This is a fan translation of Wrong Time for Dragons (Не время для драконов) by the Russian science fiction and fantasy authors Sergei Lukyanenko and Nick Perumov.

I claim no rights to the contents herein.

Note: Footnotes can be found at the end of the chapter.

Chapter 3

Sleeping on the floor was for the young. Victor came to this decision by morning. It wasn't that his back or sides ached, but he also didn't feel rested. He'd also been irritated, even in his sleep, by the lack of the bed's edge. People were probably always afraid of falling on the floor. But when such a possibility was absent, then they thought that something was wrong.

Already waking up, but not yet opening his eyes, Victor rolled onto his back. Oh yeah, a steed's saddle was probably more comfortable than a thin blanket…

The saddle!

He suddenly recalled his dream, with instant clarity. A dying white steed. And his hand holding a dagger. He felt sick. He rarely saw such colorful and unpleasant dreams. And yesterday, after Telle's appearance…

Was she even still here?

Victor opened his eyes. Had the apartment turned out to be empty, he would have felt relieved. Even if the girl had taken the burned-out phone, the self-unscrewing fuse, and the other mysteries.

There was indeed no one on the couch.

Victor got to his feet, automatically tucking his undershirt into his shorts, and listened. It was quiet. Well then, the most primitive turn of events had turned out to be right. Should he check if the money was still there?

Then something clanged in the kitchen.

Hesitating for a moment, Victor first pulled on his jeans and only then peered into the kitchen.

Telle was standing by the stove. Gas was lit under the frying pan. The girl was cooking something.

Something very strange.

"Good morning," Victor said forcefully, feeling a little disappointed. He would've felt better if she'd simply stolen his wallet…

"Morning," Telle said without turning. Her presence of mind was impressive. Or maybe she could see with the back of her head. "I'm making breakfast."

Victor went up to the stove and grimly looked into the pan.

That looked like eggs. With the shell still in there. He could also make out pieces of melted cheese, chunks of sausage, finely diced pieces of bread, and some old dill in the pan.

"Thanks," was all Victor could say. The girl was sick after all.

He managed to force himself to start eating her awful concoction. Strangely enough, it turned out not to be half-bad. Although he didn't like having to pick out the shell pieces…

"Eat everything," Telle said firmly. "The shell is good for you."

He was starting to enjoy this. A week from now he'd be able to tell this story and laugh about it. He'd even add one or two other quirks to the poor girl's personality.

"I'll try," he promised.

More than anything Victor was worried whether Telle would forget about the previous night's decision to go home. What if she liked it here too much?

"It's time," she'd seemingly read his mind again. "You promised to take me home, remember?"

"Of course," Victor rose from the table with relief and, at the same time, strangely enough, with a strange sense of being offended. So he wasn't interesting even to crazy teenage girls then!

"I'll do the dishes, and you get ready," Telle said.

"Leave them, I'll clean up later."

"No."

While the girl was loudly handling the dishes in the kitchen, Victor picked out the least used shirt from the wardrobe, casually checking if his money was still there, very reliably and originally hidden under a stack of bedsheets. He put on a light sweater, as it was sunny outside.

"Ready?" Telle asked demandingly.

Victor glanced at her wearily. A pretty girl, even her eyes were normal. If they really were the windows to the soul…

"Forgot anything?"

"Yeah, to iron my shoelaces."

Telle frowned, "Why?"

Victor sighed, "Come here."

Without further ado, he turned the girl sideways, grabbed her sweater, which turned out to be carefully stitched back up, so she had to have found a needle, and rolled it up. There was no band-aid. Or a scar. Feeling that he was going crazy, Victor turned Telle around, who obediently let him spin her like a top.

Nonsense. What had he been cleaning with peroxide last night then? A painted cut? Uh-huh. This wasn't his first year dealing with wounds!

"Telle," Victor said in a wooden voice. "Where's your wound?"

"It healed."

"I'm serious."

"So am I."

Articles about psychics, capable of healing wounds with their minds, were for tabloids. But what could one do when one's own eyes were confirming that there really was no cut! And never had been! Her skin was clean and smooth, like a baby's.

