The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  Mirnían seemed to have won the argument, because the Pilgrim faced the people again with a story on his lips.

  The Tale of the Prince and the Raven

  Beyond the thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth kingdom, there lived a restless prince. He had everything he could ever want—riches, health, a beautiful princess as his intended bride. But despite all this, wanderlust ate at him constantly.

  So he left behind his love to climb the mountains, to explore the forests, to swim the rivers, seeking to slake the thirst of his restlessness. But nowhere did he find the peace he sought.

  One day he stopped to drink from a pure mountain spring. It was a taste of paradise.

  “Do you like the water?” croaked a voice behind his back.

  It was a withered old man, all tawny beard and hair, twisted and resembling a tree stump more than a person.

  “Yes, I do,” said the prince. “I do not think I have ever tasted such water.”

  The creature leered with a leathery, lipless mouth. “Hah! That is nothing. I have water that will make this water taste like sand. Not only will you never thirst again, but your greatest desire will be fulfilled instantly. What do you desire most, young man?”

  The prince could not believe his ears. Could this be the end of his quest?

  Just then he looked up and saw a great eagle lounging on a spruce branch like a monarch on a throne. What exhilaration there must be in soaring through the infinite sky!

  “I wish to fly as the eagle,” said the prince.

  “A very worthy desire. The Raven can provide that.”

  The prince had heard of the Raven, a mysterious spirit of the forest, though he supposed it nothing more than a story in the shriveled imagination of a village hag. He remembered the tales he heard in childhood—stories tainted with blood and loss. A creeping fear wrapped itself around his heart, but he laughed it to scorn.

  “What do you require in return?” the prince asked.

  “Oh, I require nothing. The virtue of my enchantment is such that I will partake, in small measure, of your pleasure.”

  “Is there nothing else?”

  The Raven shook his head, and the trees began to quiver, and the wind moaned like a crying woman.

  “So be it,” said the prince.

  The Raven pulled a carved wooden flask from his dirty robes, and the prince drank. Fear suddenly flashed in dreadful clarity as he saw the face of his beloved in his mind, pale as death. He gasped as his breathing grew more painful. Terror gripped him. He could not breathe. A light stabbed his eyes, and he fell.

  It took him a blank eternity to realize he was flying. His feathered arms caressed the waves of wind as they hugged his eagle body. His eyes met the sun’s rays, and he did not need to look away. Through his eagle eyes, the sun was a spinning furnace of purple, orange, even green tongues of flame.

  A dark streak dimmed the sun for a moment. A swan, feathers black as a mountain’s peak at midnight, flapped toward the mountain stream. Her beauty enraged him, impelling him to destroy this usurper of his glory. He screamed and plunged on the unsuspecting swan.

  An alien emotion disturbed him. Pity, a frantic desire for mercy. The eagle recognized the prince still inside him, and he unleashed his anger to drown out the vestiges of man. A warm stream of blood poured over his talons. He could smell the swan’s life oozing out. Dropping her corpse with disgust, he turned once again to the dancing wheel of fire.

  An intense pain clutched his chest. The colors of the sun turned grey and the whirling dance froze; the air cut his lungs like daggers. His arms lost their feathers; pudgy nobs replaced them.

  He came to himself near the stream, a man again. He crawled to its edge. There, propped against a boulder, lay his beloved princess. Her face was white with death. He touched her cheek and took her hand. It was slippery; blood streamed down her arm. Her shoulder had the unmistakable imprints of an eagle’s talons.

  A noxious croak jolted him. On a swinging branch above him, a raven was laughing, its black head nodding insanely. The prince lunged at it, but it flew without effort up to the sun, laughing still. Near the roots of a nearby tree lay the wooden flask, taunting him.

  Silence. Then whispers bubbling up like a pot of stew reaching a boil.

  “What a horrible story.”

  “Is that a Karila story? Never heard anything so absurd.”

  “What a disappointment. They don’t make Pilgrims like they used to, it would seem. What tripe.”

