The Snow Maiden © Elena Clark
Everything is so bright. Sparkling crystals float down through the cold air. I blink at the sleeping trees. Faces lean over me, help me to my feet, and begin dressing me. There is blood on the snow around me, but when I look down at my body, it is perfect and unmarred, and white as snow.
“Lyubov,” say the faces, once they have dressed me. “Lyubov, follow us.”
They help me into a sleigh waiting at the edge of the clearing. Everything is still so bright, and I feel as if I am not quite awake. Even so, I sit easily in the sleigh, swaying with its motion without lurching, unlike the others.
“Lyubov, say something,” says the woman across from me. She is wrapping bandages around her wrists as we ride, but as she speaks she looks only at me.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“The park, Lyubov, the park behind the Kremlin,” says the woman, triumph spreading across her face. “You got lost there on your way to us, but we found you and we're bringing you back. You were not hurt—look at yourself, you're perfect.”
“Perfect,” agree all the other women.
“You might not remember anything for a little while, Lyubov,” continues the woman across from me. Her eyes are bright and sharp, and her clothing is very fine. She takes my hand in hers and strokes it familiarly. “Don't be afraid: I'll tell you what to do, Lyubov Dariyevna. You'll be all alone in the Kremlin, Lyubov, but I'll take care of you. If you need anything, or you're unsure of anything, you must come to me immediately, do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say.
The trees give way to streets, and we come to a huge collection of buildings. The smoke rising from the chimneys fills me with unease.
When we stop, the women move to help me from the sleigh, but I alight without difficulty, much more easily than they do. Once we are standing, I see that I can look down on all of them.
“She's perfect, Empress,” whispers one of the women. She reaches up to stroke my cheek, but then pulls her hand away. “The most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”
“I know,” says the woman who has been speaking to me, her voice filled with satisfaction. She turns to me. “Come, Lyubov,” she orders.
I follow her inside the largest of the buildings. We pass a man going the other way, who steps back sharply at the sight of us and bows down to his boot tops. He keeps his eyes averted from the Empress, but he looks up as I go by, and his face fills with wonder and fear, as if he had just seen a vision from the gods.
The women take me through back stairs to a richly-furnished room somewhere in a high tower.
“This is your room, Lyubov,” says the Empress. “It should be to your satisfaction.”
“She's shivering, poor thing,” says one of the women. “Should we stoke up the fire?”
“Is that wise?” asks another.
“It should pose no danger,” says the Empress decisively. “Are you cold, Lyubov? Would you like a warmer fire? You should try to warm up: you're still half-frozen.”
They build up the fire and stand me before it. The sight of the flickering flames fills me with unease, and inside the cold only grows. I still cannot wake up.
“Your face is too pale, but that will change soon enough, Lyubov,” says the Empress, pinching my cheek painfully hard. “Wait here and rest. I'll call for you when I need you.” She leaves, followed by the others.
They do come back for me that evening, along with maids, who dress me in even finer clothes and brush my black hair and braid it into many braids, which they wind around a headdress of gold. One of them makes to blacken my brows, but the Empress stops her, saying, “Our black-browed beauty has no need of such embellishments: she's perfect as she is, aren't you, Lyubov?”
Once I am dressed, she takes me by the arm and leads me to a great hall somewhere on the far side of the Kremlin. There are many people and many candles there, so that my head spins, and I still feel half-asleep. Even so I notice how men turn and watch as I go by, their faces stricken with wonder and fear, as if they have seen a vision from the gods.
The Empress seats me at her table, but with an extra place on either side of me. A man and a woman come stand behind me, surprised at my presence but saying nothing.
“My dear son,” says the Empress to the man. “How was your day? Did you do anything? You see how fruitful mine has been. My dearest Valentin, please meet the newest member of my court, Lyubov Dariyevna Bogdanova. Lyubov Dariyevna has just made a long and perilous journey to join us here in Krasnograd. Rise, Lyubov, and greet the Tsarinovich, my only son.”
I rise and bow. The Tsarinovich gives me the same stricken look as other men, and takes his place between me and the Empress. The woman with him continues to stare at me, also stricken, but with less wonder and more dislike.