Victor pulled away from the girl a little warily and asked, "Can you get home on your own?"

"You promised," Telle said in an offended tone.

"Right… yeah…"

"Let's go," the girl was adamant.

"So what's up with your wound?" He was genuinely curious. Was she a Filipino healer or something?

"My body heals quickly in general," Telle informed him reluctantly. "Let's talk about that at my home, all right? As soon as we get there."

Victor's first impulse was to forget about all his promises and simply kick the little hussy out of his apartment. She healed quickly! Things like this didn't happen! They just didn't.

"You promised," Telle said quietly. Her almond-shaped eyes, as if on a Persian miniature, narrowed resentfully.

Oh those girls!

"Let's go."

Never argue with a woman, even if she was only thirteen. Especially if she was only thirteen…

…It was Sunday, and a sunny one at that. The subway was packed. Telle was squeezed against Victor; tensing involuntarily in order to protect her from the crush of the heated crowd, smelling with sweat, he suddenly picked up her own scent, which was pure, as if he was smelling a daisy meadow. Something floated up from the depths of his memory: he'd already felt this way before, in Grandma Vera's house.

Where had Telle come from? Obviously, she had no business being among the Mercedes and casinos. Then again, the same could be said for the gray, dirty, drunken villages either…

They stepped out at Shchukinskaya station, got into a tram, and continued on their way.

Victor was slowly getting surprised. Ahead of them was Serebryany Bor, where the New Russians [Footnote 1] lived. Telle definitely did not look like one of their daughters.

"Where are we—"

"Quiet!" Telle cut him off sharply and angrily. "They could be waiting for us."

"Who?"

"Quiet!" She glared at him.

Was a grown, experienced man really going to obey a thirteen-year-old girl? He ought to just give her a spanking and be done with it.

But, for some reason, Victor did indeed stop speaking.

They passed a nudist beach. A group of naked men was jumping on the sand, playing volleyball. It was a funny sight to be sure, but the abundance of naked women and children sunbathing next to them gave it an everyday feel.

Victor kept wanting to venomously ask, "Is this our destination?", but Telle merely furrowed her brow, and he suddenly lost all desire to make jokes.

They were walking on some trail. It was surprisingly empty for a day like this one.

"Now pay attention," Telle declared. "Grabbing us at the passage would be their best option. No traces. Not here and not there. If anything happens, drop to the ground and cover your head. I'll handle everything."

"What, you have a black belt or something?" Victor inquired. He'd taken some martial arts classes back in the day, and, while he wasn't Chuck Norris or Bruce Lee, he was capable of defending himself. Unless, of course, they were ten of them with guns. Or swords.

"Quiet, please! I asked you!" She was addressing him like an older sister berating her dumb kid brother.

The path took a turn, running down from a short hill. Telle stopped.

"If anything happens, drop to the ground and cover your head," she repeated.

"I got it," Victor waved her off in annoyance. He was getting tired of this teenage girl lecturing him.

"Nine. Eight. Seven," Telle started counting down her steps.

Victor estimated and realized that ten steps would take them just around the bend, where the trail started to meander down the slope.

"Six. Five. Four."

The girl was unusually, even unnaturally focused. If this was a game, she genuinely believed it was real.

Several icy drops suddenly fell on his shoulders. Victor automatically looked up and saw a perfectly clear sky with not a cloud in sight.

"Run!" Telle shouted. She grabbed his hand and dashed around the bend. Confused, Victor ran after her.

A genuine torrent fell on their heads, causing their eyes to darken. The wind picked up. Cold trickles ran down their backs.

"Hurry!" Telle screeched. Her face became distorted, as if in pain. Completely soaked, she had suddenly lost all her mystery. Just a regular girl caught in the rain.

Her hands were dancing over her head. Victor thought he saw sparks fly off her fingers with golden nails.

Damn it, what was happening?

They ran down the trail, which had instantly gone soggy and turned into a swamp. Splashes flew like fountain sprays from under Telle's feet, which were dropping down to her ankles.

