The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  The woman who spoke to him called herself Adayna, daughter of Farlaav. Once she seemed satisfied Voran was not a “changer”—Voran had no idea what that was—she took him into the mass of refugees, eager to share something, a secret of some kind.

  “I managed to save the Voyevoda, my father. But he will not last long.”

  He was an old man, though his beard was still black with two streaks of white, like a badger-pelt. He lay on a makeshift litter pulled by a horse half as dead as he was. Only his face was visible in the mountain of furs keeping him warm.

  “Lord Farlaav,” said Voran. “I am Voran, son of Otchigen.”

  “Voran? I knew your father.” He looked suddenly lost, gazing about wildly, hoping to find something to orient him. “Are we near Vasyllia?”

  “No, I suspect we are a week or so away. But you need not worry, Vasyllia will care for your people. You have my word. Please, what happened to Nebesta?”

  “I do not quite know what to tell you first, Voran. There was no warning. In the weeks leading to this attack, some of our rangers disappeared in the wild. It should have alerted us to our danger.

  “It happened in the dead of night, and suddenly most of the city was burning. How they breached the walls I will never know. An army of mounted men, screaming in a foreign tongue I’ve never heard. Their skill with the arrow is not human. They are like men possessed, with supernatural strength and cruelty. They call themselves Gumiren.”

  Voran had never heard of them. In the back of his mind he remembered an old rumor, from about ten years ago, that nomad armies were assembling in the far Steppelands. Could this be the result of that muster?

  “But even they are not the worst danger,” said Lord Farlaav. “In every shadow of the fallen city, unspeakable things lurked—monsters the like I’ve only read about in stories. I would not have believed it without the witness of my two eyes. Huge wolf-men and bird-creatures and many-headed snakes with wings.”

  “Lord Farlaav, are you sure? Perhaps in the heat of the—”

  Lord Farlaav lifted himself up from the litter with a groan and grabbed Voran’s arm, gasping with the effort.

  “Listen to me! I saw what I saw. If you do not believe me, there will be nothing to stop him.”

  “Him? Who?”

  “This is not a human enemy we strive against, Voran. The Raven is coming.”

  The effort was too much, and he collapsed in a dead faint. A pool of red seeped into the furs at his back. Adayna pushed Voran aside and called for help.

  Voran’s mind reeled, but his instincts took over. He seemed to hover over himself, watching as he ran back and forth, cajoling here, ordering there, pushing, pulling, jostling, and helping along. Within an hour, he and Adayna—she had a new stick and had tied a wolf-fir around her chest with a leather thong, giving her the appearance of a nomadic priestess—led the mass of wounded Nebesti toward Vasyllia. He carried the skeletal girl on his shoulders. She was Farlaav’s great-granddaughter. Both of her parents, Adayna’s daughter and her husband, had been killed.

  For the first day, Adayna spoke little, leaving Voran to his thoughts. He was almost unnaturally calm after his encounter with Lyna, but his mind told him that he was courting disaster for seeming to abandon the pilgrims, even for the sake of these thousands of refugees. Anyone else would be lauded by Vasyllia for saving the remnant of Nebesta. But it was more likely that the son of Otchigen would be imprisoned for abandoning his charge and leaving the pilgrims to an untamed wilderness crawling with creatures from nightmares and an enemy that slaughtered people just to make an impression. The Dar would be right to imprison him.

  Worse still, he had lost Lebía. Agonized worry for her gnawed at him—he was sure he would have a red gaping hole in his chest by the time he reached Vasyllia. The desire to turn back and find her was so strong that a few times his feet seemed to turn aside of their own accord. Every time he moved back to the path, he imaged Lebía’s corpse riddled with arrows.

  Another fear was the realization that the only way he could justify himself before the Dar and Dumar would be to tell them of the Sirin. But that was impossible. No one believed in the Sirin anymore. Actually claiming soul-bond with a legend? Impossible.

  Yet he saw no other possible solution. He could not abandon the refugees. Neither could he fathom abandoning the pilgrims. But he had no idea where they were. To make matters worse, the farther he traveled from his encounter with Lyna, the more his sense of loss and yearning deepened. The flame in his heart remained alight, but it did not fill him, only leaving him warm enough to live.