“My dear Marya,” says the Empress, “I hope you don't mind relinquishing your place to our dear Lyubov for a little while. She is very, very dear to me, and will not be here for long—in the spring she must return to her family, so I wish to keep her as close as I can while I have her.”
“Of course, Empress,” says Marya, her face clearing slightly. She takes her place on my other side. “I've never heard of the Bogdanovy before. Their holdings must not be large. Tell me, Lyubov Dariyevna, where were you born?”
“Lyubov is of a great family in the far North, near the Midnight Land ,” says the Empress. “A very old and noble one. Next to my daughter, I dare say she is the most highly-born woman in this room.”
“I see,” says Marya with a frown, and asks no more questions. Instead, she looks past me and talks to the Tsarinovich. I gather from her words that they spent the day together, and that Marya wants me to know this. She also directs some of her words to the woman on the other side of the Empress in a way that suggests they are old friends, although I am unsure that the other woman would agree. Marya appears oblivious to this, however, and chatters on and on.
From their talk, I discover that the other woman is the Tsarinovna, the Empress's daughter. From time to time the Tsarinovna gives me sharp and curious looks with the same bright eyes as her mother, but says even less to me than she does to Marya. Her face is too severe for me to read it.
Servants bring round food and serve us. I eat very little—the food is somehow unsatisfying, and I crave something else, although what I cannot say. I am still cold, and when a servant brings a fresh candle to the table, I flinch away from the flame.
Marya watches me out of the corner of her eye as we eat, and I know that I am being judged. Marya must stand no higher than my shoulders, and has what at other times must be a pleasant face. During the evening, many men pass by our table, and none of them look at her as they do me.
After the meal the benches and tables below us are pushed back, and an area is made for dancing.
“Valya, my dear son, you must take Lyubov out onto the floor at least once,” the Empress says. “We must welcome the newest addition to our family.”
“Perhaps Lyubov does not wish to dance, Empress, after her long day,” says the Tsarinovna. “We must not ask too much of her.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” says the Empress. “Lyubov greatly desires to dance with my dear son, don't you, my sweet little love?”
“Yes,” I say. The thought of dancing clears away some of the sleep from my mind, and I find myself smiling for the first time. The Tsarinovna flares her nostrils, but does nothing to stop her brother when he rises and offers me his hand.
The Tsarinovich takes my arm uncertainly and leads me down onto the floor. I have no memory of ever dancing this dance before, but when the music starts, I dance perfectly. Many of the other women stumble or slump their shoulders, but not I. My shivering has stopped.
“My mother has taken a great fancy to you, Lyubov Dariyevna,” says the Tsarinovich. He does not quite look into my face as he says it, as if afraid of me. Avoiding my gaze is hard for him to do, for we stand almost brow to brow, and my eyes meet his every time I raise them.
“She has been very kind to me,” I say.
“She is rarely kind,” he tells me. “What have you done to deserve such an honor?” This time he does look right into my eyes with his smiling gray ones, and for a moment neither of us look away.
“I don't know,” I say. “I have no special merits.”
“That cannot be true,” he tells me. “That is not true, I can see it in your face.” Then he falls silent, and when the song is over, he leads me back to our places without speaking.
“It's late,” says Marya when we return. “I want to retire.” The Tsarinovich immediately helps her from her seat and out the hall.
“It's time for you to retire, too, little princess,” the Empress says to me. “Borya! Escort Lyubov Dariyevna to her chambers.” A guard comes and leads me away. As I leave the hall, sleep settles back down over my mind.
***
The next day I am allowed to walk in the park. It is another bright day, and the snow sparkles everywhere. My guards have to shield their eyes from it, but the cold air warms my cheeks and lifts the veil of sleep from my mind.
We stop for a moment by a snow-covered fir tree. I reach out and take up a handful of snow from a low branch, and taste it. It is clean and fresh, and slakes my thirst more than any water or wine. I reach for another handful, but the guards stop me.
“You'll make yourself sick, Princess,” they tell me, and take me back to the Kremlin, watching me with the same fearful expressions they might have for a half-tamed snow cat.