Victor didn't even have time to feel surprised at the fact that he was running normally, only occasionally losing his footing. Strange, he weighed a lot more than the girl, so he was the one who was supposed to be getting stuck…

Because of the rain he'd been looking down rather than all around him. He must have simply guessed when to look up.

They appeared to the right and left of them, eight soaked figures in faded tracksuits, the kind worn by mobsters collecting tribute from small vendors.

"Stop!"

Telle grabbed Victor by the hand. She pulled him with such strength that he nearly fell.

"Run! Faster!" the girl screeched. For a moment, she turned to face him and revealed that her face was covered in blood. Tiny scarlet drops, like from pinpricks. How?

"Stop!" several voices shouted.

Damn it. Victor had never thought that a single man could fight off even three opponents. He had no desire to stop. None at all.

They were running down the trail. Telle, whose face had turned into a painted bloody mask, was still setting the speed. But they wouldn't make it, they couldn't, as no one could get down a slippery slope fast. Unless…

The thought was so crazy that Victor hadn't started to think about it. He picked up speed, caught up to Telle, and pushed her, slamming into the back of her knees. The girl screamed in indignant protest, but she was already falling onto the wet, slippery mud face up. Victor fell next to her.

They were sliding down the trail that was now as soggy as soup. Wet, covered in mud, they slid down as if it was a tube at a waterpark. Their pursuers were wailing something behind them; the rain picked up, slashing at them like a whip, a genuine torrent was streaming downhill, spinning the fleeing pair. What the hell was going on?!

From the moment Telle screeched and dragged him after her on the still dry trail, Victor had been moving like an automaton, not thinking, not feeling surprised, not reflecting, as if someone inside him already knew everything. Could that have been true?

And the sky overhead remained clear. The rain had appeared on its own, from thin air. Sure, it could happen. Just like self-unscrewing fuses.

Strangely enough, Victor couldn't rid himself of a very inappropriate and dumb thought: how would Telle react to his unexpected action? For some reason, he was certain that this rapid descent had saved their lives. And yet…

He calmed down only after hearing Telle's laughter. It was loud and cheerful. As if her face wasn't covered in blood and mud wasn't all over her body. While moving, Victor was holding on to Telle's shoulder and even managed to pull her closer, protecting her head. While they were sliding down sticky mud, the harm was more moral than physical, but the first rock or root they encountered could change everything.

Then, suddenly, the clear blue sky with a pouring rain turned gray. And they flew off the trail and slammed into something soft, crisp, and wet.

An entire mountain of fallen autumn leaves.

Motionless, Loy Iver pressed her thin fingers to her temples. Naturally, she couldn't hear what Ritor and Torn were talking about. Both wizards had surrounded themselves with an impenetrable wall without casting a single spell. That alone was enough to scare anyone half to death. The Air Clan tried not to feud with anyone. But Ritor had avoided Loy's social games for completely different reasons than a simple unwillingness to come face-to-face with an enemy. Loy realized that both Ritor and Torn were at that moment at their extremes, everything was at stake, and the game no longer had any rules. She sensed murder.

"Loy! Loy, what's happening?!" Hor appeared next to her like a silent shadow. He was wearing armor rather than a ballroom outfit. "I sent out sentinels, there's Water all around us. It's midnight, their Power is growing, and Torn brought his best. We can't fight a force like that, they'll just crush us with magic. Loy, what happened? Did you kiss someone you shouldn't have again?"

"On the contrary, Hor. I think right now I'm going to have to quickly kiss someone… Honey, you're not going to look, are you?" Even now she remained herself.

"Are they really going to…" Hor broke off.

"Unless I'm completely mistaken, yes," Loy replied. "I'm going to go to them, Hor. And you get our people ready."

"Covertly take aim at all the Watery Ones?" Hor inquired in a businesslike tone. He was known as an unsurpassed master of hand-to-hand combat, of rapid and fleeting fights in darkness, where one couldn't tell a friend from foe. But when it came to deciding who should be the first to receive a tiny poison arrow into their eye, he trusted Loy completely, and she had never been wrong. A battle with Torn's experienced fighters could spell the beginning of the end of the Cat Clan; but none of that seemed to scare Hor.