  On the second day, Adayna was more inclined to speak. He was glad of the change. Speaking to himself was becoming tiresome.

  “Adayna, does your father still live?”

  “He fades, Voran. I hope he will survive to Vasyllia. To see Dar Antomír would ease his passing, I think.”

  “Tell me, what did you mean when you thought I was a changer?”

  She looked at him with the gaze of those who have seen too much to care about social niceties. Voran felt a flush creep up his cheek.

  “Did you believe my father’s account of the Raven’s army of horrors? I saw it myself, Voran, too clearly to doubt. A warrior, seemingly human, who changed shape before my eyes. Where a nomad archer stood one moment, the next lurched a creature with a human body and a lion’s head.”

  Voran said nothing, though the dread inside him deepened.

  “Nebesti lore tells of changers, spirits of the abysses who wield the power of transformation. Vasyllia has no such legends?”

  “I have never heard of such a thing.”

  “Nevertheless, it is spoken of. The Raven is the first of these.”

  “The Raven I know, though many think him merely a cautionary tale.” But if the Sirin were real, could not other legends walk the earth as well? Find the Living Water, said Lyna. If the Raven walked the earth, it was clear that he came to Vasyllia to find the Living Water. How would Voran ever convince the Dar of the need to protect the weeping tree from a monster out of stories?

  “That carn ahead of us,” said Adayna, “the one red with sun-blood. Is that not Vasyllia Mountain?”

  “Yes, it is.” Voran smiled at her use of the word “carn”—an archaism in the Vasylli language. “A few more days, and your people will find refuge.”

  “But for how long? Surely you cannot doubt that the Gumiren come for the jewel of the Three Cities?”

  There was faint irony in her voice, and Voran recognized Nebesta’s old jealousy at being the Second City. He could not blame her. If what Lyna said about Vasyllia’s responsibility to care for all Outer Lands was true, then the Vasylli had much work before them to restore goodwill with Nebesta, Karila, and the lesser cities. Too many years of bad blood. Housing the refugees of fallen Nebesta would be a good start.

  Vasyllia Mountain grew by the day, and on the seventh morning they were within sight of the city. Here, the dirt paths they had taken finally merged with the Dar’s road. As soon as Voran and Adayna, walking a bowshot ahead of the others, had stepped on the road, something slipped in and out of view at a point where the road dipped down and out of view.

  “What was that?” said Adayna, tense with fear.

  “Vasylli scouts. Don’t be afraid. They are only performing their duties. Now the city will be informed, and we will be met at the gates.” Voran’s even tone belied his perturbation. Why had the Vasylli scouts allowed themselves to be seen so easily? Were things truly falling apart so badly in Vasyllia that even the scouts couldn’t stay off the Dar’s road?

  By mid-day, they approached Vasyllia, wading through the stubs of reaped wheat, still poking through the half-frozen soil in the fields of harvest that lay before the city. The gates stood open, and three companies of warriors in black were arrayed before them, banners—gold sun on black field—unfurled, spears glistening in the late autumn sun.

  “You said we would be met,” said Adayna, “but I did not think you meant armed
warriors.”

  Voran walked ahead with Adayna, his hand tight on his pommel. Two mounted guards cantered toward them, both swordsmen. To Voran’s disgust, one of them was Rogdai.

  They had not spoken since their wager. Rogdai had seemed eager to avoid Voran, and Voran had been happy to oblige.

  Rogdai took off his helm.

  “Vohin Voran, I charge you in the name of Dumar with abandoning your charge of protecting the pilgrims. You must come with me immediately.”

  Voran was struck speechless. He had expected at least some banter about his father’s wine, at least, before things got unpleasant.

  But to be charged by the name of the Dumar, the assembly of the people? That was interesting. The Dar was still on his side, it would seem. That gave Voran a measure of courage.

  “Vohin Rogdai, I will come with you as soon as you can give assurances to the daughter of Lord Farlaav, Adayna, that the remnant of Nebesta will be given refuge in Vasyllia.”

