Page 8 of The Bone Doll (The Ruthenian Chronicle #1)

The World Unbalanced

Syra was certain she hated nothing more than she hated Ruthenian rain.

Yes, it rained on the tundra, but nothing like this.

This was a deluge. Even protected by the trees, she felt like she was walking through a waterfall.

Her reindeer hide clothes were heavy; and anything they didn’t cover was soaked.

Underfoot, the road grew muddy and slick; and she wondered if they wouldn’t find quicksand soon.

Stuffing her hand into her coat, she gripped the Bone Doll. It was hot and dry. What she wouldn’t give to be back in her mya and on the tundra, out of this mess.

Then, from the corner of her eye, she spotted it.

It was little more than a few wooden boards leaned together with dead leaves piled atop, but it was a shelter very similar to what Sarnok hunters made when making multi-day treks.

Making an incoherent noise at Viktor, she jogged towards the lean-to.

Water streamed through a hole in the corner, but all-in-all, it was drier than outside.

She crawled inside, and Viktor followed.

“I can’t believe you spotted this,” he said.

Syra sucked her teeth. The space was very tight with two people. She was almost nose-to-nose with Viktor. And was that him that smelled like cinnamon? She shifted as far back as she could.

“There’s not much room,” he said, stating the obvious. “Let me help you get your pack off.”

Before she could tell him that she didn’t need his help, he was pulling the straps off. And even that small brush of his fingers made her throat constrict. She let him remove the straps from her arms. The pack slumped onto the ground behind her.

Doing everything she could not to touch Viktor, Syra turned to her pack and then groaned.

Unlike her old reindeer hide pack, this one was made of wool and wasn’t waterproof.

Everything was soaked. Including her bedroll.

Her hands began to tremble. In the tundra, a wet bedroll could mean death by hypothermia, even in the summer months if the temperatures dipped low enough.

Viktor was rummaging behind her. And when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw him unfurl his dry bedroll. She clenched her fists. She told herself that the world wasn’t conspiring against her. It was just bad luck. In her pocket, the Bone Doll twitched. She turned away.

She wished she was home.

She must have looked miserable because Viktor said, “You can take my bedroll.”

“My clothes are warm enough.” A cold gust rattled the shack. Syra sighed. It was going to be a long night.

She stiffened at the weight of his hand on her shoulder, an uncomfortable, liquid-like emotion pooling in her chest. Her fingers tightened around the Bone Doll, still secure in her pocket.

“I can’t let you sleep on the wet ground.”

She craned her neck to look at him. He was pale, his orangebush-colored hair plastered to his skull. He looked as miserable as she felt. “You’ll freeze to death in just your sodden woolens.”

“I can keep warm,” he said unconvincingly.

Syra winced. He sounded pathetic. But she probably sounded the same, trying to avoid using his bedroll. “Fine,” she acquiesced. “But only if you share it. I won’t have you dying of hypothermia before you can take me back home.”

Viktor turned red to the tips of his ears, but he nodded. “Fine.”

“And do not touch me,” she warned, jerking her shoulder out of his grasp. “And don’t look either.”

His expression grave, he nodded.

Stripping off her coat and boots, Syra went first into the bedroll, covering herself with the top layer and turning her back to Viktor. For several moments, she waited, listening to him rustle about. But curiosity and impatience got the better of her. She peeked over her shoulder.

His back to her, the Ruthenian had removed his cloak and now was shrugging out of his caftan.

Beneath, he wore a tunic with fine pleats.

The thin and wet fabric clung to his shoulders.

Hastily, he pulled the tunic off, revealing wiry muscle and skin that was unscarred by hunting accidents or even the simplest hazards Syra saw on the tundra.

She had never seen skin so smooth. A coil deep and low inside her tightened.

Syra turned away, hugging herself. She shouldn’t have looked.

Now, when he squeezed into the bedroll beside her, his back facing hers, her skin tingled. She told herself she was a fool and he was the cause of all this trouble. But that didn’t stop the dark, hot feeling inside her belly.

“You’re stiff,” Viktor said.