"You're crazy," Loy clutched her head, ruining her carefully styled hair. "That would definitely be an insult. On the contrary, let them see us. Let them know that we're going to fight. To the end. And I… I'm going to address our guests. I'll tell them what's happening. And also… I'll have to do something else. Just, please, don't be upset. For the good of the clan!"

It was nice that the good of the clan sometimes matched her own wishes…

"One day, I'll kill them all," Hor growled helplessly. "Without any magic whatsoever!"

"Don't do anything stupid, honey." She stood on her toes and gave him a brief kiss on the temple, like a sister. "Get our people ready. And I'll prepare a passionate speech… no, that will just mess everything up. I won't say anything to the guests just yet. Don't linger, honey! And stop staring at me. Get to work!"

Deep in thought, Ritor stood next to the central trunk, which was warm, like living flesh. Spellcasters were different from mere mortals in that they knew how to think in any situation, perceiving even the threat to their own lives as just another subject for reflection… Torn hadn't been kidding, of course. He didn't know how to make jokes, that cunning and lucky leader of the Water Clan, a talented wizard, almost like a Naturalborn mage. He knew what he wanted and firmly moved to that goal. If necessary, he would move straight ahead, but he could also zigzag. No, he wasn't a storybook villain, a power-hungry tyrant, or anything else of the sort. He simply wanted to preserve the status quo… or maybe not? Why had Torn so insistently accused him, Ritor, of trying to usurp power? Maybe he himself secretly desired that? No, nonsense. Ritor actually laughed at that. Many had tried to create a single kingdom in the Middle World. It was impossible. Water could not overcome Fire, and Earth couldn't beat Air. Even the Winged Masters had never tried to create an illusion of unity over the loose community of the clans, and the Dragons would have encountered no resistance in that regard…

He thought about that and then immediately contradicted himself. Hadn't they encountered resistance? What about him?

What are you thinking, Torn? Is it just hubris: everyone before you was an idiot, and you alone know what to do? No, you're no fool. Or do you think yourself to be the savior of the world? But even if you take care of me, which is possible, since it's night, so my Power is weakening and the Power of Water is growing, you won't stop the Naturalborn. Which means that I, Ritor, can't die tonight. I would gladly give up my life, even to you, Torn, if it would save us from the invasion. But it won't. When the eagle-headed ships come out of the mist, the only thing that will be left for us to do is to die with honor. But if there are too many Naturalborn, we won't have even that.

So then, he had to break through, Ritor decided casually. He was frankly getting tired of that. He felt as if he hadn't lived a single day in his life without having to break through somewhere. And all that was seen as the highest sort of valor. He'd broken through when the fate of the Dragonslayer seemed full of shining diamond paths of glory and heroism. He'd been young then, also cruel and foolish. Then he broke through while chasing the last Winged Master, whom he'd previous wounded, across the land. The last of the once-mighty race. Then he… Well, it was enough reminiscing. Loy Iver was coming, the charming Loy, whose sensuality and temperament were the subject of dirty stories of acne-ridden boys, who went red in the face, panted, grunted, and nearly came right in their pants.

Ritor was surrounded in a gentle cloud of a warm scent; Iver was known for incense of her own manufacture. A quick glance from under lowered eyelashes, a barely noticeable turn of a firm hip, momentary dimples, and what was happening to Ritor? Was his throat suddenly dry? Was his heart beating fast? Was his gaze trying to look down her cleavage? Was he hungrily staring at her legs, visible above the knee?

"There's no shame in this," Loy said. She was incredibly serious. "You have your power, and I have mine."

Ritor barely managed to tear his gaze away.

"You're a funny man, Ritor. A powerful mage goes red in the face when staring at my chest, like a teenage boy. You've had awful lovers, Airy One."

"Why are you telling me this, Loy?" If she was in league with Torn and was trying to get him angry, it wasn't going to work.