On our return we pass the Tsarinovich in a corridor. For a moment he stops and stares at me, before hurrying out of sight. I think of this all the way back to my tower, but then the cloying flames of my fireplace fog my mind, and I sink back into sleep.
The next day I shake off the lethargy enough to walk out once again, and once again I reach for snow, only to be stopped by my guards.
“What do you want snow for, Lyubov Dariyevna?” they ask, keeping their faces averted from mine. “Don't you know you'll catch a chill from it? You should go back inside now, before you freeze.”
I tell them that I know, but then I snatch up a handful of snow when their backs are turned, and let the crystals melt one by one in my mouth. When I raise my eyes from my prize, I see the surprised face of the Tsarinovich, riding in the other direction.
The guards all bow as he comes near. He stops and asks how we are, and they tell him of my snow-eating. He looks straight at me and asks, “Why do you eat snow, Lyubov Dariyevna?”
“I can taste each snowflake as it melts in my mouth,” I say. “And it slakes my desire.”
All the men shift their feet and shudder, looking the other way.
“Come, I will walk you back to the Kremlin,” says the Tsarinovich, smiling at the guards' discomfort, even though he, too, had flinched at my words. His eyes, I notice, are as bright as his mother's and sister's, but merry rather than sharp. “After all, I have nothing better to do. And you can tell me of your far-away home—my mother says it is beyond the borders of even her empire.” He smiles especially brightly and turns his horse to walk beside me. “I think I would like to go there someday.”
“Why not set out tomorrow?” I ask him. “If you have nothing better to do.”
“I cannot just leave,” he says with a laugh. “I have only one duty, but it is a heavy one. I must marry to serve the interests of the empire. I fear that renders me unable to gallop off to the North whenever I please. But you would lighten my burden somewhat by carrying me there in spirit, if not in body.”
At first I do not know what to say, but when I open my mouth the words come from somewhere deep within me, bringing with them pictures of a place I feel as if I have long lived, even though I have no memory of it. I tell him stories of a far-away land of snow and magic, and he gazes down upon me as if spellbound.
“Do you ride, Lyubov Dariyevna?” he asks when we are arrived at the Kremlin. “Come riding with me tomorrow, and I will show you the whole park—you have only seen one small corner of it. It is not your home, I know, but it is the closest we can offer in Krasnograd.”
The next day we ride out together. He tells me he has no one who cares for riding as much as he does, especially in winter, and winter is his favorite season. I say that I care for riding above all else, and he laughs and says that he can see that, for he has never seen anyone sit a horse so gracefully, and I must ride every day I can while I am here, for it would be a shame to lose such skill.
“Perhaps we should ride out together again sometime,” he says on our return.
“Perhaps,” I say.
***
I put little weight in his words, but the next day, when my guards take me down to the stable, he is there too, waiting as his horse is saddled.
“I see you spoke the truth when you said you cared for riding above all else, Lyubov Dariyevna,” he says with a smile.
“Of course,” I say. “I wouldn't lie.”
“An honest woman!” he laughs. “That's something you don't see every day in Krasnograd. This is a novelty I must explore. Will you permit me to accompany you on your outing, honest woman?”
“Of course,” I say, and we ride out together.
Afterwards he takes his leave in a way that makes me expect not to see him soon, but the next time I come down to the stable, he is already there and waiting for his horse to be saddled. We ride out together again, and again, and again, and again, without tiring of each other or the park's wintry beauty. With the Tsarinovich at my side, I feel as if I am seeing all this for the first time, and it is even more beautiful through his eyes than it would be through only my own.
It seems to me that he must feel the same way, for with each ride he gazes at me more and more as if spellbound. Sometimes I find myself gazing back. My days are passed less and less in sleep, and more and more in thoughts of him. The hours between our meetings become long and tedious, and if he is not waiting for me when I arrive at the stable, even snow has no savor. Sometimes I think of telling him of this, but I fear that putting this wordless magic into words will break the spell, and so every day I put it off until the next. I have, I think, plenty of time.
After many days of this, the Empress calls me to her private chambers.
“Are you well, Lyubov?” she asks me. “Are you happy?”
“Yes,” I say.
“They tell me you have been riding out with my son,” she says.
