

"I see," she said. "All right, I'll keep these in my room. The secret won't come out."

"Thank you," said Sergei. He laid his hand upon the latch, ready to leave again. But Katerina's voice stopped him.

"Not so fast," she said. "I need something from you in return."

"What?" asked Sergei. "Anything."

"I need you to go fetch Father Lukas. Tell him that I wish him to come into this room, just him and you, to shrive us both again and to pray for us that we will conceive at once, and a boy child."

"But you were already shriven in the—"

"Tell him in these words," said Katerina. "Say that I say that since the fire in the church prevented me from completing my confession, I would like him to come and do it now. And then the rest, about the prayer. And Ivan wants you to come with him, Sergei. Do it."

Sergei nodded, glancing at Ivan, who only raised his eyebrows, as if to say he had no idea what was going on, but don't question the motives of women. Since to Sergei women were all an unplumbable mystery, most especially Katerina, whose beauty made it impossible for men to think around her, he had no intention of trying to understand anything except what his errand was supposed to be.

When Sergei returned to the room that was now Father Lukas's, the king was still there.

"Took you long enough," said the king.

"I was thinking that he returned rather quickly," said Father Lukas.

"As I passed along the corridor," said Sergei, keeping his eyes down, hoping that the appearance of humility would mask his second calculated lie of the day, "the door to the bridal chamber opened, and the princess said, 'Go to Father Lukas, and tell him that since the fire in the church prevented him from hearing my confession this morning, I would like him to come now, and bring you with him, and shrive both me and my husband, and bless us that we will conceive a boychild from our first union."

It took all his self-discipline, but Sergei did not look up to see how Father Lukas took this message. For Father Lukas would know at once that it was a lie. What mattered was, would he think it was Katerina's lie or Sergei's?

"Your Majesty," said Father Lukas, "let me go and ease your daughter's troubled heart. The burden of responsibility weighs on her, and perhaps with God's help that burden can be eased on this day that should be happy for a woman."

"Go, go," said the king, "though it sounds like pious nonsense to me. You already blessed her during the wedding, didn't you? And why would you need Sergei?"

"I believe," said Sergei softly, "that it was Ivan who wanted to see me. Perhaps he, too, has an errand for me."

"It just seems strange to me," said the king, "that a bridegroom should ask for a young man to visit him in the bridal chamber, especially the young man with whom he has been sharing a room."

"You must be careful about giving voice to such thoughts," said Father Lukas. "What to you sounds like idle wondering will sound to another like an accusation."

"Who would hear?" said the king.

"Anyone standing in the corridor would hear words spoken in this room," said Father Lukas. "Just as anyone in this room would hear words spoken in the corridor."

For a moment, Sergei was afraid that Father Lukas meant to tell the king what he had overheard just that morning in this very room. But to his relief, Father Lukas merely bade the king good-bye for the moment and then glided from the room, Sergei bobbing along behind him in his wake.

Father Lukas slipped into the room and, as Sergei closed the door, looked at Katerina with annoyance and amusement. "Interesting, to use a lie to send me a message. We finished your confession."

"The message you understood was true. I needed you to come here, and needed you to have a reasonable excuse for doing it."

"Why does a princess need an old priest in her bridal chamber?" Father Lukas looked at Ivan. "Or is it you who needs help? Surely you don't expect me to give you lessons on this subject."

"I need to get Ivan out of here and safely away from the house."

"Because the marriage has been consummated? Or because it has not?"

"Let's leave everyone wondering about that," said Katerina.

"What's your plan?"

"Have Sergei and Ivan trade clothes. Ivan leaves limping, his face hooded, following close behind you. Who will look at him?"

"And then what?"

"Sergei and I wait for a little while. You bring back more of his proper clothing for Sergei to wear. While Ivan runs away, Sergei and I emerge, asking what happened to Ivan, he disappeared suddenly."

Father Lukas frowned. "Which is only slightly true."

"They have to believe the Pretender spirited him away, or they'll start to search too soon."

"And you consent to this?" Father Lukas asked Ivan. "Running away on your wedding night?"

"It seems more prudent than bloodshed," said Ivan.