"I'm thinking about it now. And telling you. There's no point hiding anything from a true master like you. Maybe you shouldn't have despised my kitties so much."

"What is the point of this?" Ritor asked indifferently. She wouldn't make him angry.

"Just one point," Iver said with a sudden sharpness. "You and Torn are planning on starting a tussle here. I don't care why you two want to fight—you Elementals are obsessed with your prejudices—but I won't allow bloodshed here. And I won't allow you to be killed. Torn brought far too many of his people. This is going to be a murder, not a duel. I want you to leave here alive, Ritor."

"Why?" the mage asked coldly, and Loy bit her lip involuntarily — it seemed impossible to get through this block of ice. Well, unless she made love to him right there in front of the entire hall. A curious idea… but then Hor might not be able to restrain himself.

"Because I like you as a man more than Torn," she said venomously, turning her back to him. Regardless, she's gotten what she wanted. Ritor had had to temper his wrath, waste his power. His impenetrable defenses cracked for a moment. Naturally, even a dozen Loys wouldn't be able to harm him, but she had managed to understand a few things.

It was Torn who wanted to kill Ritor, not the other way around.

And now she knew.

"Everything is ready, Hor."

"Let's get started."

The night came alive.

"Hey, you!" Hor barked. "Water! Here's what I'm going to tell you, Elementals! You should come inside, it's warm, fun, and dry! Because we're not letting you do what you came here for anyway. There are ten times as many of us, and even if each of you kills nine, the tenth will kill them. With their bare hands, without any weapons. Well then, shall we sheathe our swords? Or are we going to fight?.."

The darkness said nothing.

"Master Torn…" Loy curtsied to make it easier for him to see down her plunging neckline. "We're honored…"

"Forget it, Loy." She noticed him licking his lips nervously. "Since when I'm a 'master'? Just Torn, Ritor is the one who loves these official titles…"

"Then let's dance, Torn." She gracefully lowered her hand onto his shoulder.

The Cat Clan's ball was already in full swing. The guests had calmed down. The two powerful mages had parted peacefully, at least outwardly. No one cared about Ritor and Torn — no one knew of what had happened to the Fire Clan, and no one knew what the wizard had talked about. Music was playing; couples were circling gently on the dance floor. Crimson, silver, and blue glints dashed all over the thick foliage. The Water Clan debutante was dancing without rest.

Torn and Loy entered the circle. Iver's thin fingers immediately touched the wizard's sinewy neck. He twitched.

"Are you all right, kind hostess?"

Loy knew she had no time at all. Hor had already begun moving, which meant that Torn could get the signal at any moment. And there would only be one way to drown it out. Besides, it was impossible to pretend with him for a long time. Only a direct push, as ridiculous as it looked. Then again, her experience told that men believed in ridiculous things more than anything.

"What would you say if you knew that the harlot Iver wants to find out what a real mage is truly like?" She emphasized the word "real." Through the thin fabric of her dress, she felt his palms grow hot in an instant. He gulped.

Another boy, the Cat thought with some contempt. Does the higher magic of the Elementals really demand so much strength from its adepts that it leaves them no time for ordinary sex?

Torn's head jerked sharply — it was difficult to interpret the hurried gesture as a nod of agreement.

"Then let's go," Loy whispered, pressing herself against him. They melted into the ballroom wall.

The tiny nook had been created by Loy Iver specifically for such rapid dates. It was gloomy here. Torn stood with his hands hanging limply and his breathing heavy — exactly like an inexperienced boy before the first night of his life. She chuckled — her power was much greater than his at the moment!

"Be bolder, Master," she smiled, dropping her dress in a single move.

He grabbed her, like a drowning man might grab a life preserver.

"Come on…" she whispered hoarsely.

The mage was losing his head, and that was good.

Torn pressed himself against her.

"And now order your people to let Ritor go," Iver purred gently. Steel glinted near Torn's throat; the edge scratched at his skin.

"W-what?!" He looked like he was about to faint.