“Yes,” I say.
“I am glad. Do you enjoy it?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I am glad.” She leans in close to me. “I know you are a woman of honor, Lyubov, for you can be nothing else, but don't let that stand in your way. Sometimes one must snatch joy from the coming days, for the gods alone know how many days are left to us. Snatch your joy while you can, Lyubov: it is what you are made for. Spring is coming soon, and who knows what its rains will wash away.”
It is true that the days are getting longer and longer. One day the Tsarinovich proposes that we ride from dawn to dusk, and I agree.
We set off with only two guards. A wind, a latecomer from winter, is blowing from the North, and the horses are restive. As we reach the farthest end of the park, my horse shies and throws a shoe.
“Take Lyubov Dariyevna's horse back to the stable,” commands the Tsarinovich. The guards argue for a little while against leaving us unprotected, but in the end they both set off riding double on one horse and leading mine, so that I may ride their other horse.
“I am so rarely away from prying eyes,” says the Tsarinovich, looking across at me with his smiling gray ones.
“And I am so rarely not alone,” I tell him.
“It must be lonely for you, so far from home and with so few friends,” he says.
“Very lonely,” I say, although I had not known until that moment that it was true.
“Look, rabbit tracks,” he says, and dismounts. “Come down here and look.”
I dismount too, and look. There are indeed rabbit tracks in the snow. I can see them clearly with my own two eyes, but I let him take my hand and point them out to me.
“Your gloves are so thin,” he says. He folds my hands in his. Even through my thin gloves and his thick ones, I can feel his fingers squeezing mine. “Aren't you cold?” He takes half a step closer, so that his breath freezes on a braid that has fallen across my cheek.
“I only feel cold inside,” I tell him. “Out here I feel warm. The snow warms me.”
“You are strange, Lyubov,” he says, looking down at my hands in his. When he looks up, there is something in his eyes that burns like ice. For a moment it flames around us, and then he shakes his head and turns back to his horse, and we ride home in silence.
***
When I look in the mirror that evening, my cheeks have the same blush I have seen on those of other women. Even though I am indoors, the veil of sleep remains drawn back from my mind, and I toss and turn all night, anticipating our next meeting. This time I am certain it will be soon.
The next day I wait, more and more seared by uncertainty, but no message comes until evening, when the Empress summons me again to her chambers.
“I hear you went riding yesterday with my son yet again,” says the Empress.
“Yes,” I say.
The Empress reaches out and touches my cheek. “Warm,” she says with satisfaction. “I am glad. How do you feel, Lyubov?”
“I am well,” I lie, for I have lain awake all night in joy, and all day in desperate anticipation of his call that never came. My last look in the mirror has shown dark circles under my eyes, also something I had only ever seen on the faces of other women. They do not, I think, diminish my beauty, only make it seem more fragile and alive. I wish he had come across me in the corridor, so that he could have seen the change he has wrought in me.
“Do you know what you are, Lyubov?” asks the Empress.
“A princess from the far North,” I say.
“That's one way to put it,” she says. She smiles at me, and I do not like the way her smile lights her eyes. “You are a snow maiden, Lyubov.”
I look down at myself. “I am a woman, just like any other,” I say.
“Only beautiful, Lyubov, so beautiful. Did you never ask yourself why?”
“Who knows why the gods make us as they do,” I say.
“Ah, Lyubov! My black-browed beauty! The fairest maiden in the land! Tall and slender as a young birch tree, hair like black silk, skin as white as snow, and eyes so full of soul a man could drown in them! Did you know you can sing and dance, Lyubov, more beautifully than any woman in Krasnograd? Did you know you can talk on any subject, and more wittily than the wittiest bards from here to the Sea of Ice ? Did you know that men would die for you, if only they thought they could ever earn so much as a smile from you, Lyubov, but as they cannot, they only pine in secret, as crops long for rain? Do you know why all this is so, Lyubov, my dearest little ‘Love'? It is because I made it so.”
“You are my mother?” I ask.
