“My mother was. She was a faith healer in one of the tribes. But she died when I was born.”
“And your father?”
“Russian. But I never knew him.”
Vika turned her eyes back up into the sky. “I never knew my mother.”
Nikolai stopped and looked at Vika. “I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. But it’s all right. I’ve had my whole life to get used to it.”
“I understand.” And he did. Entirely.
She began to walk again. Nikolai watched as her dress swayed with each step, brushing against the tall grass, the brittle blades so high they rose almost to her hip. There were few girls he knew in Petersburg society who would traipse through the savanna without complaining about the burrs snagging their skirts or the dry wind mussing up their hair. But those thoughts didn’t even seem to occur to Vika. She was a mythological creature among ordinary humankind.
She turned around to wait for him. “Is there more?”
“More what?”
“More of this dream?”
He nodded.
She held out her gloved hand. “Show me.”
A smile began to spread across Nikolai’s face, but he tamped it down. She was tempting—too tempting—and that was dangerous. He could enjoy her company, for now, but he had to remember this was part of the Game. Still, he jogged to catch up, and when he reached her, he took her outstretched hand.
He momentarily forgot how to breathe.
Her touch, even through their gloves, resonated to that ethereal part of his core he could only describe as his soul. He suspected that even his real body, asleep on the bench, warmed as her hand clasped his.
She blushed and looked at their entwined fingers. But she didn’t unlace them.
“Come this way,” he said, when he’d gathered himself.
Nikolai led her farther into the grassland, creating more of the dream as they trekked. He hadn’t planned to expand this setting beyond watching the eagle hunting for prey, but then again, he hadn’t accounted for Vika appearing in the dream with him and wanting to know more about his past. So now, as they walked, he filled out the landscape, not only stretching the barren plains and the mountains in the background, but also generating a yurt village in the near distance.
As they approached, a herd of sheep came into view, as well as a smaller herd of yaks some men on horseback were bringing home from pasture. There were boys there, too, about Nikolai’s age, and for a second, longing flared inside him, desiring their simple existence. But then he remembered the reality of his life on the steppe, the looks of disdain—and fear—from the members of his tribe, and even the outright pretending he did not exist. No, Nikolai could never have been one of them.
He and Vika passed the animals unseen, although they could see and smell and hear everything around them, from the pungent scent of the livestock to the zhauburek kabobs roasting over the fire. A group of boys marched past, each carrying a younger boy on his shoulders and singing, “Ak sandyk, kok sandyk . . .” Nikolai almost started humming along before he caught himself.
“Are these memories from your childhood?” Vika asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you miss it?”
Nikolai shrugged. “I think I see the past more kindly than it treated me.”
She quirked a brow. “How do you mean?”
“I mean, when I was here, they didn’t know what to do with me. Although my mother had some abilities as a faith healer, they were very different from the things I could do. And without a proper teacher to show me how to hone my skills and to discipline me, all I did was wreak havoc on the village.”
“How?”
“All sorts of nonsense. I’d mute the dombras—they’re guitar-like instruments—while the men tried to play music, or I’d turn the other children’s suppers from rice into sand. Things like that.”
Vika laughed. “It sounds amusing.”
“Yes, well, the villagers didn’t think so. They tried to beat the magic—the demons—out of me. They were glad when Galina came and took me away. What I have here in this dream, however, are the good parts I recall.”
They walked into the center of the village, past yurts with elaborate wooden crowns and walls covered in bright embroidered fabric. There were lions and tigers and garudas stitched on the yurts, symbols of power, as well as pictures of fire, water, and earth, the elements of the universe. The village was a riot of colors and patterns.
“I understand why you think fondly of this place,” Vika said as they neared a group of women cooking skewered meat over a fire. “Even if they didn’t know what to make of you.”
The wood crackled, and a log broke, sending up a plume of smoke. It smelled like charred memories. Then the wind blew the smoke away and left behind only the glowing embers.
“But I’m also glad the countess found you,” Vika said.
Nikolai blushed, but it receded quickly. It was possible Vika didn’t mean it the way he’d first interpreted. And that was why he was supposed to keep up the walls to protect himself.