"I don't need dead bodies at my ball," she said sharply. "You wanted to kill Ritor. I won't allow that. Settle your scores wherever you want, as long as it's not on my lands. Do you understand, Torn? Tell your people to retreat. Do you hear me? Otherwise, I swear, I'm going to slit your throat. You'll never know what happens to me afterwards." She touched the blade to his throat again.

Torn wheezed.

"Bitch…"

"No need for insults," she said gently. "You left me no choice. Give the order!"

He hesitated several moments, and Loy thought that he really wasn't a coward after all.

"Fine! You've won… today."

She sensed a wave of magic.

"It's done…"

"Listen, how did you manage it?" Hor asked gloomily after they were done making love.

Loy snorted dismissively.

"For a real mage, he wanted to live far too much," she said, as if spitting into Torn's unseen face.

Americans used to have an interesting punishment: tarring and feathering. Victor could never figure out what the educational effect of such an act was.

He was beginning to understand it now. Covered in mud from head to toe, with leaves stuck to him, Victor was standing in front of the laughing Telle and couldn't decide what to do. Laugh, cry, run away, or spank this obnoxious girl who'd dragged him into God knew what.

He ended up going with laughter. Telle looked extremely ridiculous. Just like him. Victor reached out and plucked a leaf stuck to the girl's cheek.

"How did you think of that?" Telle asked.

"You did tell me to drop if anything happened," Victor replied calmly. "There you go. I listen."

Telle giggled again, quieter this time. Victor looked around.

Utter devilry. They were in a forest, but not in the civilized, dirty woods in a Moscow suburb — in a normal one that brought to mind Shishkin's paintings [Footnote 2]. The hill they'd just rolled down looked to be there… except Victor couldn't make out any trail on it. The sky that had just been blue was now overcast.

And, more importantly, it was fall all around them. Not late fall, probably because it wasn't that cold, but definitely fall. The trees were almost bare of leaves, only the tops still had some brown and yellow color.

It was also quiet. Very quiet. It was never like that near beaches and other recreational places. There was always an idiot who thought that was a singer or a group that played a boombox at full volume…

"Where are we, Telle?" Victor asked. He didn't even think to ask where their strange pursuers had gone. He simply sensed that they weren't around.

"Home. My home," Telle wiped her face with her hand, removing what was left of the blood. There were no wounds.

"Your home?" Victor spoke those words slowly, stretching the syllables. Only that way he could fill the ringing void in his mind. He couldn't think about anything. He didn't believe. He couldn't believe.

"Well, yeah. You promised to take me home."

"And… and where is this home of yours? In Serebryany Bor?"

"No," Telle hugged her thin shoulders with her hands, clearly feeling the chill. "Much farther."

"Uh-huh. Parallel worlds," Victor tried to produce a malicious chuckle, but couldn't quite get it right.

"Call it what you want." Telle was fruitlessly trying to remove a mud-soaked lock of hair from her face. "Let's go, there's a lake nearby. We'll wash up there."

"In this cold?!" Victor said in horror.

"Otherwise we'll freeze," Telle told him in an admonishing tone.

With every passing minute, the cold was gripping into their wet clothes with its invisible claws.

"Run!" Telle pulled Victor by the hand. So they ran once more.

An autumn forest was filled with sounds and softness. It enveloped you, you submerged into it, melted away in it, and you felt as if you were flying through it rather than running. This happened fairly often with Victor, even in the small and dirty coppices of the Moscow region. But this forest had entered into him from the very first moment, from the very first breath; everything seemed strangely familiar, even though Victor had trouble identifying many of the trees. Just take this one: it had the bark of a hornbeam but the leaves of a maple. Or this one: looked like an alder, but the long silver and gold "earrings" hanging off the branches were neither here nor there.

The forest was alien to him… and at the same time it wasn't. It was as if it and Victor were two brothers, who had run into one another after being apart for so long.

Victor and Telle were running on the soft carpet of fallen leaves, slipping through bare shrubbery, past enormous forest giants that had fallen long ago, giving permission for the young shoots to make use of their light, air, and soil. This happened all the time, so there was no reason to feel sad about it. Death was a tool of Life, nothing more.