"We have to hurry," said Katerina. "You can be sure several people have cast spells to see if I am still a virgin. The longer we take, the more impatient the plotters will become."

Father Lukas turned to Sergei. "Does that robe come off, or weren't you listening?"

Sergei doffed his robe at once. He and Ivan exchanged a glance: What if Father Lukas had ordered this while Sergei still had the parchments tucked under the robe?

Ivan pulled it on over his head. Then he put up the hood.

"Thank you, Father," said Katerina.

"I don't like lying."

"To save a life, is it a sin?" she asked.

"Perhaps just a venial one."

Ivan turned to Katerina. "I can't get over the bridge without you there."

"I'll get there as soon as I can. You simply have to hide till then."

"I'm not sure I know the way."

"Follow the trail of broken branches you left behind you as you came through."

Ivan shook his head. "I'm no hunter, I don't know how to follow signs like that."

She seemed to make an effort to be patient. "Can you figure out where west is?"

"As long as the sun's up."

"And uphill, do you know that one?"

Ivan glared at her.

"I wasn't being nasty," she said. "You don't always understand every word I say, I just wanted to make sure you knew. I have to be able to find you out there."

"You have to find me, and they mustn't find me, and it's the same trail."

She reached up and pulled three or four strands of her hair out of her head. "Tie these around your wrist," she said. "I'll find you."

Ivan couldn't do it one-handed. Sergei helped him.

"Now go," said Katerina. "We have to play the scene out before dark."

Ivan took a few steps, trying to get Sergei's limp right.

"No, no," said Sergei. "You look like you're trying to limp. I try not to limp."

Ivan tried again. It wasn't good, but it was better.

"Come on," said Father Lukas. "I'll give you something heavy to carry, and that will explain the change in your gait."

Father Lukas led the way out of the room. Ivan followed close behind. Limping, his foot twisted.

Sergei rushed to the door and latched it behind him. There he stood in his tattered linen undergarment, so full of holes it was like wearing a fishing net. Katerina was not looking at him, which meant she had looked at him and now was looking away so as not to cause him shame.

"Thank you for keeping the secret of the parchments," he said to her.

"A lot of secrets are being kept tonight," she said softly.

"I don't belong in this room."

"Neither of us does. But sometimes we're put in a place and we have to do our best."

Sergei appreciated her modesty, but knew that even if she believed it, her statement wasn't true. "You'd be a princess no matter where you were."

"We'll soon see," said Katerina.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she said. "Don't be afraid of me. I've seen men bathing, I have no particular fear of seeing through the holes in your tunic."

"I'm not afraid, I just... I'm not the one who should be here."

"Oh, now I understand you. Well, Ivan didn't belong here either. Just bad luck, him finding me."

"Not luck, I don't think," said Sergei. "He's your husband now."

"An oath, but it can be annulled if it isn't acted on."

"I think," said Sergei, "that he's a better man than you believe he is."

"I believe he's a very good man," said Katerina. "Not a king, though."

"A bird can't pull a plow."

"I needed God to send me a plowhorse. I tried to make do with what he sent instead. I failed."

"Maybe God's message is that you don't need plowing." Then Sergei realized the double meaning of what he said. "Not to say he's the plow and you're the—I mean, I—"

"I understood you," she said.

There was a soft knock on the door. Sergei opened it. A hand thrust another robe through the door. Sergei took it, then closed the door again. He pulled a priestly robe over his head. It had fresh burn holes on the back. Of course—Father Lukas couldn't continue wearing a damaged garment.

"Imagine," said Katerina. "A Slavic priest."

"I do imagine it," said Sergei. "But it will not be me."

"Why not?"

"Never me."

"And I say, why not?"

Sergei laughed bitterly. "How convincing will I be, talking about how Jesus healed all the sick and the crippled? What more proof does anyone need that I'm not a man of faith?"

"Jesus isn't here."

"Jesus is everywhere. And as he often said, 'Your faith has made you whole.' "

"So don't be a priest," said Katerina. "But if you aren't that, what are you?"

"Is that how priestly vocation comes?" asked Sergei. "Because my foot was born twisted, I must be God's chosen servant?"

