“This way, Otar Kalún, follow me. We should come out not far from the enemy camp. Their soldiers have free rein to wander about in search of food or stragglers. If we are accosted, we must not panic. Even it if seems they will kill us, it will be no more than a show of force. The Ghan has ensured our safe passage.” Did he really believe that himself?
Yadovír kept one hand on the walls, feeling for the telltale change. The bare walls needed to give way to scattered roots, and only then could they be sure they were near the exit. But they walked for a long time, and Yadovír felt no change. Had they taken a wrong turn? What if they were going deeper into the mountain, and all that awaited them was a dead end and a stone tomb? His temples began to ache with increased pressure, or was that his imagination? Surely they were going deeper into the earth, not closer to the exit.
Otar Kalún persisted in his silence. Finally, Yadovír felt a moist root.
“Not far now, Otar. I did not tell you this before, but the Ghan is eager to meet the chief cleric of Adonais. He said that he expected an interesting conversation.”
Otar Kalún merely grunted.
Soon they came out through a small opening, and the icy wind bit Yadovír’s face, freezing even the hairs in his nose. Rare, sharp snowflakes did not so much fall as shoot down from the sky like arrows. Below them the mountain sloped down away from the walls of Vasyllia to their left, only a few hundred feet away. There was no path here through the thickly-growing pines. They climbed down with difficulty, slipping on the icy rocks and roots. Mist lay thick around them.
“What’s that?” Yadovír pointed ahead of them.
“Torchlight,” said Otar Kalún.
“Sixty-five,” said Rogdai.
“Sixty-five?” Sabíana could not believe her ears. She had expected ten, maybe fifteen traitors. Sixty-five? A heavy dread settled into the pit of her stomach. This was obviously just the beginning.
She and Rogdai walked through the dungeons, Rogdai naming every one of the conspirators as they passed their door.
“Lord Rudin, his son Nevida…”
Nevida? She thought, alarmed. I grew up with him. He was one of my closest friends. You have no friends, she reminded herself.
“Any clerics, Rogdai?”
“None, my lady. Did you expect any?” He seemed surprised.
She would not speak it aloud, but she feared Otar Kalún had no great love for her. But would he turn traitor?
“I think I have had enough for now. Bring me a written report of their questioning by early tomorrow morning.”
Sabíana allowed herself to wander through the lower reaches of the palace on her way back from the dungeons. She found herself in the passage she often walked with Voran whenever they had wanted to be alone. After the bond with Feína, she found it easier to think of him. Her heart did not immediately fold in on itself as though it were trying to hide.
She remembered the moment she first saw Voran as a man, not a boy. He had just successfully finished the Ordeal of Silence, but the only reward he was to receive was the disappearance of his beloved mother, the madness of his father, and the terrible events of the failed Karila embassy.
Voran was only sixteen at the time.
The memory was as clear as though it had happened yesterday.
It was the first sunny morning after nearly a month of rain, and the air was so clear, so washed, that it seemed there was no air at all. Father had relented for once and allowed her to attend the Dar’s hours—the one day in the month that the Dar accepted direct petitions from any person in Vasyllia, regardless of reach. Voran was the first to come.
She had not recognized him—he was so serious, so thin. The six months of the Ordeal of Silence lay heavy on him. She knew how much heavier his burden was about to become, and she wanted to leave, to not be forced to endure the pain in his eyes. But she forced herself to stay.
“Voran,” her father had said. “I would give my right hand to reward you as you deserve. Instead, I have only pain. The embassy to Karila was attacked. Every single member of the embassy—yes, even the women—were killed. Worse. They were gutted like animals. But…”
Voran’s lips were a white line in his face.
“Your father was not among them.”
Voran gasped in relief. Then, his face changed. He realized the implication.
“But, Highness,” he said, in the voice of a man who had forgotten what is was like to speak. “Surely you don’t think…”
Sabíana’s heart contracted, but she held still.
“No, Voran. I do not. But others…”
Something happened to Voran’s body. It seemed to grow, to become firmer. His face aged before her. His eyes sharpened. They were the eyes of a full-grown warrior on the eve of war.
“Highness, I will do as you command. If it is your desire that I abandon my place at the seminary, I will do so. If you wish me to leave Vasyllia, I will do so. Only I ask one thing. Not for myself. For the memory of the man whom you loved as a brother.”
Tears gathered in Sabíana’s eyes. She batted her eyes, and the tears fell. She sniffed. Her hands shook.
Dar Antomír wept openly. He nodded. “Ask, Voran.”
“Lebía. Make her your ward. I will leave your sight then, and my shame will not reflect on your brightness.”
“Scribe!” Dar Antomír cried, and his voice echoed. “Let it be carved in stone.”
Voran assumed the military stance.
“From this moment, Vohin Voran and his sister Lebía are declared wards of the Dar. Vohin Voran is relieved from his studies. But he is not to abandon them. Elder Pahomy of the warrior seminary will study with him personally. He will graduate with his cohort in time. Let Dumar confirm the words of the Dar.”
