Deathless

yourself, and about more than the egg.”

Koschei cocked his head to one side curiously, like a black bird. He rose and crossed the room to her, taking her face in his long fingers. He gripped her jaw tightly. “Have I condemned you, Marya Morevna? Have I called you faithless?”

Marya wept bitterly, an unlovely, shattered kind of crying that strained at the bones of her face. When tears slipped over her scar, they sizzled and burned. “You left me alone to do all those awful things myself without seeing you, without talking to you. I saw the factory, but I couldn’t see you to ask how you could keep those girls, what you would do with me if I disobeyed.”

Koschei studied her, his black eyes roving. “Of course I left you alone. Wedding preparations are the province of the bride. Should I have shepherded you like a father, so that anything you did would not be your own deed, but mine? I have no need to prove myself worthy of myself.”

Marya jerked her chin free. “But what have I to prove? It should be you wrapped up in Zmey Gorinich’s coils, proving that you are not a monster, that you are worthy of me!”

“Have I not proven it? Have I not taken you out of your starving city and fed you, clothed you in fine things, taught you how to listen and how to speak, brought you to a place where you are a mistress, a tsarevna adored and worshipped, made love to, your skin dusted with jewels? Did I not dower myself? Did I not come to you on my knees with a kingdom in my hand? And as for those girls, they belong to me, and that should terrify you. It should cow you and keep you gibbering and silent at my feet, like a beaten dog who knows what’s coming to her. Yet you still shout at me and rip your face from my hands and call me unworthy. You come to me dressed like my sister, with my death in your coat. No matter that it is not my death. You thought it was. Why do you do these things, even knowing that those girls sew away at my armies through this very hour?” Koschei wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. Marya shut her eyes against him, her lover, her death, her life. But she was afraid, too, of all of the things he could be. “I will tell you why. Because you are a demon, like me. And you do not care very much if other girls have suffered, because you want only what you want. You will kill dogs, and hound old women in the forest, and betray any soul if it means having what you desire, and that makes you wicked, and that makes you a sinner, and that makes you my wife.”

No. I do care. I will get what I desire by all the tricks I know, and what those girls in the factory desire, too. You are mostly right, my love. But still wrong. She could say none of it, but she saved it in her chest, where it did not need to be spoken.

Baba Yaga chewed off the tip of her thumbnail and spat it at them. “She kissed the leshy, you know. And not a nice kiss, either. She used her tongue and tasted his mud.”

Koschei pushed Marya away to stare at her coldly. “Is this true?”

“Yes.” She felt no shame on this score.

Koschei smiled. His pale lips sought hers, crushing her into a kiss like dying. She tasted sweetness there, as though he still kissed her with honey and sugar on his tongue. When he pulled away, his eyes shone.

“I don’t care, Marya Morevna. Kiss him. Take him to your bed, and the vila, too, for all it matters to me. Do you understand me, wife? There need never be any rules between us. Let us be greedy together; let us hoard. Let us hit each other with birch branches and lock each other in dungeons; let us drink each other’s blood in the night and betray each other in the sun. Let us lie and lust and take hundreds of lovers; let us dance until snow melts beneath us. Let us steal and eat until we grow fat and roll in the pleasures of life, clutching each other for purchase. Only leave me my death—let me hold this one thing sacred and unmolested and secret— and I will serve you a meal of myself, served on a platter of all the world’s bounty. Only do not leave me, swear that you will never leave me, and no empress will stand higher. Forget the girls in the factory. Be selfish and cruel and think nothing of them. I am selfish. I am cruel. My mate cannot be less than I. I will have you in my hoard, Marya Morevna, my black mirror.”

Marya trembled. She felt something shake free inside her and drift away like ash. She reached up to him and gripped his jaw in her hand, digging her nails into his cold flesh. She would make her gambit; it was all she could do. “If you want me, Koschei Bessmertny, tell me where your death is. Between us there must be no lies. To the world we may lie and go stalking with claws out, but not to each other. It is only fair: You know where my death is, at the point of your knife or between strangling fingers or in a glass of poison. Show me that you can rest in my hand like a chick, small and weak and knowing that I could crush you if I wished it, but that I will not, will never. You owe me this, on the bodies of all those Yelenas, all those Vasilisas— and you owe me their bodies, too.”