  Rogdai hesitated, then dismounted. He fell on one knee awkwardly before Adayna.

  “Forgive me, lady,” he said. “Remnant? Is what Vohin Voran says true?”

  Adayna stood tall and straight, through Voran sensed her exhaustion.

  “It is. We are all that remains of Nebesta, Vohin Rogdai. I cannot speak for our outlying villages, though I fear the worst. I hope Vasyllia will remember her hospitality in this time of need.”

  Rogdai looked down at the ground, unable to hold her gaze. He seemed embarrassed to continue speaking.

  “I am… sorry, my lady. The Dumar has made it clear that all refugees must remain outside the city until further notice.”

  “Apparently, the Dumar did not inform the first reach, Rogdai,” said Voran, pointing to the city.

  A mass of first-reachers poured through the gates, bearing tents, blankets, pots, and sundry other daily necessities. They were led by the potter from the marketplace, the one who made the perfect clay urn. Voran was pleased to see Rogdai seething with impotent anger.

  “Lady Adayna,” said Voran, “the poor of Vasyllia offer you hospitality, even though her leaders have forgotten what the word means. When you have settled your people, I invite you to lodge at my own home. I will speak to the Dar on your behalf, have no worry. Rogdai, the Lord Farlaav of Nebesta is lying wounded among the refugees. Lady Adayna will show you where he lies. Of course, you will want to accompany him to the Dar’s palace yourself.”

  Rogdai looked like he wanted to bind Voran with chains on the spot, but he merely turned to Adayna and bowed his head in agreement.

  “Oh,” said Voran, as though it were an afterthought, “and please arrange for my father’s wine to be served to the Nebesti. They have need of refreshment.”

  Voran turned away, not waiting for a reply. He felt Rogdai’s hatred like a hot poker in his back. As he walked through the ranks of warriors, he expected to be stopped by one of them at any moment. But they let him pass.

  As he approached the gates, tents were already springing up like mushrooms after an autumn thunderstorm. Voran saw not a single second or third-reacher among them. Only the poor of Vasyllia had come outside the city to help the Nebesti in their hour of need.

  Voran spent most of the day arranging for food and more tents to be sent out to the Nebesti outside the city walls. As he feared, none of the rich wanted anything to do with the refugees. Even in the second reach—many second-reachers themselves had known poverty at some point in their lives—only a few families, most of them from the warrior caste, opened their doors to him.

  That evening, he sat in his own kitchens enjoying the last of his father’s wine. He had only drunk half the chalice when the pounding on the doors threatened to splinter them.

  Her lardship came into the kitchen, her face red with annoyance.

  “Voran, it’s the palace guard.”

  Voran smiled and nodded.

  Four black-liveried warriors in full armor, led by Rogdai, stood outside the door.

  “You will leave your sword here, Vohin Voran,” said Rogdai. “Accused traitors are not allowed arms in the palace.”

  The Monarchia of Vasyllia has as its first concern the care and welfare of its citizens. Therefore, we have found it necessary to form a representative body, to be called the Dumar.

  I. Dumar representation will be based upon population density.

  II. According to current standards, twenty will come from the first reach, fifteen from the second, five from the third.

  III. Let the reaches choose their own.

  IV. The Dumar will assist the Monarchia in an advisory capacity.

  V. According to the discretion of the Dar, the Dumar may also legislate certain internal matters, such as the distribution of food and moneys from the city’s common cache.

  VI. The Dumar may, in extreme cases of dynastic turmoil, call for a Council of the Reaches to choose a new Dar.

  -Official edict of Dar Aldermían II, year 734 of the Covenant

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Dumar

  The heavy double doors of the Chamber of Counsel opened inward to reveal a fresco of the Covenant Tree adorning the entire far wall. Just as the doors opened, sunlight pierced through the colored glass in the windows, and the flames danced on the painted tree. Gooseflesh prickled Voran’s arms at the sight. On either side of the rectangular room stood tiered wooden galleries filled to the brim. Every one of the forty representatives of the three reaches of Vasyllia, the full Dumar, looked at him with undisguised hatred. Of course, Voran thought, he had chosen to aid Nebesti over Vasylli. He understood their hatred, but he deplored it. It shocked him how deeply entrenched Vasyllia had become in its insularity.