  The whispers rose into a dull groan, the mass of people rocking back and forth like a river in the wake of a longship. Then they parted in the middle. Voran was confused at first, not being able to see, but as the parting reached him, he saw Rogdai and a few other wardens leading a young man, dressed in brown and green woodsman’s garb. Voran had a vague memory of the boy—he was a few years his junior in the warrior seminary. A dreamy, odd sort of boy. Not good for battle. What was his name? Tolnían, he remembered. A scout.

  He felt cold as he realized what that meant. The chief door warden was leading a simple scout directly to Mirnían in the middle of a storytelling. Voran pushed some very annoyed old people aside and joined the small party approaching the stage. Rogdai saw him and looked as though he wanted to say something cutting, but he nodded curtly and looked forward.

  “Rogdai,” said Mirnían, simmering with rage. “I hope you have sufficient reason to disrupt the storytelling.”

  Rogdai bowed silently and moved aside, prompting Tolnían to walk forward.

  “My prince,” said the young scout in a soft voice barely heard over the crowd’s commotion. “Living Water has been found in Vasyllia. They say a blind man has already been healed.”

  “Rogdai,” said Mirnían, no longer trying to keep his anger contained, “you are a fool if you think this sort of rumor was worth stopping the storytelling.”

  “But, Highness…”

  “Don’t interrupt me. You know the proper protocol. It should be the elders in private counsel that gave us this information.”

  “Mirnían,” said Voran, his heart dropping to his heels. “Rogdai is right. The Living Water is never spoken of in the Old Tales without mention of the Raven and his eternal quest to seek out the Living Water. To become the Deathless One.”

  Just two days ago all that would have seemed little more than childhood silliness to Voran. But no longer.

  “The Raven?” Mirnían looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or fume in anger. “Deathless ones? Voran, have you gone mad?”

  “Whether or not those old stories are historically accurate, they all contain deep truths that we should never ignore. Living Water never appears without—”

  “Enough!” cried Mirnían, now red in the face. “Rogdai, you and the scout are to report immediately to the Dar. Voran, go home before you embarrass yourself any further. Is this the sort of behavior befitting the future consort of the Darina Sabíana?”

  The words echoed in the square and in the eyes of the crowd surrounding them. Voran was struck dumb. Mirnían had never yet chosen such a public stage to humiliate him. He turned to seek out the Pilgrim on the stage. Maybe the Pilgrim could speak some sense to Mirnían. But there was no one there. The Pilgrim was gone.

  Lassar’s days are long gone. Four hundred ninety-six years to the day of his death. And again, the darkness preceding his Covenant gathers. It reveals itself in the plague that already rages in the outer reaches of the Three Lands. The Raven escaped Vasyllia. For all I know, he is at the brink of finding Living Water. But no Harbinger has come to give light to my reign. Am I wrong, then, to seek a renewal of covenant with Adonais for my people, though it cost me my very soul?

  -From “The Apocryphal Diary of Dar Cassían” (The Sayings, Appendix D:6e)

  CHAPTER SIX

  The Dar's Daughter

  Sabíana despised high day afternoons. Once a week, it behooved Adonais—or at least the clerics who spoke in his name—to confine all members of the Dar’s hou
sehold to the palace. All anyone wanted was to be outside for as long as possible before the winter, especially since today was a day of story. Instead, they were ordered to dedicate the half-day to the restoration of the Temple holies. Today—a day of deep winter-blue sky, crisp air, and birdsong—Sabíana’s sacred work was the restoration of an ancient banner. She tried to remember how many weeks in a row she had slaved over this half-tattered rag. She lost count at seven.

  It was a large square banner depicting a Sirin in flight. The style was archaic: the Sirin was flattened, her face oddly twisted toward the viewer. Her woman’s head was badly fitted to her eagle body by an almost nonexistent neck; the wings were far too widely outstretched, the talons looked too long with respect to the rest of the body. The face was long gone, and even in the weeks of her work, Sabíana had managed only to finish the eyes.

  To her dismay, she saw that one of the eyes was bigger than the other. How had she not noticed it before? She silently groaned.