"We are all called to be servants of God in whatever way we can. Perhaps I can serve him as a princess. Perhaps you as a priest."

"Do you think I served God when I wrote down those old stories?"

Katerina shrugged. "That's beyond my judging."

"I'll tell you what I think. I think God made all men, including the people who told these stories. So these things are the creations of God. Or the creations of his creations, but it amounts to the same thing. And if God created the people who would make up these stories and tell them, then by saving them I'm also honoring God."

"God made the murderers and adulterers, too."

"I think these stories are good. I think they teach us to love goodness."

"Or to wish for the power to do great deeds," she answered. "But we've given them time enough. We need to give the alarm."

Sergei winced. "You do all the talking, would you?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm good at talking, I suppose." Then, without warning, she gave a shriek.

They could hear the crowd outside the window fall silent, then set to murmuring. Who screeched? Was it the princess? Is he hurting her?

Katerina rushed to the window, flung open the shutters. "Did he come out here? Did you see him pass?"

"Who?" asked the people.

"My husband! We were new-shriven, Father Lukas left, Ivan and I were talking, and suddenly he wasn't there!"

The people took only a moment to digest the tale before they reached the only conclusion that made sense. "The Widow took him! Another curse! Another spell!"

Katerina burst into tears. "Am I never to be free of the witch's plots?"

Even as she wept, however, she was scanning the crowd, watching to see who reacted. A couple of druzhinniks started walking briskly around the crowd, heading for what? Some rendezvous. If only she could see more clearly at such a distance. Who was it? Which of the king's knights? She would know who the plotters were by seeing who began first to search for Ivan.

"Were you bedded?" asked an elderly peasant woman.

Katerina bowed her head. "We had the blessing of the priest. How could I guess the devil could reach us through that wall of glory?"

From the walk, Katerina recognized one of them. Dimitri. A part of her said, No, not Dimitri, not the hero, the man who should be king. Another part of her said, Of course Dimitri. Who else? If he was in the plot, then it was his plot. Even if he didn't begin it, once in he would lead it. Ivan's danger was worse than she had feared. For in the back of her mind, she had counted on Dimitri being on the king's side.

Unless by plotting to kill Ivan he was on the king's side. Or thought he was.

Katerina began crying harder, but pretending less. She reached out and drew the shutter closed. The moment the crowd could no longer see her, her tears stopped. "I have to get out of here now, with no one following me."

"Good luck," said Sergei. "Dressed like that, you can hide just about as easily as you can stuff a rainbow into a pot."

"Almost I wish I could wear your clothes."

"Men's clothing?"

"It wouldn't work," said Katerina. "There's only one priest in Taina, and there's no way I can pass for Father Lukas."

"So what will you do?"

"Ask you to turn your back, while I change into something less becoming."

Sergei complied, trying not to imagine what the rustling sounds he was hearing might mean, or what the sight of her might be at any given moment. Katerina was not and never could be for him; there was no point in thinking thoughts that would excite desires that could never be satisfied. It would only make his life taste more bitter, to dwell on the sweetness that could not be his.

"Thank you," she said. "We can go now."

Sergei turned and saw her in her simplest dress, the one she wore when she helped with the harvest. Every year she bound sheaves with the best of them, her fingers as deft as any woman's at tying them off, and Sergei had often seen this dress covered in straw and dust. No matter. She was as beautiful in this simple clothing as she ever was in the more royal finery.

She opened the door for him.

"But it's my place to open the latch for you, princess," he said.

"I'm on my way to help my lord escape from this land," she said. "What do I care about courtesy?"

Sergei followed her out the door. "Then the marriage," he said softly. "It's real, despite all?"

"I'll have no other," she said. "My word is given."

At that moment, they heard a tumult outside. Shouting. Much running.

"I think perhaps I heard someone shout your husband's name," said Sergei.

Katerina stopped, crossed herself. "Holy Mother, make me fleet of foot," she said. Then, hiking up her skirts, she scampered down the corridor, into the great room, and out the door.