  In each of the four corners of the room stood a great stone likeness of a tree—a birch, an oak, a beech, and an aspen. For a moment, he thought he saw a Sirin in the branches of the birch, but he was mistaken. Even so, the flame in his heart surged, and he felt new strength blooming from his chest.

  Dar Antomír sat in a simple throne of white marble under the fresco of the aspen sapling. Mirnían—his face an inscrutable mask—stood before a throne of malachite a step lower than the Dar. Sabíana sat on the Dar’s left on a throne of pink granite. She seemed to look at Voran, but as he approached, he realized her eyes were directed at a point beyond his left shoulder. He had hoped she had forgiven him; it appeared he was wrong.

  “The Dumar may be seated,” said Mirnían. “Chosen speakers of the Dumar, step forward for counsel.”

  These were two military men, the willowy chief cleric Otar Kalún, and a young courtier Voran did not know. He could smell lavender on him, even from this distance, and his silver cloak shimmered as he moved. Voran disliked him immediately. He knew the type—a social climber who would not hesitate to sell his own grandmother for advancement in the Dumar.

  The chosen speakers stood on a step lower than Mirnían and Sabíana and faced Voran. At that moment, when even Sabíana looked at him with the eyes of a statue, Voran finally realized the full seriousness of his situation.

  “Vohin Voran,” said Mirnían, “son of Otchigen, the former Voyevoda of Vasyllia, you are charged with dereliction of duty. Before you speak in your defense, know that it was the Dumar’s wish that you be clapped in irons upon your return to Vasyllia. Only the Dar’s clemency grants you the freedom you now enjoy.”

  “Something you hardly deserve,” hissed Otar Kalún. His pupils were abysses in eyes of pale grey.

  Dar Antomír tensed, as if he were about to rebuke the chief cleric. But he did not. Sabíana looked down at her hands, cupped on her knees. The tips of her mouth curled down, either in anger or in sorrow. Voran couldn’t decide which. He wanted her to look at him again. He was sure it would give him strength. But she did not.

  “Highness and Dumar assembled,” Voran said, his voice shaking in spite of himself. “Nebesta is fallen. Your scouts doubtless spotted the refugees days ago. What they did not tell you is that the Second City is no more. Every male Nebesti ha
s been slaughtered or captured.” He felt anger rising, his voice hardening. “The invader has sent their women and children ahead, doubtless to spread fear and to burden Vasyllia with their care.” This last phrase he spat out with contempt. Every face but the Dar’s twisted. In an upsurge of emotion, Voran went on the offensive.

  “But that is nothing!” Voran’s voice echoed. “Nebesta was invaded not merely by an army of men, but by something the Nebesti call changers. Dark creatures, half-man, half-beast, capable of changing physical form to suit their needs. They are led by the Raven.”

  The hall erupted in noise—laughter, shuffling cambric, frantic whispers, hands wringing sword-hilts. Voran kept his gaze firmly on the Dar’s. He saw understanding there and the beginning of fear.

  The older military man boomed over the noise. “Highness, must we listen to stories? This man is charged with treason.”

  “Perhaps Vohin Voran would care to elucidate?” It was the courtier. He did not even try to hide his derision. Voran’s gut twisted. This man was wrong, somehow. Voran had a compulsion to run him through with a sword. It was so strong that he had to physically restrain himself.

  “Fools,” Voran said more quietly, but his voice echoed still. “Are you blind to the dying of the tree? The fire on the aspen sapling is dying, far earlier than its allotted time. Does this bother no one?”

  Voran turned slowly to look at the rest of the Dumar. Some faces were paler than when he entered. A few did not return his gaze.

  “We have caused Nebesta’s fall. We have broken Covenant with Adonais, and now the fire on the tree will fade, and we will not be able to bring it back. The ancient protection girding Vasyllia will fade, and our city will fall.”

  “Father, will you do nothing?” Mirnían shook with anger. “This man is charged with abandoning innocent pilgrims in the wild, and he is raving about covenants.”