“In a manner of speaking, little Lyubov. I brought you to life out of blood and snow, and now you stand before me, moving and breathing as a real woman would. Almost, that is. Or was. You were so cold before, Lyubov, cold and asleep, but now you are awakened to passion, and the transformation is complete. You are, if I say so myself, my most perfect creation. My daughter may talk all she likes about the hand the gods had in your making, but she was not there, was she? I was the one who shed the blood, I was the one who spoke the spell, and now I take more pride in you than in either of my two flesh-and-blood children, who in many respects are sorely lacking.”
“Why did you do it?” I ask. “I have done nothing for you.”
“Ah, that is not true, my dear little Lyubov, not true at all,” she says, still smiling with satisfaction at her handiwork. “Right now, you see, my son is wracked with guilt and heartbreak, while his betrothed, our dear little Marya, is mad with jealousy and displaying her shrewish side.”
“His betrothed!” I say. Somehow in all our time together, he had never mentioned that Marya was his betrothed. Indeed, he had rarely spoken of her at all, except to say once that she, like so many others, did not care for riding in winter. The blood rushes painfully to my face as the last of last night's certainty is washed away. Anger, and relief at my reticence, and the fear that I have missed my chance in my dallying, all war within me, and I cannot speak a word.
“His betrothed indeed,” says the Empress, her eyes shining with delight. “When I was new-come to my crown, I needed to make an alliance with the merchants, and I betrothed my only son to the daughter of the richest and most powerful of their guild, and took her into my court, so that she could learn the ways of noble behavior and my son could become accustomed to her. He has grown fond of her, I suppose, and even though I no longer need their support, he is unwilling to give her up, as one is unwilling to give up an old gown. I could not persuade him directly, so I decided to give him a taste of real love. And so I made you, Lyubov, my ‘real love,' and now he has had a taste of it, and is finding it very strong meat indeed. My only question is whether it will be strong enough—he has always been a mild-mannered boy.”
“You want him to throw over Marya and marry me?” I ask.
The Empress laughs at the sudden hope rising in my eyes. “No, my little love. Do you know nothing of snow maidens? They only last as long as the snow does. Come spring, which is fast approaching, you will melt away as if you had never been, only, if all goes according to plan, my son will have become betrothed to some real princess.” She smiles at my stricken face. “Don't worry, Lyubov,” she said. “Soon this will all be over, and you will know nothing of it, no more than the snow knows of its existence in summer. And, while you may be suffering now, remember: it is only a spell, just like any other love. Once it is broken, it is gone forever.” She laughs again at the look on my face. “Go! You have done your part! Go!”
I go back to my room, where I lean my forehead against the mirror-frame and cry. My tears seem as warm and salty as any other woman's. I touch my snow-white skin, which is warm and soft. I still my tears, and look in the mirror. My cheeks are as red as roses, and I can feel life beating through my veins. I watch the warmth of my breath raise a mist on the glass. I am alive, I am alive, I am alive, I tell myself, and the love I feel is real, and so is the heartache, and neither will simply melt away in the spring rains.
The next day he does send for me, and I go to the high tower he has named as our meeting place, my heart climbing higher with every step. When I step out onto the tower, he is already there.
It is strange to be with him when we are not riding, and at first I can say nothing. He, too, gazes at me for a moment as if stricken, and tries to make some excuse or explanation, and then I say that a late snowfall has started, and he says he loves snow above all other things, and we talk until his lips turn blue with cold. I mean to tell him to go back to his fire, but his hands almost brush mine as he shows me soldiers training on the square, and I cannot tear myself away and return to the imprisoning warmth, and neither, it seems, can he.
As the days grow ever longer this happens again and again. It seems we have so much to say to each other, and so little time to say it, so that each meeting only sharpens our desire for the next. I now know that I truly am seeing all this for the first time, and through his eyes, which makes me love it all the more. The very tower where we meet has, in my eyes, become infused with love, so that my heart jumps whenever I step out onto it. I promise myself that I will tell him of this, but when we are speaking, there are always more important things to say. There is no mention of Marya at all.
When we meet, we stand just far enough apart not to touch, and there are times when all I can think of are the few inches of air between us, which seem to shimmer with heat even as the snow falls. Sometimes his hand will unthinkingly stray into that sacred territory, and we both flinch back in fear. Afterwards, I always regret not catching his hand in mine before he can withdraw it, and promise myself that next time I will, but again, I never do.
