Another sliver of silvery-pale wood joined the tiny pile at Ilya Ivanovitch's feet, and the rough shape in his hand became a little more foxlike. The wood rasped against the sword calluses on his palm as Ilya narrowed his focus to the lumpy head, turning the carving this way and that, frowning at it, oblivious to everything else. Sun-rays baked through the linen tunic on his back with the fever-heat of high summer; the sharp, resinous scent of the block of wood in his hands tickled his nostrils. Under that scent lay others: the green musk of herbs crushed under his feet, the sweet and heady fragrance of wild roses somewhere nearby, the tannin-rich breath of the forest all around him, the all-too-earthy scent of horse-dung. Birds vied with insects to fill his ears, but could not overwhelm the gentle rustling of the leaves as a fitful breeze floated by. Last year's leaves crunched and rattled under the hooves of one of his father's horses as it nosed through the grass between the trees, looking for something more succulent than the tough strands of a full summer's growth.
The horses had just been moved into the forest for fall grazing. They were fat and spoiled from a spring and summer of good clover and tasty grasses, but they might need that fat come the winter.
He set the sharp edge of his smallest knife against the wood; this would be a tricky cut, for the ear was one of the hardest bits to carve. He wanted it thin, so that the light would glow through it if he held it up to the sun.
Slowly, carefully, he shaved and shaped the nubbin of wood; with every sliver, it took on more delicacy, more life. His brows furrowed as he squinted, and he lost track of scent, sound, even the heat on his back. His world became the bit of wood and the blade that was sculpting it. From white wood, imperceptibly the blunted triangle transmuted to a thin sliver of white flesh and fur. In a moment, he would finish with it and move on to the other ear--
"Hoy!"
Out of nowhere, a hand descended to thump him on the back, hard enough to knock the wind out of him. His arms jerked, and the blow sent him flying off his seat toward the ground. Helplessly, he watched as the knife soared off in one direction, the carving in another. Steel honed to astonishing sharpness glinted in the sun as it turned, end over end, moving with dreamlike slowness. Then time caught up with him again, and he landed on his knees in the grass, his chest tight as his lungs realized there was no air in them.
He struggled for a moment to catch his breath, his ribs aching, throat straining. Finally, after an eternity, a breath came, filling his lungs with welcome harshness. He took another; another -- got himself under control. No point in getting angry, for that would only give his brother another excuse for boorish behavior.
"Hello, Pietor," Ilya said with resignation as soon as he could speak. He remained where he was and turned his head, but not with any haste, to look up at his older brother.
Pietor grinned whitely down at him, very pleased with himself, and shook his blond hair out of his eyes. "So, little brother, I find you at secrets. And what witchcraft were you up to, out here all alone in the forest? Consorting with the leshii?"
Ilya sighed. Every time he went off somewhere by himself, one or more of his brothers was convinced that Ilya was up to no good. Probably because every time one of Ilya's brothers went off alone, he was up to no good.
"No witchcraft," Ilya replied. "You don't believe in the forest spirits any more than Father does, I'm hardly alone with the horses all around, and it's not what I would call forest." Ilya rose slowly, dusted the grass off his knees, and looked for his knife and the carving where he thought he'd seen them land. The former he found quickly enough, and he thanked his stars that it was undamaged. It had taken a lot of work to get the blade that sharp, and he had not been looking forward to the hours he might have to spend smoothing a nick out of it. His luck couldn't hold, however, and he already anticipated that the carving would be ruined. He had a visceral memory of the blade biting savagely into the wood before both knife and carving flew off.
When Ilya picked the bit of wood up out of the grass, he saw with a sinking of spirit that his gloomy expectation was correct. The ear that had taken him so long to shape had sheared off under his blade, leaving a ragged stump behind.
"Are you contradicting me, little brother?" Pietor's grin turned malicious, and the ominous tone of his voice warned of a drubbing to come. But at this moment and place, Ilya wasn't terribly worried about the implied threat.
For one thing, Pietor was alone, and none of his brothers had been able to succeed in beating him alone, not for the last year or more. Two or more together, now, that was a different tale altogether, and Ilya would have to find a way to distract Pietor long enough so that he would forget the so-called "insult" so that he didn't manage to gather allies.
Pietor wasn't very bright, and he didn't have a terribly long attention span; however, it wouldn't take much to distract him. It always took Pietor a while to organize himself enough to collect a group to beat Ilya up, and during that time he was vulnerable to interference. With any luck, by the time Pietor got back to the palace to rouse one or more of the others, he would have forgotten why he had gone looking for them in the first place.
"What you wish, brother." Ilya shrugged and tossed the ruined carving out into the forest, sheathing his knife so casually that not even Pietor could take it as an insult. A dun mare grazing nearby looked up at the motion as the bit of ruined wood sailed past her nose, snorted, and went back to single-minded munching. "You'll make up your own mind about what I said no matter what I tell you. So it doesn't matter what I say now, does it?"
Pietor's white-blond brows furrowed together and his vacant blue eyes grew even vaguer as he tried to puzzle through that. Finally he gave up. "You think you're clever, smarter than all of us, don't you?" he challenged. "Too clever by half!"
Enough of this nonsense. I'm not in the mood. "I don't have to think anything, I only have to listen to you and I know what the answer is," Ilya replied, narrowing his own eyes and staring right at his brother with a challenge of his own. "What do you want, anyway? Why did you come sneaking out here, following me around like a thief or a gypsy? Do you covet my knife, or were you hoping I had somehow found a treasure you could steal?"
The abrupt change of subject and the unexpected challenge left Pietor floundering for a moment. "I -- ah --" The young man backed up a step as he attempted to handle two thoughts at the same time and failed utterly. He stared into Ilya's face, and Ilya had to choke down the urge to say anything more. Pietor was thoroughly confused and briefly intimidated. Best leave well enough alone.
"Never mind." Ilya stalked off, startling two more horses into a brief canter before they settled again. He left Pietor standing dumbfounded in his wake, mouth hanging open stupidly.
Copyright © 1996 by Mercedes Lackey
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In Firebird, Lackey draws inspiration from the classic Russian fairy tale to present a marvelous coming-of-age fantasy with a most unusual setting: medieval Russia before unification under the Tsars. Ilya is the son of the boyar, a Russian prince. In his father's rough-and-tumble household, Ilya is persecuted by his large, doltish older brothers, who delight in tormenting him and making him seem the fool. His only friends are three old people: a priest, a magician, and a woman who toils in the palace kitchens. From them Ilya learns faith, a smattering of magic, and the power of love--all of which he will need desperately, for his life is about to be turned upside down. The boyar's magnificent cherry orchard is visited at midnight by the legendary Firebird--a gigantic, magnificent hawk whose wings seem to be made of flame. Ilya's father and brothers swear to capture the magical creature--but each fails. When Ilya disobeys his father and makes his own attempt to catch the Firebird, he is banished. The young man journeys through a fantastical Russia full of magical mazes, enchanted creatures, and untold dangers. Gifted with the ability to understand the speech of animals, Ilya saves the life of a fox, who becomes his most steadfast companion. As happens in the best fairy tales, Ilya falls in love with an enchanted princess. To free her, he must battle a cantankerous wizard and a powerful dragon. Magic swirls throughout this battle as Ilya uses his wits, his warrior's and magical skills, and some very unusual allies to save the day and win true love.