  Two other girls joined her soon after she began, sitting opposite her at the long table brought into her chamber once a week. They sat demurely, not daring to speak, though the stifled smiles warned that soon decorum would fail, and the gossip would begin. Sabíana wondered if she would even have five minutes of silence with her thoughts.

  “What a fine figure that Yadovír made at Temple today, did he not?” attempted one of them, a pale girl of thirteen.

  “Yado—who? Do you mean that first-reacher?” hissed the other, appalled.

  Sabíana groaned, audibly this time. The girls’ heads snapped back to their work, and she won another few minutes of blessed silence.

  Now that her fingers overcame their initial clumsiness to act of their own accord, Sabíana could finally give a little rein to her thoughts. She told herself she would not think of Voran. Immediately his green eyes invaded her mind. They were striking in his pale face, framed by dark, shoulder-length hair. Sabíana ground her teeth in frustration.

  He had changed. For days, he had not so much as sent her a note, much less seen her. Not for the first time, the dark thought nibbled at her mind. If she had not pursued him, would Voran have found the courage to seek her out himself? Immediately, she felt guilty and tried to push the thought away. A sickly sweet after-pain remained in her stomach.

  “My father told me that the traitor’s son got what his father deserved!” The younger girl’s face was red with annoyance. Sabíana realized that she had stumbled into the middle of a heated argument.

  “Your father is an upstart second-reacher who speaks far more than he should,” said the other girl, smirking.

  “Silence, both of you,” Sabíana said, smacking her palms on the table. Both girls jumped, and the younger immediately melted into tears.

  “Enough of that, Malita.” Sabíana tried to make her voice soothing, but it came out raspy. She patted the younger girl’s hand. The girl jerked it away. “Tell me, what traitor’s son are you talking of?”

  Malita flushed and shook her head, continuing to sob.

  “Go on, I won’t bite you, I promise.” But I may bark some more, if you don’t speak quickly. “Surely you don’t mean Vohin Voran, son of Otchigen?”

  It was as if the girl’s face were brushed over by white paint, then quickly repainted again in dark red.

  “Malita, I am ashamed of you, to be spreading rumors. Do you not realize how much Vohin Voran has lost in his life?”

  Malita looked up, lips pursed in exasperation. “I am only repeating what everybody knows. Mirnían himself…”

  “Do not presume to name the prince without his honorific.”

  Malita stamped her foot, and the tears flowed anew. The other girl, embarrassed to be the cause of her friend’s fit, interjected, though not looking up from her embroidery.

  “What Malita was trying to say, Lady Sabíana, is that Prince Mirnían was absolutely justified in his public rebuff of Vohin Voran this morning…” The girl’s voice tapered off. She gathered the courage to look at Sabíana, but immediately faded back into dumbfounded fear. Sabíana realized her fury must be visible in her face. She would have to work on her composure. Later.

  “Public rebuff? What in the Heights do you mean, girl?”

  Malita sensed she had a chance to gain ground. “After the storytelling today, my lady. Vohin Voran and Prince Mirnían had a very public confrontation. The prince threatened him.”

  Sabíana rose abruptly, pushing back the wooden bench so fiercely that it flipped over. Both girls, shoulders tensed and hunched over, looked very attentively at the embroidered clouds above the Sirin’s head. Without giving them another thought, Sabíana pulled the door open as hard as she could. It crashed, and the young sentry at the door, a boy of no more than fifteen, jumped half a foot into the air.

  “That will teach you to sleep at your post, soldier,” she said as she passed him. “Let that be the last time, or your elders will hear of it.”

  The boy straightened and saluted, fist to chest. Two beads of sweat streaked down his cheek.

  Sabíana hid a smile as she hurried down the tapestried hallway. She really should not enjoy rattling the boys so much, but the pleasure never lessened for its frequent repetition.

  Her mirth quickly subsided. Mirnían. Arrogant, pathetic weakling! She knew how deeply he still felt his failure at the Ordeal of Silence, and how greatly he resented Voran’s success. Was this how low he would stoop to get his revenge?