Ivan thought everything was going so well. Father Lukas might be humorless and rigid about religion, but when it came to politics, he knew how to be flexible. Why was Ivan surprised? There was a reason why Christianity thrived in the barbarian kingdoms of Europe, and this was it: The missionary priests knew how to make themselves useful, how to put royalty into their debt. Katerina wanted to save the life of this preposterous husband she acquired through witchcraft? Very well, Father Lukas would do his part.

They headed westward through the village, toward the gap in the woods where Katerina had first shown him the village. A few children ran along, chattering to the priest, calling out to him. Many people waved a greeting. But one little girl, snot-lipped and covered with dirt, paid no attention to Father Lukas. She came right up to Ivan, tugged at his robe, tagged along beside him.

"What's wrong with your foot?" she demanded.

Ivan did not want to speak. He didn't want anybody hearing that his voice was not Sergei's. Ivan's accent wasn't bad—but it wasn't native, either, not in proto-Slavonic.

"I said, what's wrong with your foot!"

Father Lukas came to his rescue. "His foot has been twisted from birth."

"Sergei's foot is twisted, but this one's just pretending!" cried the little girl at top volume.

"That is Sergei. Now hush and go away."

"That's not Sergei," said the little girl. "Sergei always calls me dewdrop and warns the fairies not to switch me for a changeling."

Ivan cursed silently. There was no way he could have prepared himself for this.

"He did not speak to you because he has taken a vow of silence," said Father Lukas.

Ivan welcomed the lie. Everyone was probably going to hell, now—who was left who hadn't lied today?—but it was decent of Father Lukas to do it.

"He did not!" said the girl. She began running around, shouting at any villager who might listen. "The new man is wearing Sergei's clothes! The new man is wearing Sergei's clothes!"

People began paying attention. People weren't the problem, though. It was the knights of the druzhina they were trying to avoid. Ivan had not seen any along the way, though with his head in a hood and his face downcast, it's not as though he had much of a view.

Father Lukas quickened his pace. Ivan could hear adults now, asking questions. "Is it Katerina's husband? Is it the new man? What's he doing? Where's he going?" Some even called out to Father Lukas. "Who's that with you, Father Lukas?" In answer, Father Lukas walked even more quickly.

And then, abruptly, he stopped. Ivan bumped into him.

Father Lukas's voice was so soft that it took a moment for Ivan to realize he was speaking. "Now would be a good time to run."

"What?" asked Ivan.

Father Lukas's answer was much louder this time. "Cast off the hood, hitch up the skirts, and run, you fool!"

Ivan cast off the hood and saw Dimitri and two other druzhinniks jogging toward him, weapons in hand.

"It is the interloper!" said one of them.

"Running away!"

"Deserting King Matfei and Princess Katerina."

Ivan recognized this as an attempt to justify in advance the unfortunate necessity of killing the traitorous Ivan. He started to run for the woods, but his legs got caught up in the skirts and he fell on his face in the grass. He might have got right up, but Father Lukas was trying to help him by gripping his robe and pulling in the wrong direction. Ivan couldn't get purchase with his hands to push himself up, and Lukas hadn't the strength to stand him up by main strength.

Finally, with the pounding of the knights' feet almost upon them, Ivan simply raised his arms straight above his head and slipped out of the robe, the linen undergarment and all. Once again, he was as naked as the day he arrived there. Only this time he didn't give a damn about that. At least he was leathershod—he'd be able to run much better this time without every pebble or twig slicing at the bottoms of his feet.

"Look at the coward!" said one man.

"Father Lukas has plucked his feathers—now to get him on the spit for roasting!" cried Dimitri.

But their good cheer evaporated quickly when they realized that Ivan was twice as fast as any of them, laden as they were with weapons, and untrained for speed. He reached the woods long before they were even close. Good thing none of them has a bow, he thought.

An arrow twanged into the trunk of a tree ten feet from his head.

All right, so they had a bowman. Just not a good one.

Ivan dodged among the trees, taking care to put as many trunks as possible between himself and his pursuers.

"He won't get far in the woods!" shouted Dimitri. "Where are the dogs!"

The tumult continued, and Ivan heard some crashing in the underbrush far behind him, but he couldn't make out any more words.