Koschei said nothing for a long while. His face floated above her, impassive, unmovable.

“Don’t do it, Brother,” sighed Baba Yaga.

“A butcher in Tashkent guards my death,” he said finally. “I left it in his care when I came for you. It sits in the eye of a needle, which sits inside an egg, which sits inside a hen, which sits inside a cat, which sits inside a goose, which sits inside a dog, which sits inside a doe, which sits inside a cow, and the cow lives with the butcher, very beloved of him and his children. His sons ride upon the cow who contains my death and slap its rump.”

Marya kissed him hard, as if to drag out the truth, and the fringe of her black coat brushed against his chin.

Chairman Yaga sat back in her chair. She lit a new cigar, and spat.

“I guess some people would call those vows,” she grumbled, but the crone smiled, showing her brown teeth, still stained with golden yolk. “Weddings give me gas.”

A cold wind began to seethe through the windowless room. It picked up speed, circling like a racing horse, whirling around and around, riffling through maps and papers, prickling skin, blowing hard and fast until it screamed by Marya Morevna and Koschei and Baba Yaga alike, snatching at their clothes, their hair, stealing their breath. Koschei raised his arms to shield his new wife. Baba Yaga rolled her eyes.

“Shit,” she said succinctly, and the wind stopped short, leaving a white silence in its place.

And someone stood in the room who had not stood there before. The man’s black hair fell all the way to the floor. He wore a grey priest’s cassock, and his chest glowed with a splatter of silver light, like a star. His eyelids were so long that they covered his body like a priest’s stole, their lashes brushing the floor. He held out his hands, stretching his long, colorless fingers toward them.

“My congratulations on your nuptials, Brother,” the man rasped. His voice sounded far away, heard through three sheets of glass. “I would have brought gifts, if I had been invited. Cattle. And cease-fires.” He smoothed his eyelids like lapels.

“But you weren’t invited, Viy,” snapped Baba Yaga. “Because you make a terrible guest. Putting out all the fires and wasting the dancing girls to skeletons when everyone else is trying to have a good ogle. Why would anyone invite you?”

“Because I attend all weddings, Night,” purred Viy. “Death stands behind every bride, every groom. Even as they say their vows, the flowers are rotting in her crown, his teeth are rotting in his head. Cancers they will not notice for thirty years grow slowly, already, in their stomachs. Her beauty browns at the edges as the ring slides up her finger. His strength saps, infinitesimally, as he kisses her. If you listen in the church, you can hear my clock tick softly, as they tock together toward the grave. I hold their hands as they stride proudly down the very short road to dotage and death. It’s all so sweet, it makes me cry. Let me kiss your bride on both cheeks, Life. Let me feel her hot blood slowly cool against my eyelids.”

“She is not for you, my brother,” said Koschei.

“Oh? Have you removed her death, too, then? I remember when you did yours—feh, what a mess!” Beneath his eyelids Marya could see the orbs of Viy’s eyes turn to her. “Of course he hasn’t. Has he, child? I can see your death blossoming like a mushroom on your chest.” Marya’s hand rose to her chest, groping for the invisible death’s-head there. Viy extended his fingers toward her, slowly, as if moving through water. A pinprick stung between her breasts—it did not hurt, exactly, but it anchored her, wholly, so that she knew Viy could move her wherever he liked. He had caught her by her heart, or her death, or both, and she wavered as he wove his ghastly fingers through the dark air. Marya had never even thought to ask for her own death to be gouged out. Not so clever, after all. She fought to hold still, to resist, but her torso writhed and shuddered. Viy dropped his hand and shook his ponderous head. The sting faded. “Don’t take it personally. Never for anyone else does our brother take out his scalpel. Only he lives forever. Everyone else, one way or another, is for me. Can only be for me. And Life, that old tyrant, he knows my land is fertile now. So many white flowers. So many dead since ’17. So many more of