Yaga sighed. "I don't want just to take it. I want to keep it. The high king at Kiev - "
"Is your sworn enemy. The Rus' drove your late husband from the throne of Kiev, didn't they? Stuck the two of you out here in this backwater kingdom of Pryava, didn't they? What do you care what the king of the Rus' thinks of your claim to the throne of Taina?"
"I don't want a war with the Rus'," said Yaga. "And you know why."
Bear roared in frustration.
"Ah, yes, my love. You thought you could trick me, didn't you? But I know that as god of this land and all its people, you're god of the Rus' as well, and if the high king went to war against me, it would weaken my hold on you. Everything must be done legitimately, my pet. Including my conquest of Taina. You're their god, too, aren't you?"
That was a sore point between them, since the king of Taina had converted to a religion that refused to recognize the power of Bear.
"We're really on the same side in this, my love, remember that," said Yaga. But as she looked at his matted fur, his blood-soaked muzzle and chest, she couldn't help but think: If this winter god, this walking rug, this one-eyed whining bear is the magical guardian of Russia, then Russia is going to have a very troubled future. "Tell me all about the knight who threw the rock at you."
"He wasn't a knight," said Bear. "He was practically naked."
"Come here and let your Baba Yaga put something on that wound."
He shambled over and put his head in her lap. She began to clean around the wound and apply a salve to it.
"He carried no weapon. He didn't really fight. He just ran and ran."
"How did he get to the princess?" asked Yaga. She had to know, because there was always the fear that somehow Bear had got himself free of her bindings enough to throw the contest against her.
"Jumped the chasm," said Bear. "Which you said no man could ever do. You said any man who tried would end up in the pit where I could take his head off." He scooped up a pawful of brain and ate it sloppily while she worked on his eyesocket.
Bear winced at the salve, as well he should, since she had deliberately left the pain-deadening herbs out of the mix.
"I can't be right about everything, can I?" said Yaga. "After all, I'm not a deity."
"Yaga, Yaga, Yaga," he said, as if she had made a foolish joke.
How she hated that nickname! And yet the name had stuck, until now it was the name she used for herself.
Her late husband King Brat had given her the name when he brought her to Kiev as his twelve-year-old bride. That was the pet name he murmured to her tenderly as he raped her immature body, and again as she pretended to weep over the grave of the first baby he sired on her. His dear Yaga, his sweet pet Yaga, Yaga the loving mother who pressed the face of his greedy slurping spawn into her breast long after it stopped struggling for breath and then, wailing, laid his firstborn son in the very lap that had forced it on her. It was a message, though Brat never understood it, dense heavy-armed warrior that he was, a message that people understood now, with him deposed from his throne and then dead of a withering disease, and his widow married to a husband who at last looked like what every human husband secretly was, a hairy stinking drooling beast. A simple message: If you make Yaga do what she doesn't want to do, you won't like the result.
And maybe the message had changed over the years, and now it was more along the lines of: If you try to stop Yaga from doing what she wants to do, you and everyone you ever liked will be destroyed. But in spirit, in origin, it was really the same message. If she had to leave the gloriously beautiful coastland of her childhood and then the bustling traders' town of Kiev to live in this crude woodland, at least she would control all the kingdoms around her and run things her way.
The only drawback was that she always had to have some husband with the title of king, or no one would take her seriously. Well, she