“River, what do you do?” he cried.
The river swelled in a great, curling wave and rushed toward him, breaching its banks. Semyon covered his head with his arms, sure he would be drowned, but just as the water was about to strike him, the river split and raced around his shaking body.
Through the woods the river tumbled, tearing ancient trees from the soil, stripping away branches. The river cut a path through the forest under the cover of night, all the way to the fallow field at the edge of the southern wood. There it swirled and eddied, and tree upon tree, branch upon branch, a structure began to take form. All night the river worked, and when the townspeople arrived in the morning, they found Semyon standing beside a massive tower of timber that dwarfed the sad little pile of kindling assembled by the prince’s men.
The prince hurled his ivory-handled axe away in anger, and the duke was most distressed. He could not break a promise made so publicly, but he could not bear the thought of his daughter married to such an unnatural creature as Semyon. He forced himself to smile and thump Semyon on his narrow back. “What fine work you’ve done!” he declared. “I’m sure you will be just as successful at the second task!”
Semyon frowned. “But—”
“Surely you did not think I would set only one task for Yeva’s hand? I’m certain you can agree, my daughter is worth more than that!”
All the townspeople and the eager suitors concurred—especially the prince, whose pride was still smarting. Semyon did not want anyone to think he priced Yeva so low. He swallowed his protest and nodded.
“Very good! Then listen closely. A girl like Yeva must be able to behold her own lovely face. High in the Petrazoi lives Baba Anezka, the maker of mirrors. Whoever returns with a piece of her handiwork will have my daughter as his bride.”
The suitors scattered in all directions while the prince called orders to his men.
When her father had returned to the palace and Yeva heard what he had done, she said, “Papa, forgive me, but what way is this to find a husband? Soon I will have a fine mirror, but will I have a good man?”
“Darling Yeva,” said the duke. “When will you learn to trust in your father’s wisdom? The prince has Ravka’s fastest horses, and only he can afford such a mirror. He will win this contest easily, and then you will wear a jeweled crown and eat cherries in winter. What do you think of that?”
Yeva wondered if her father had simply misheard her question, but she kissed his cheek and told him she was very fond of cherries indeed.
Semyon went down to the river and put his head in his hands. “What am I to do?” he said miserably. “I have no horse, nor have I money to trade with the mountain witch. You helped me before, but what good are you now, river?”
Then Semyon gasped as the river once more breached its banks and grabbed hold of his ankle. It dragged him into its depths as he sputtered and gasped.
“River,” cried Semyon, “what do you do?”
The river burbled its reply, dunking him deep, then buoying him to the surface and carrying him safely along. It bore him south through lakes and creeks and rapids, west through tributaries and streams, mile after mile, until finally they came to the north-facing slopes of the Petrazoi, and Semyon understood the river’s intent.
“Faster, river, faster!” he commanded as it carried him up the mountainside, and soon enough, he arrived soaked but triumphant at the entrance to the witch’s cave.
“You have been a loyal friend, and so I think I must name you,” Semyon said to the river as he tried to wring the water from his ragged coat. “I will call you Little Knife because of the way you flash silver in the sunlight and because you are my fierce defender.”
Then he knocked on the witch’s door. “I have come for a mirror!” he shouted. Baba Anezka opened the door, her teeth straight and sharp, her eyes golden and unblinking. Only then did Semyon remember he had no coin with which to pay. But before the ancient Fabrikator could shut the door in his face, the river splashed its way through, eddying around Baba Anezka’s feet and then back out again.
Baba Anezka greeted the river with a bow, and with Semyon on her heels, followed the river over a high ridge and through a path hidden between two flat rocks. As they squeezed through, they found themselves at the edge of a shallow valley, its floor all gray gravel, barren and unwelcoming as the rest of the Petrazoi. But at its center lay a pool, nearly perfect in its roundness, its surface smooth as highly polished glass, reflecting the sky so purely that it looked as if one could step into it and fall straight through the clouds.
The witch smiled, showing all her sharp teeth. “Now this is a mirror,” she said, “and seems a fair trade.”
They returned to the cave, and when Baba Anezka handed Semyon one of her finest mirrors, he laughed in his joy.
“That gift is for the river,” she said.
“It belongs to Little Knife, and Little Knife does as I ask. Besides, what could a river want with a mirror?”
“That is a question for the river,” replied Baba Anezka.
But Semyon ignored her. He called out for Little Knife, and once more the river grabbed his ankle and they went rushing down the mountainside together. When they roared past the prince’s caravan trudging along the path, the soldiers turned to look but only saw a great wave and a white curl of foam.
Once they arrived in Velisyana, Semyon put on his least threadbare tunic, combed his hair, and did his best to polish his boots. When he checked his reflection in the mirror, he was surprised at the sullen face and inky eyes that stared back at him. He’d always thought himself quite handsome, and the river had never told him differently.
“There is something wrong with this mirror, Little Knife,” he said. “But this is what the duke demanded, and so Yeva shall have it for her wall.”
When the duke looked out his window and saw Semyon striding across Suitors’ Square with a mirror in his hands, he reeled back in shock.
“See what you have done with your foolish tasks?” said the retired colonel, who was awaiting the contest’s outcome with the duke. “You should have given me Yeva’s hand when you had the chance. Now she will be married to that outcast, and no one will want to sit at your table. You must find a way to be rid of him.”
But the duke was not so sure. A prince would make a fine son-in-law, but Semyon must have great power to accomplish such extraordinary tasks, and the duke wondered if he might make use of such magic.