Am I drunk or something? Or is it the cold? Victor thought. His mind swam. It dimmed, melting away into the thousands of forest voices that were whispering their songs to him from every direction. He didn't understand the words… until Grandma Vera's face suddenly appeared to him from oblivion. Yes! Yes, they'd once run through a bare forest in November, transparent and sonant, ready to accept the winter shroud, after Victor got caught in a small mudslide in some ravine. Grandma had dropped her silver medallion there, which was probably the only piece of decoration she never went anywhere without. So he, with his careless childish readiness to help his grandmother, started to climb down the slippery slope…

Strange. It was as if things were repeating themselves. They were just rising, stepping onto some new, steeper loop of the spiral. Grandma had also dragged him to get washed first thing, while he, squealing from the cold and the excitement—Mom would never have allowed it—was splashing in the ice-cold water. Meanwhile, Grandma was making a fire on the shore after finding a pile of brushwood…

"Victor, why didn't you fight them?" Telle asked while running. "Why did you run?"

"Fighting without a chance for victory is for fools," Victor replied. He'd never been prone to flowery words, but they seemed appropriate in this fairytale autumn forest.

Telle nodded. Reproachfully? Approvingly? Or simply acknowledging his statement?

"We're almost at the lake," she informed him.

How was she navigating here? She was definitely from around here.

The lake appeared as if on cue, gleaming with the gray stillness of water.

"Jump in!" Telle dashed forward as if they hadn't just run an entire kilometer. "Jump now, or you won't be able to force yourself!"

Leading by example, she took a running start and leapt into the lake.

No, not really leapt, she seemed to have merged with it, diving in without a splash. But Victor splashed like a hippo.

The ice-cold water seemed to be burning him more painfully than actual flame. Your heart is going to stop, you idiot! Victor thought belatedly.

But his heart had no intention of stopping.

Telle was suddenly near him, her demanding gaze piercing into his face. Suddenly Victor realized that he wasn't feeling the cold. Or the water around him. It was as if he'd become a part of this ice-cold lake, and then the water was simply gone, turning into a gray mist, and the sun was suddenly next to him. Far below him was the ground, bright, green, blue, and brown.

…His heart was furiously pumping blood through his veins. The stagnant powerful muscles demanded battle. He didn't see his body, not that he needed it at the moment. Far below him rose the towers of the city, they grew, got closer, he was rushing towards them, knowing that he was being expected.

…The city was drenched in fear. He, who had just been soaring in the sky, was now striding proudly, unseen, through its streets, which were empty as if during a plague. He was the Judge. It was his due to pass judgment here. And to punish, if necessary.

…Then he suddenly found himself in a palace. More precisely, he realized that the patterned mosaic-covered walls around him were the walls of a ruler's palace. There were people here. Huddling in a far corner, they were avoiding looking at him. At who exactly? He still didn't know. He couldn't see his own body, as if he was playing a first-person shooter video game. Except this was no game, they knew it, and he knew it. And yet again thought with surprise and fury how those who were powerless to resist his will dared to break the law, the same people unable to raise their gazes to him…

…And when the one who ruled this city and these people finally looked at him, maybe in a final burst of pride or a bout of fear, he smiled. That smile was death. A sentence and an execution.

…He could turn around and leave. This fear, these moments would be enough for them; they would never again dare to go against his will. Would they?

…Why was it so cold? He was surrounded by fire, carved wooden walls were aflame, as were the soft pillows, which had been tossed on the floor, and the ones who had dared to go against his will. Then why was it so cold…

…Telle somehow managed to drag him to shore. He'd probably lost consciousness. Hypothermia. Where did she get the strength? Victor moved weakly, lifting up on his elbows. Everything around him seemed wrong, unreal, and he didn't immediately realize what it was. The scale had changed. In his delirious dream he'd been a giant, or at least had been surrounded by midgets.

Fire was burning on the shore. How had Telle started it? Soaking wet, no lighter or matches.