Maybe the king would call off the search before it got too far, Ivan thought as the branches again whipped and sliced his skin. He couldn't go full speed in the woods. Worse yet, he had no idea where he was going. Katerina had not led him on a straight path coming here, and everything looked different in this direction, anyway. It was uphill, too—but Ivan was used to that on his daily runs back in Tantalus. In the future, to train for this, he'd have to run naked with two assistants alongside, whipping him with wands and switches every few seconds. He wondered if there was any chance of making that an Olympic event.

Katerina came outside the house to find the village in an uproar, everybody running toward the west, calling out that Katerina's husband was running away. Katerina did not join the general pursuit. Instead, she took a circuitous route among the houses, entering the woods well to the south of where Ivan had gone in.

Sergei watched her go, unable to keep up, and not particularly interested in trying. It was all out of his hands.

Still, he was curious, so he limped along the grassy main street until he came upon Father Lukas, who was grumpily coming the other way. "Foolish business anyway," he said. "That snot-faced little girl you call 'dewdrop' caught on that it wasn't you in the robe and wouldn't shut up about it."

"Dewdrop?" said Sergei. "Dewdrop is dead. She died when I was only nine years old."

Father Lukas glared at him for a moment; then the expression gave way to something else. Fear? Not Father Lukas, surely.

"Never mind," said Sergei. "We know the Widow uses us like sheep, shearing us or skinning us at her pleasure."

"A girl about this tall?" asked Father Lukas, still trying to make sense of things.

"Yes, yes," said Sergei. "But it wasn't her. There's been no resurrection, Father Lukas. It was the Widow, as I said."

"Making us see a little girl?"

"Why not? She showed herself as an old woman before she burned down the church this morning," said Sergei. "She wants this Ivan dead, and she's going to keep trying till he's filleted and roasted."

"Not those stories of her eating her captives again," said Father Lukas.

"They say she does."

"Who says?" said Father Lukas. "Who is it who saw her eating, but she didn't eat them!" He held out the robe and undergarment Ivan had been wearing. "Now you can have these back."

"What's Ivan wearing?" asked Sergei.

"What Adam wore in the garden," said Father Lukas. "What Noah wore when he was drunk in his tent after the flood. What David wore when he danced in triumph in the streets after his victory."

"Naked come we into the world," said Sergei, getting into the spirit of things, "and naked we go out of it."

"Well," said Father Lukas, "naked except for boots."

Sergei took the clothing. "The robe is mine, all right," he said. "But the linen is his."

"He's running at full speed through the woods," said Father Lukas. "You're welcome to follow him and return it." With that, Father Lukas passed him and headed back toward the king's house.

Father Lukas had been joking, but Sergei liked the idea better the more he thought of it. But there was no point in following Ivan—he'd be running, and dodging all pursuers. The princess, however, would be dodging no one—if a druzhinnik met her in the woods they'd do her no harm, and she was still under the protection of the spells that had counteracted Baba Yaga's curse in the first place, so she had nothing to fear from that source, either.

Sergei left the street and wandered among the houses till he found the place where Katerina had gone into the woods. It was a plain enough path; she had not departed from it. Nor was she moving all that quickly. When she stopped at the rendezvous place, Sergei wouldn't be all that far behind her.

It was near dark, and though the moon was almost full, not that much light penetrated to the lower reaches of the forest. Ivan was hopelessly lost, but it had been a couple of hours since he last heard dogs barking or men calling out to each other. So he was safe enough. Unless Baba Yaga sent the bear back for a second try. Or he fell off a cliff in the darkness. Or he sprained his ankle and died of exposure trying to crawl back to civilization.

Civilization? Yes, that's what Taina was, by contemporary standards. Men with swords who had no qualms about killing a man and expected to have no punishment for it—it was civilization in the same sense that some drug dealer's turf was civilized. What was the difference between Dimitri and some thug with an Uzi?

Not fair. Dimitri lived in a different time. If he were in the U.S. in 1992 and wanted Ivan out of the way, he'd hire a lawyer and sue. Had he been in Kiev in 1970, he'd have whispered a hint to the KGB. He wielded a sword here in Taina because that's what men used to settle quarrels.