  Past a rounded archway, a wall of icy wind slapped her face before she could descend the stairs hugging the sides of her turret. Perhaps it would be best to avoid the outdoors. Reaching the new rushes strewn on the bare ground below, she turned left through a heavy oak door that creaked with disuse. A curving staircase stood beyond the door, rising to a latticed hallway lined with white stone pillars in the form of trees, with nothing but the clouded sky as a roof. At the end of the open passage stood another wooden door with a carved Sirin in a tree. Her father’s private room.

  She raised her fist to knock, but stopped. Voices, raised. She put her ear to the door and closed her eyes. Mirnían, his tone plaintive, petulant in his most childish way. Father’s answer. Angry. Gooseflesh prickled her neck. Father had not been this angry in a long time. She closed her eyes and held her breath, trying to make out the words. Her father spoke.

  “You dare to excuse…” Something muffled, maybe reason? “Can’t understand. How…” again incomprehensible… “without my knowing?”

  Sabíana pushed gently, and the door opened a crack.

  “It is not for you to determine, Mirnían!”

  “Father, these rumors come from the wilds every five minutes. Do you remember when all of Vasyllia was in a flurry over a rumor about nomadic armies massing in the Steppelands? When was there ever a nomadic army that threatened anything?”

  “Oh, Mirnían. You will not stand there and tell me you see no difference with this situation.”

  Silence, tense as the lull before a storm.

  “Father, I really don’t see how I should be held responsible for…”

  “A Dar is always responsible, you fool!” Father sighed audibly. Sabíana heard more in that sigh than exhaustion. It was old age. “If you will not take responsibility for your lapse in judgment, perhaps you will be kind enough to explain how it is that a future Dar allows himself to publicly berate a future member of his own family?”

  “Pah! You don’t actually think Sabíana will go through with it.”

  Sabíana pushed the door and advanced on Mirnían. Seeing her, Mirnían’s eyebrows shot up, and he blanched. He retreated three steps and raised his hands in self-defense.

  “You idiot, Mirnían! Why is it that I, a woman, can see the ramifications of your actions better than you can yourself? Have you stopped to think for even half a second? You know what sort of element likes to feed the rumors about Voran’s family. You have publicly allied yourself with the babblers. You appear weaker than my future husband. Is that a good vantage point fo
r a Dar-to-be?”

  Mirnían stiffened. Sabíana had a sharp desire to strike him across the face.

  “Enough, Sabíana,” said Dar Antomír, but his voice was gentle. “He has enough to think about without you berating him.” He pulled her toward him, then leaned on her, grimacing with pain. She helped him sit back down.

  “Tell her, Mirnían,” he said, wheezing. “That will be punishment enough. And it is time you learned to respect her counsel more. You will have no better counsellor when I am gone.”

  Mirnían looked at her as he did so often in childhood. It was a silent cry for help. How often she had seen that face, whenever he was at his wits’ end, whenever he knew he couldn’t do without her. Poor Mirnían. So talented with people, so generous of heart, so beloved for his beauty and his charm. But just enough wit to know that he lacked the wisdom needed to be Dar. He was once again a little boy in her eyes, face unwashed and eyes wide. She smiled at him, the pity nearly overwhelming her.

  “About a month ago,” began Mirnían, “I was finishing an inspection of the door wardens. It was late evening. The doors were already shut when a merchant caravan came into sight at the far end of the plateau. It was one of our second-reachers, one of the more prosperous ones, I believe. I ordered the doors open, though it was after the closing horn-call.

  “Everything seemed in order. The Karilan wares—the silks in particular—were exquisite, and the merchant reported nothing amiss with the journey. Just when I was about to send them home, the merchant’s daughter, a little sprightly thing, probably five or six, took a liking to me. She ran up to me. Told me she had a big secret. She said she saw a hawthorn tree weeping tears of water.”

  Sabíana failed to understand the significance of the story. Dar Antomír smiled mischievously. “So, you do not know everything, do you, my swan?”