bitterly.
“Ah, so that’s the problem. I thought it might be something like that.” He glanced at Ilya and his gaze sharpened. “How old are you now? Eight hundred years?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t look it. But then, you don’t look like a hero, either. I don’t suppose anyone would bother to write a
byliny
about you these days.”
Ilya gave a wheezing laugh. “There’s an opera.”
“I know, I’ve heard of it. But I don’t like opera. I know a great deal about you, Ilya Muromyets. I know all the stories—how you couldn’t walk for the first thirty years of your life, until three mysterious strangers turned up and freed you from your paralysis; how you slew the Nightingale Bandit; how you defeated the Tartars; how you fought for fifty days with the Kyrgyz hero Manas.”
“You shouldn’t believe all you read. It wasn’t thirty years; it was only six. And I didn’t kill the Nightingale Bandit, either. I thought I had, but years later I heard rumors that he still lived. . . . I fought against the Tartars, true, but it was an entire army that defeated them. As for Manas—the fight lasted fifty minutes, perhaps.”
“You disappoint me,” Kovalin said. “I expected such great tales.”
“You won’t get them from me. Why don’t you go in search of the Nightingale Bandit and ask him? Or Manas? Assuming they’re still alive.”
“You’re supposed to be the last of the heroes.” Kovalin paused. “According to the stories, aren’t you supposed to have a flying horse as well?”
“Look around. Do you see a flying bloody horse?”
The
volkh
smiled. “Well, what a history, nonetheless. I imagine it all merges into one in the end. . . . You must be longing for death.”
“You have no idea.”
“Why don’t you kill yourself, then?”
Ilya looked at him with loathing. “Because I can’t. Something stops me. I hold a gun to my head and my finger freezes on the trigger. I swallow poison, and it comes back up again. I clutch at a knife, and my hand won’t budge an inch.” Manas’ words echoed in his head with the last of the dream. “Only one
bogatyr
can kill another, they used to say. I’ve never believed it, but I went looking for the others anyway, seeking death. I found no one. One by one, they have all vanished into the mists.”
Kovalin said with sudden distaste, “You’re a fool. Think of how you could have used your time. You could have been the tsar of all the Russias by now, with your powers. You could have changed history. And yet you’ve spent your time moping after a mortality that anyone with any wisdom would be happy to renounce. I suppose you don’t even have the guts to leave Russia. Look at you. A junkie, a drunk . . . What happened to the hero you used to be?”
Ilya Muromyets did not reply. He did not want to look at Kovalin any longer. “Go away,” he whispered.
“No. I’ve paid attention to those stories, you see. The ones that say you used to be a hero. Until recently, we thought the last of your kind had died out hundreds of years ago.”
“We?”
Ilya looked at the man, at his black gloves, his expensive overcoat, and wondered whether Kovalin was with the FSB. Ilya had met such men over and over again, first in Dzerzhinsky’s Cheka, then in the NKVD and KGB. Power attracted them like spilled blood.
Kovalin shrugged. “My colleagues and I.”
“And what exactly do you and your colleagues want?”
Kovalin paused. His small, fleshy mouth pursed. “Have you never wondered, Ilya Muromyets, just what a
bogatyr
might be? Or is it simply that you’ve never stopped wondering, but have given up all hope of an answer?”
“I’ve wondered,” Ilya said cautiously. God knew, he had made enough efforts to find out over the years.
“Of course you have. You are one of the strangest of things, are you not? A man born in the twelfth century, who has lived hundreds of years and yet who looks to be no more than forty-five. A man with
“Ah, so that’s the problem. I thought it might be something like that.” He glanced at Ilya and his gaze sharpened. “How old are you now? Eight hundred years?”
“Something like that.”
“You don’t look it. But then, you don’t look like a hero, either. I don’t suppose anyone would bother to write a
byliny
about you these days.”
Ilya gave a wheezing laugh. “There’s an opera.”
“I know, I’ve heard of it. But I don’t like opera. I know a great deal about you, Ilya Muromyets. I know all the stories—how you couldn’t walk for the first thirty years of your life, until three mysterious strangers turned up and freed you from your paralysis; how you slew the Nightingale Bandit; how you defeated the Tartars; how you fought for fifty days with the Kyrgyz hero Manas.”
“You shouldn’t believe all you read. It wasn’t thirty years; it was only six. And I didn’t kill the Nightingale Bandit, either. I thought I had, but years later I heard rumors that he still lived. . . . I fought against the Tartars, true, but it was an entire army that defeated them. As for Manas—the fight lasted fifty minutes, perhaps.”
“You disappoint me,” Kovalin said. “I expected such great tales.”
“You won’t get them from me. Why don’t you go in search of the Nightingale Bandit and ask him? Or Manas? Assuming they’re still alive.”
“You’re supposed to be the last of the heroes.” Kovalin paused. “According to the stories, aren’t you supposed to have a flying horse as well?”
“Look around. Do you see a flying bloody horse?”
The
volkh
smiled. “Well, what a history, nonetheless. I imagine it all merges into one in the end. . . . You must be longing for death.”
“You have no idea.”
“Why don’t you kill yourself, then?”
Ilya looked at him with loathing. “Because I can’t. Something stops me. I hold a gun to my head and my finger freezes on the trigger. I swallow poison, and it comes back up again. I clutch at a knife, and my hand won’t budge an inch.” Manas’ words echoed in his head with the last of the dream. “Only one
bogatyr
can kill another, they used to say. I’ve never believed it, but I went looking for the others anyway, seeking death. I found no one. One by one, they have all vanished into the mists.”
Kovalin said with sudden distaste, “You’re a fool. Think of how you could have used your time. You could have been the tsar of all the Russias by now, with your powers. You could have changed history. And yet you’ve spent your time moping after a mortality that anyone with any wisdom would be happy to renounce. I suppose you don’t even have the guts to leave Russia. Look at you. A junkie, a drunk . . . What happened to the hero you used to be?”
Ilya Muromyets did not reply. He did not want to look at Kovalin any longer. “Go away,” he whispered.
“No. I’ve paid attention to those stories, you see. The ones that say you used to be a hero. Until recently, we thought the last of your kind had died out hundreds of years ago.”
“We?”
Ilya looked at the man, at his black gloves, his expensive overcoat, and wondered whether Kovalin was with the FSB. Ilya had met such men over and over again, first in Dzerzhinsky’s Cheka, then in the NKVD and KGB. Power attracted them like spilled blood.
Kovalin shrugged. “My colleagues and I.”
“And what exactly do you and your colleagues want?”
Kovalin paused. His small, fleshy mouth pursed. “Have you never wondered, Ilya Muromyets, just what a
bogatyr
might be? Or is it simply that you’ve never stopped wondering, but have given up all hope of an answer?”
“I’ve wondered,” Ilya said cautiously. God knew, he had made enough efforts to find out over the years.
“Of course you have. You are one of the strangest of things, are you not? A man born in the twelfth century, who has lived hundreds of years and yet who looks to be no more than forty-five. A man with
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