One day he tells me Marya has insisted that they set the wedding date for midsummer, and he has agreed.
“It is my duty, and of course we have long been fond of each other,” he tells me, looking away and pretending that he is not.
“Of course,” I say, shocked that he would even consider marrying Marya now. A cry of protest is rising in my throat. I stifle it by saying that I must leave, and retreat, angry at my own cowardice but rendered too uncertain by his announcement to defeat it. I wonder if this cowardice is another trait that the Empress gave me, or if I have developed it on my own. I lie awake that night for a long time, falling asleep only when I resolve that, be it from the Empress or my own creation, I will fight it as best I can.
The next day it rains instead of snowing. In the morning I tell myself that it means nothing, but by evening my legs are so weak I can scarce rise from my seat at dinner. I have not craved snow for many weeks now, but today I push away my food untasted and long for nothing but the sensation of the crystals dissolving in my mouth, one by one.
The next week it happens again, and I cannot even rise from my bed. Once the chill of the evening sets in, and I am able to rise, I look at myself in the mirror, and see how wan and pale I have grown. It is still a look of great beauty, but now it is the beauty of something that will soon fade.
Once I am able, I send for him. I do not know what I will say, but desperation drives me.
“Valentin,” I say, once he has finished smiling at the sight of me. “Do you know who I am?”
“Lyubov Dariyevna Bogdanova, a princess from the Far North, of course,” he says, now smiling at the sound of my voice and the silliness of my question.
“No, Valentin.” When the moment comes I can feel my nerve failing me, but just then I have a moment of weakness, and he catches my arm as I waver.
“What is ailing you, Lyubov?” he asks. Neither of us looks at his hand on my arm, but I know that both of us can think of nothing else.
“Springtime,” I tell him.
“Springtime is rarely a sickness,” he says with another smile. He has still not released my arm, and I can feel each finger through my clothing.
“It is for me,” I say. “You see, I am a snow maiden.”
He laughs. “You are beautiful, it is true, and at first you were much colder than ordinary women, but you are no snow maiden, I swear it. More a fire maiden, if anything.” He closes his hand more firmly on my arm, pulling me closer. His gray eyes are focused only on mine, as if he is counting every lash.
“No, Valentin, I am a snow maiden,” I tell him. Somehow I have taken another half a step closer to him, so that with our every breath the front of my long coat almost touches his. “Made to awaken love in your heart. Only, it has been awakened in mine as well. I was given life and love, but only for a short time, Valentin, a short time! Almost as soon as I have learned what it is, it is being snatched away from me. But I swear, it is real, Valentin, real, not just some spell! Why? Why were they so cruel as to give it to me only for a short time, some illusory, short-lived love. Did they not realize how real it would become? How could they make me suffer so…” I pull out of his grasp and flee as I burst into tears.
When I am done crying, I look at myself in the mirror again, and am horrified to see that my face has become thinner, as if the tears were meltwater.
The next morning the Tsarinovna comes to me.
“The Empress has told me that she told you, Lyubov,” she says.
“Yes.”
“It was a cruel plan from the start,” she says. “I was always opposed to it. My brother deserves better. He has a warm heart. And despite my mother's assurances, I fear that so do you. Do you?”
“Yes,” I say.
“And now you are melting.”
“Yes.”
“Even if I could save you from summer, the Empress would never let you be with my brother,” she says. “And I can see you are melting away from that as well.”
“Yes.”
“So you will do nothing? You are just going to wait until there is nothing left of you but water?” she demands.
“What else can I do?” I ask.
“Lyubov! You cannot save yourself here, but you can still try to escape! Go North! Go North all the way past the sun-line, to the Midnight Land. They say that there the ice never loses its frozen grip on the land, even when the sun does not set for weeks on end. Perhaps there you will be able to survive.”
“And what then?” I ask. “Spend my days in the Midnight Land, alone?”
“Perhaps…Perhaps he will follow you, Lyubov. Perhaps my mother was more correct in naming you ‘love' than she knew.”
“Will he?” I ask.