Why am I giving the man who wants to kill me the benefit of the doubt? Screw him. Let him break his ankle and fall off a cliff and get eaten by a bear. Let him marry the princess and become the king. Come to think of it, that's probably what Dimitri had in mind. He'd make the better husband. It should have been him all along. If I died right now it would be better for everybody.

The hell it would. It would be worse for me, and selfish as it might be, I want to live. I even want to go home.

The path, such as it was, went straight, but Ivan turned to the left and slid down a rather steep slope. Why did I do that? he wondered. Why did I choose that way? It came to him that for the past hour, he had been following, not the line of least resistance, as he had before, but a fairly straight line toward...

Toward Katerina. The hairs tied around his wrist. She was calling him. He should have known that she'd anticipate his lack of skill in the woods.

It wasn't long after that before he followed his "intuition" into a wide, moon-washed clearing, perfectly round, with a pit in the middle of it, and a pedestal rising in the middle of the pit. Katerina was waiting for him in the moonlight.

Ivan looked around to see if anyone else was there.

"No one," she said. "The place is hidden from anyone but us, because the bridges are ours. Even the Widow can't see, though she put me here, and her bear to guard me. If she couldn't see here, who else would ever find me?"

Ivan hardly listened. He was trying not to be shy of his nakedness. Then he laughed at the impulse. He had nothing to hide from her now. Not only had she seen him before, she was now his wife.

He had almost reached her when he saw movement behind her, at the edge of the woods. "If this place is hidden," he said, "who's that?"

She turned, startled, afraid. "Come out!" she said. "Show yourself!"

A shadow emerged from the wood, moving with a strange, rolling gait. When it reached the moonlight, it turned into Sergei.

Ivan called out in greeting, but Katerina was annoyed. "How did you find this place?"

"I followed you," he said.

Ivan laughed. "So much for this place being hidden."

"It is. Sergei must have a right to be here."

Ivan shrugged. "I don't know how these things work."

"I'll be gone soon enough," said Sergei. "I only brought these for Ivan." He held out the wool robe and linen tunic Ivan had been wearing.

"But that's your robe," Ivan said.

"I'm not naked."

"Trade me, at least," said Ivan. "Your own proper robe for you, and I'll wear the one that Father Lukas burned holes in today." He pulled the tunic on over his head. The cloth snagged on the rough and broken skin of his chest and thighs, and his wounds stung as the linen brushed them. But it was good to be dressed again. "Thank you, Sergei," he said.

In the meantime, Sergei had doffed Father Lukas's castoff clothing, and Ivan pulled it on. It smelled of smoke. Burnt wool—a nasty odor. Wool and fire and something else, too. Horsehair. Was there horsehair woven into the robe?

No, of course not. Father Lukas wears a hair shirt. The private penance of those who feared they were not humble enough. Ivan rather liked the fact that at least Father Lukas knew his own primary sin and was trying to deal with it.

Sergei wriggled inside his own clothes, clearly pleased to have them back.

The comedy was over. Everybody was going to be back where they belonged. Ivan had no idea what he would tell people back in America about this. Or even what he'd tell Cousin Marek. I went for a run in the woods, and I got lost for a few weeks, and here I am...

A few weeks? Eleven hundred years had passed while Katerina lay on that pedestal, and yet it had taken only a few months in Taina. If that proportion held true, even the weeks he had spent here could be a century or more. His family might be gone, the world might be so changed that he'd be unable to function in it...

Get a grip. Don't borrow trouble. The pedestal is one thing, a magic place. The rules of time might be identical, or time might flow in unpredictable ways. There was nothing he could do about it.

Katerina took him by the hand. At once he could see the bridge to the pedestal—her bridge. She led him across. Sergei stood, watching them, mesmerized.

"How do you do it?" he said. "Walking through the air?"

"There's a bridge," said Ivan. "But only Katerina can see it. Katerina and whomever she holds by the hand."

"Where will you go?" asked Sergei.

"Home," said Ivan. "I'll go home, and Katerina will return to you, and—"

"I'll do no such thing," she said.