Only then did Victor notice that he was almost naked. His jeans, shirt, and the rest were hanging over the fire. Thank God he still had his underpants, that crazy girl had no sense of shame at all.

"It's not the way to dry things, but nothing to be done about it," he heard. "Otherwise you'd have frozen to death."

"Telle…" he started. This girl was definitely going too far! Even after everything that had happened. And he still had no idea what was going on!

"It's all right." She finished fussing with the fire and quickly stripped down. Her own sweater and pants were now hanging next to Victor's things. She didn't appear to be shy at all. "You have chosen, haven't you?"

"Chosen what?" he asked in confusion.

She sat up straight and stared at him, speaking firmly, "I shouldn't know what exactly, just tell me: did you choose?"

The vision returned. For a moment he remembered the flame. Only the hot flame. Was that his choice?

Victor didn't say "yes", but Telle understood anyway. She nodded in satisfaction and tossed a new pile of brushwood into the fire. Victor noticed that she'd scratched herself. Then again, it was probably nothing to her. Even her genuine wounds healed overnight.

"We mustn't sit," Telle said. "We have to run, Victor."

He pictured them running around the fire naked and shook his head. But Telle wouldn't let up, "Get up! Come on!"

Victor didn't have time to react, when she grabbed a smoldering branch, more of a twig, really, with a glowing dot on the tip, from out of the fire, and whipped it against his back.

"You!" He didn't even realize that, forgetting all embarrassment, he'd jumped to his feet and started chasing Telle. "Why…"

Had he managed to catch the girl, she would've received a solid spanking. But trying to catch Telle was clearly a pointless task. A minute later, having separated from him by the fire, the girl stopped, "Victor! Truce?"

He wordlessly shook his fist at her.

"It was necessary for the blood to start pumping," he said seriously. "Don't be upset. Sorry."

"I don't know how to excuse," Victor said. He hadn't even had time to feel surprise at his own words, which were malicious, pompous, and also completely honest. The world swayed around him.

…He was being gripped by flames. They struck, bit, burned him. They were evil, merciless, and, at the same time, helpless. He was still stronger. Far stronger than all of his enemies put together. But their attack, their anger, all that demanded an answer. A worthy answer. He swam, in the boiling sea, covered by a flaming film. To the long narrow ships, which had raised tall masts with black sails, with eagle-headed noses atop them.

He knew that he was stronger. And he would always be stronger…

"Victor," Telle said. "Victor…"

Opening his eyes, he caught her wrist, grabbing a smoldering branch from the fire with his other hand, doing it by touch, without looking, as if he could sense the flame with his entire body. He lightly flogged Telle's shoulder. The girl screeched and freed her hand.

"Now it's truce," Victor said.

For some reason, he was certain that Telle could've easily evaded him had she wanted to.

"Warmed up?" Telle inquired abruptly, rubbing her shoulder. "Get dressed and we'll go. We shouldn't linger, the enemies have fallen behind, but not for long. They're going to find the Trail. We need to get to the cliffs by nightfall."

"To the cliffs?" Victor chuckled nervously. "Fine, let's go to the cliffs. Or to the mountains. Or to the sea."

"We'll go to the sea later," Telle said in all seriousness. "First, to the cliffs. It's not far, but the road is difficult. Too close to the Gray Limits."

The Limits! He knew… or he thought he knew. Should he ask Telle?

No, he wouldn't ask her. This game, when it was assumed that he knew and understood everything but really didn't, had its own attraction. The Limits? Fine, Limits would work. Gray Limits were even better.

They got dressed facing away from one another. As if that immediately switched everything to the business track. Victor did what he could to wring out the underwear while still wearing it, then put on his jeans. The clothes had dried up completely, but his boots, damp and shrunken, were uncomfortable to wear. Yet he had no choice but to deal with it.

Footnotes

1) "New Russians" is a term for nouveau riche Russians who acquired their wealth during the 1990s, sometimes through illegal means.

2) Ivan Shishkin was a 19th century Russian landscape painter.