Well, she hadn't intended to share a bedroll with the man who had pulled her away from her family and into the Ruthenian wilderness. “I’m cold.”

“I told you about Lyoshenka yesterday,” he said. “Let me tell you about leshys.”

She was quiet. She hadn’t asked about the spirit she was meant to bind. She just assumed she would fail. She couldn’t read omens. How did anyone expect her to bind this angry forest spirit back to its trees? But maybe with the Bone Doll, she could dispel it like she had that strange red spirit.

“Sometimes, leshys look like humans., but there’s always something wrong with them.

They’ll have no eyelashes or they will button their caftans wrong,” Viktor said.

“Other times they’ll look like men made from trees with gnarled, bark-like skin.

And they’re always tall. They usually like to run with and hunt the forest creatures, and the worst they’ll do is lead travelers off the path.

“Zoldrovya’s leshy used to be like that,” he continued.

“You used to not know there was a leshy. But about 10 years ago, it began to overtake the estate. It lured children away from their families, never to be seen again. It strangled livestock in the night. And now it’s trying to tear the manor down. ”

The Bone Doll hummed against her belly, low and subtle like a cold breeze. Syra bit her lip. The leshy and her grandfather’s figurine sounded eerily similar.

“They should have sent you with a stronger vidutana,” she said. “I can’t even protect my own clan from that sort of thing.”

She felt Viktor stiffen. “You can’t do it?”

“I told you: I don’t have much magic.”

“But the Bone Doll does.”

“Yes,” she said hesitantly.

“I know you can.” His voice was barely audible. “You have to.”

Syra said nothing more, and soon Viktor began to breathe heavier, sleeping. She let her eyes drift shut even as her fingers ached from gripping the doll. And Syra slept, for a time.

Then the Bone Doll spoke.

Its voice was a rattle, like rabbit bones tossed in the wind.

Its voice was a whistle, the summer wind in the grass.

Its voice was her grandfather’s, chanting to their ancestors.

It spoke only in fragments and in words Syra didn’t understand.

It was inside her head, whispering, whispering, whispering. And then it screamed.

Images flashed in her mind. Men with axes. Branches crushing bone. Leaves rustling. Women digging. Blood trickling along roots. Children humming. The forest turning black.

Gasping, Syra sat upright.

The starlight filtering through the branches was harsh, casting stark shadows on the earth. Above, only two of the Three Dogs were visible. The world unbalanced, she knew instinctively, the prophecy easy and simple for the first time in her life. She clung to that feeling.

Viktor was beside her, upright as well, with his belt knife in his hand. The starlight made his skin look smooth as sealskin. Syra dragged her gaze away. After a moment, Viktor lowered the blade, his expression softening. “Are you all right?”

They were in the lean-to, surrounded by damp leaves. The rain had, blessedly, stopped. The forest was dark, but not dead. No men with axes or women with shovels, nor bloodthirsty trees. Syra wiped the steaming sweat off her brow. “It was just a nightmare.”

“It’s that thing.”

At some point while she slept, Syra had pulled the Bone Doll from her pocket.

Now, it lay atop their bedroll like a lapdog, glowing faintly blue and twitching as though dreaming its own dreams. She swallowed against a wave of nausea.

Were these the sorts of nightmares it gave the children it tried to lure away?

The visions it gave the reindeer to induce them into a stampede?

She snatched up the figurine and shoved it in her pocket.

“We should have left it buried,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Viktor lifted his hand as though to touch the doll in its pocket, but he stopped himself. “Is it hurting you?”

“No.” Syra froze. She should pull away so he couldn’t touch the Bone Doll. Yet her belly fluttered at how close they were. He was shirtless and … they had never touched skin to skin. “It was just a nightmare.”

Viktor set his hands on the blanket purposefully as though he, too, was trying to stop himself from touching her. “Lie back down. I’ll tell you another story.”

Turning to face away from him, Syra lay back down and squeezed her eyes shut. The Bone Doll twitched and muttered, but she barely noticed. Instead, all she could think about was how warm the bedroll was – and how touchable Viktor had looked.