They reached the pedestal. She did not let go of his hand.

"What do you mean?" asked Ivan.

"I'm coming with you," she said.

"You can't do that."

"Why can't I? Hold my hand and lead me across your bridge."

"But your people need you."

"If I stay, then I'm a bride abandoned by her husband with the marriage unconsummated. The Pretender will be down our throats in a few days. But if I go with you, then I'm a bride off on a journey with her new husband. Let the old hag wonder whether or when the marriage becomes complete."

"I can't hear you!" Sergei called. "Are you talking about leaving us, princess?"

"I'm traveling with my husband, to visit his parents," said Katerina.

"What will I tell the others?"

"Tell them that. It's no secret. Tell everyone."

"What about this place? Can I show them this place?"

"No," said Katerina. "Tell them it's enchanted and you can't find it again without me to guide you."

"But I could find it quite easily," he said.

"I have no doubt you could," said Katerina. "But if you tell them it's enchanted, they'll believe you and won't press you to say more."

"You mean... lie?"

Katerina burst out laughing. So did Ivan. Sergei smiled shyly. They had liked his joke.

"You've been a good friend to me," said Ivan.

"And you to me," said Sergei. "But what will happen to the parchments? Where did you hide them, princess?"

"In my room. In the rag chest, where no man would touch it."

Sergei didn't like thinking about what women used those rags for.

"But as soon as you can," Katerina said, "you must get them and bring them here. To this enchanted place."

Sergei winced at the thought of actually rummaging through her intimate things. But there was a hopeful meaning to the assignment as well.

"So you will come back. Won't you?" Sergei asked.

"Yes," said Katerina. "If I can."

"And you, Ivan?"

"What for?" asked Ivan. "I'm no good at living here."

Sergei couldn't argue with him. Neither could Katerina.

"All the same," said Sergei. "I hope you do come back."

"Maybe," said Ivan. "Maybe long enough to find out where those manuscripts will be hidden. So I can discover them in my own land."

It still made no sense to Sergei. He shook his head and watched as Ivan walked to the edge of the pedestal and seemed to step off into nothing.

Ivan disappeared. All at once, the moment he set foot on the invisible bridge, he was gone. And a moment later, as the princess followed him, she was gone, too.

Sergei stood there for a few moments, gazing at the place where they had been. This was serious magic here. Not like the spells and curses that were commonplace in the village, and which didn't work half the time anyway. To make two people disappear in the moonlight—it made Sergei wonder. If I had magic power like this, it wouldn't matter that I have a crippled foot. And for a moment he imagined himself standing before Baba Yaga, the two of them on a great stone between two mighty armies, facing each other, five feet apart. She would raise her hand and cast a spell at him, chanting unspeakable words, and he would laugh, wave off her pathetic powers, and utter a single word of power. No, not a word, even. He would trace the shape of a rune in the air, and she would turn into a goose and rise honking into the air, terrified, confused, filled with a sudden inexplicable longing to fly south forever...

Just a dream, and a foolish one at that. Sergei was God's servant now, with no powers of his own, only the power to obey. But for a few moments he had been part of great events. Grand adventures. None of the boys who had grown up with him, with their two equal feet, their smooth walk, their level stance, none of them had been trusted to stand here with the princess and her husband. None of them had been given the task of writing down all the old stories, so they could live on in another time and place.

The future will be full of men like Ivan. Someday, a thousand years from now, that's what Ivan said. A world where men can live by reading and writing, by talking and thinking. A world where a man like me could be something other than a slops boy for a foreign priest.

He turned and walked away from the pit, back along the path he had taken. The night was chilly, and he was tired. When he got back there would be questions. There would be no concealing his own involvement in the escape—Ivan had been wearing his clothes, and now Sergei was returning with those same clothes on his back. But Dimitri would not lift a hand against him. There was no honor in hitting a cripple. And Sergei was not his own man. What could he do but obey? There would be no blame for him. And some would think him something of a hero, in his own small way. He was the one that Ivan and Katerina had trusted to see them fly away into another world.