“My husband followed me,” she says. “His mother wished him to marry another, thinking that my own mother's time on the throne would be short-lived, but he followed me to Krasnograd instead. It can happen, Lyubov, but only if you try.”
“I'll never make it,” I say. “It will take me weeks to walk that far, and by then spring will have far outstripped me.”
“I have a horse,” she says. “The fastest horse in Krasnograd, and yours now, but only if you will try. Take my horse, take my brother if he will go with you, and ride as hard as you can for the sun-line. Perhaps the gods will have mercy on you. After all, you are their child.”
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
“One day I, too, will be Tsarina. I cannot let something so perfect as you melt away, merely because my mother has no more need of you.”
“But…” I say.
“I will be waiting for you in the stables at first light tomorrow,” she says. “You must try, Lyubov! It is the nature of love!” For a moment her face loses its severity, and I see that she is her brother's sister, after all.
After she leaves, I lie for a long time in indecision. And then I think of spending my few remaining days in a state of such misery, and somehow I find myself springing out of bed, and sending a summons to Valentin, and pacing the tower-top until he comes.
“I can only stay for a moment,” he says. He adds nothing to that, but I can guess by his face that he can only stay for a moment because Marya is waiting.
“I am leaving,” I say. “Tomorrow, at first light, I am taking a fast horse and riding as hard as I can for the North. The Tsarinovna says that if I can make it to the sun-line in time, I may survive. It is my only chance. Will you come with me?”
He stares at me, stricken once more. “You are riding for the Midnight Land tomorrow,” he finally says.
“Yes, and Valentin, I must do this or I am dead, but if you do not come, I am as good as dead anyway. Think on that, before you make your decision! My heart is in your hands, so think carefully! But remember, Valentin: I will not let you down. If you come with me, I will take care of you, I swear it.” I do not know where this certainty is coming from, but suddenly I am sure that I will be able to survive in the Midnight Land, and keep him alive, too. Some magic that I did not know until now that I possess is welling up inside me, telling me I have no need to fear snow, and ice, and whatever else the gods send me, because I truly am their child.
“You must go,” he tells me. He gives me an uncertain look. “You are certain of this?” he asks.
“Yes,” I tell him.
“I am the Tsarinovich. I cannot just leave. I have my duty.”
“Your only duty is to marry someone who will serve the interests of the empire,” I say. “Think what I could bring! I am a creature of magic, after all. Think what an alliance with such magic would do for the land! Think on it, Valya, and do not be afraid! Now is the time for courage!”
“You are right,” he says, after long thought. “Now is the time for courage, and for doing what is right. And perhaps what you say is true. It is true that…that part of me wishes to follow you. But duty weighs heavy on my shoulders, more heavily than perhaps you will ever know.”
“As long as you do not confuse it with cowardice,” I say. “I have already wasted too much time with my own faintheartedness. Do not let what other people tell you is duty stop you from doing what is best! Please, come with me, Valya, and you will not be sorry, I swear to it, I swear!”
“I am not a coward!” he cries, much more angrily than I had expected.
“Then prove it! I cannot live without you!”
“They will not just let me run off,” he says. “Leave tomorrow, Lyubov, and if I can, then I swear to you, I will follow. Wait for me in Naberezhnoye, the last town before the sun-line, and if you must leave before I arrive, leave word of where to find you.”
I look into his eyes, and know that I must trust in him as much as it is possible to trust in anything. “I believe you,” I say. “I will see you there.”
***
I set off the next morning, alone. The Tsarinovna's horse is as fast as she claimed, and we speed away down the Northern road, the sun rising warningly to our right. I do not know if I will make it to the Midnight Land in time, or if he will follow me, but I know, as the Tsarinovna told me, that I must try. Hope rises in me along with the sun, and perhaps as treacherously, but even I, a creature of snow and ice, must have it in order to survive, and I will trust myself to it with every breath I take that warms the air around me.
_____________________ Elena Clark is a graduate student at UNC-Chapel Hill. When she is not studying obscure Russian poets and even more obscure languages, she writes fiction. Her work has appeared in a number of online and print publications, including multiple appearances in Bards & Sages, Silverthought, and Aphelion. |