Baba Yaga

She came home in a foul temper. Bear had expected it, so he knew to be away for the first few hours. When he finally figured it was safe—the howling had stopped, the birds were flying normally, and the wolves weren't whimpering anymore—he shambled back into the castle and on into his wife's fine warm house, which was all the warmer now, since she had broken up a considerable amount of furniture and thrown it on the fire.

"That's very wasteful," he said.

"Shut up."

"You were an old woman today and started a fire, and you were a little girl and started a manhunt in the forest, and it all came to nothing."

"She's gone!" cried Baba Yaga. "Out of my power! What did those bitches do to my curse? They left a bridge to his world. They left a bridge behind, and she crossed over!"

"So what will you do? She's gone. What's stopping you now from having Taina?"

"She's not dead, that's what's stopping me. She's not dead and everyone knows she's not dead. They'll go off and make a baby where I can't reach them, and come home with an heir, and then if I attack the whole Kievan league will come down on me and you will betray me and it's not fair!"

Baba Yaga always said that it wasn't fair, but to Bear it looked like things had worked out pretty evenly. Nobody had what they wanted. Baba Yaga didn't have Taina, but neither did Katerina. Equality of suffering—what could be more fair than that?

"Well, they can't get away from me that easily," said Baba Yaga.

"Oh?"

"I'll follow them. I'll go into wherever the hell he came from, and I'll tear it apart till I find them."

"Be careful," said Bear. "You don't know what wizards might be waiting for you there."

"If he's a sample of what they've got in that world, then I have nothing to fear."

"If you can get there."

"If those meddling do-gooders can make a pathway to his world, so can I. It will take a little research, but I'll find my way. Besides, I know her scent. I can follow her anywhere. Through time and space, wherever she is—I have the taste of her in my mouth. I'll eat the little bitch for breakfast."

Bear yawned. He had heard all this before.

"I will! Don't think I won't!"

"Whatever," said Bear. "Unfortunately, I'll no doubt be here when you get back."

"It won't take me long," she muttered. "I'll figure out where they went, I'll find a way to get there, and I'll have her back here in a week. Then you can feast on womanflesh! How's that, my beautiful Bear?"

"Fish are better. But I never interfere with my wife in the kitchen."

"Very funny," said Baba Yaga. "As if I cooked."

"As if I would ever trust anything you gave me to eat," said Bear.

"Sometimes you do," she said.

"You always poison me, though."

"If I poisoned you, you'd never know it, because you'd be dead."

"Just a little poison. Every damn time, it's some new potion or powder. I never know if it's going to be dysentery or a headache or impotence or priapism."

"You sound as if I did nothing but abuse you."

"What else?" said the Bear. "You think I don't know why you haven't killed me? Why I'm still around for you to do these things to? Making me run around that pit for a thousand years, for instance! Losing an eye, for instance!"

"He did that. I'll serve him for your supper, too."

"The only reason you didn't kill me long ago is because you can't."

"It's because I love you. And my enchantment of you isn't all bad. You like having the power of speech well enough."

"Gods don't need to speak. They only need to desire, and they have it."

"You wish."

"You've harnessed me and you're using my power somehow and I can't even hate you for it, because whenever I think of how much rage I ought to feel, my whole being is suffused with warmth and passion and lust for your miserable wizened old body."

"You should be a poet, the way you bandy words of love."

"I just thought you'd be interested to know that I've figured it all out."

"It took you long enough, but you are a bear, after all."

"I think I've figured it out before, and then you give me something to make me forget."

"Memory is so fickle," said Baba Yaga. "Just keep loving me, my pet."

"Oh, I do," said Bear. "With all my bitter heart, I love you."

"And you promise that you'll miss me when I'm gone to that place where Ivan and Katerina are hiding from me?"

"I'll smell your scent on the bedclothes and go mad from missing you."

"Give me a kiss then. And come to bed with me. You notice I didn't burn the bed. So you see I do love you."

Bear shook his great head back and forth. "Bed's not burnt, no."

"Then let's burn it now. A bonfire of passion. Many a woman has had her triumphs under the bedclothes, but I... I have tamed a bear! I have slept with Winter and I have made him warm!"

Bear growled a little, but he did as he was bidden.