In a softer voice, he had said to Voran, “Go, my son. Take whatever time you need to comfort your sister and to arrange your affairs. Our treasuries are at your disposal…”
“No, I must not think of him,” she whispered now to the darkness, its cold bringing her back to the present. “Voran must accomplish his quest, or he will never be complete. I do not want half a man as my husband.”
A gust of wind blew through the underground passage. The torches flickered and went out, leaving her in complete darkness. Throbbing like a heart, a white light appeared from the depths ahead of her. Strangely drawn by it, Sabíana walked forward. The white light flared, then faded. The torches came back to life.
Her heart pounded with dread.
A bundle lay just ahead of her. Was it her imagination, or did it move?
Terror engulfed her. With shaking hands, she reached down to touch the bundle. It was warm. With a sickening lurch, her heart stopped, then raced with redoubled fury. A body.
She ran back to the dungeons, where Rogdai still paced back and forth, overseeing the questioning of the traitors.
“Rogdai, come with me.”
When they reached the bundle, she found it difficult to look at it. She pointed, and watched Rogdai’s face, gauging his reaction. Every time she tried to look down at the body, terror crushed her, and she had to close her eyes.
“The face. Uncover it,” she said.
He did as he was told. His eyes went round, and he gasped softly. But not with fear. Sabíana forced herself to look down.
A man. So familiar, yet so strange. A face she had never thought to see again. A face so entangled with recent regret, worry, and loss that it was nearly as well known to her as Voran’s. But he had changed so much. He was drawn, starved, ashen, his face overgrown with a matted beard, no longer black, but not yet grey. Arms once bristling with the strength of ten men were little more than brown twigs cracked by winter. At her feet lay the erstwhile Voyevoda of Vasyllia, Otchigen. Voran’s father.
“Highness,” whispered Rogdai. “This is not possible. We are under siege. How does he just wander into the palace? There is something very wrong here.”
She nodded. “Take him to my chambers, but tell no one. I must think on t
his.”
“Highness, what is there to think about? He must have been sent by the enemy.”
Thoughts of pity and vengeance tore at her in turn. There was also something else: a sickening unease in the deepest pit of her stomach. She agreed with Rogdai. It was no accident that Otchigen appeared now, of all possible times. So why was she taking him? She had no firm answer herself.
Rogdai laid him in Sabíana’s own bed, and she wrapped him in her costliest furs. His breathing, so ragged and rushed, softened. From sickening green, his face took on the pied hue of the hearth-fire. She washed his hands, arms, and feet, marveling at their brittleness. With rose and lavender water, she gently teased out the brambles in his hair and beard. She undressed him and threw the rags into the hearth. She put a royal robe on him. Soon, a vestige of the former nobility began to reveal itself in subtle shades.
“Highness,” said Rogdai. “What do you intend to do with him?”
She bristled at the informality, but their shared confidence softened her. “Double the guard at the door, and be there yourself at all times. If this is some ploy by the enemy, we must be ready. But Otchigen was always a well of information. Now, perhaps, more than ever. I know the risk. But I will get it out of him by any means necessary.”
He stood straight and gave her the warrior’s salute. In his eyes, she saw something exhilarating. I am their Black Sun, she thought. Rogdai is my man, heart and soul.
Two dancing fire-lights resolved into three, then five, then seven. Seven torches, carried by seven burly Gumiren. The biggest made directly for Yadovír, showing no surprise at meeting him there. The other six surrounded them. Yadovír’s heart dropped to his ankles. The leader turned around and indicated that they should follow. Soon, they entered a bustling war camp.
Yadovír was so surprised by what he saw that he nearly forgot to be afraid for a few moments. Campfires surrounded them, some with no people around them, which Yadovír found strange. From all sides, he heard the sound of pounding hammers and harsh words. Logs were dragged back and forth, and he noticed a good number of the Gumiren constructing siege towers fitted with rough, wooden wheels. Yadovír was surprised that the Gumiren were intent on storming the city in winter.
Everywhere, he smelled horseflesh and feces and sour milk. Goats and sheep roamed freely among the men. He was momentarily distracted by the loud braying of a bull, and he turned to look. Immediately, he wished he had not, though he found himself fascinated in spite of himself. Five of the Gumiren lay a bull on its back and held it down as it thrashed. One of them slashed its chest and belly open so quickly, even the bull was surprised. Yadovír expected a spray of blood, but saw nothing. They held the bull until it stopped shuddering. Then they turned it over, and all the blood was collected in wooden basins lying in wait underneath.
“For sausages,” said one of the torch-bearers in a surprisingly friendly tone.
“Blood sausages?” Yadovír tried not to sound as revolted as he felt.
“Yes, very good!” said the Gumir.
Several men milked horses. Yadovír was disgusted, but then he realized that by bringing mares, the Gumiren had a nearly limitless supply of milk and cheese on the war path. Grudgingly, he admired their intelligence. He continued to look around, trying to understand these strange enemies better. There were few quarrels, to his surprise. Other than the constant barking out of orders, the predominant noise was laughter. Many sat by campfires joking in their rat-a-tat tongue. Some wrestled goodheartedly with each other as the others cheered. They did not seem like the killing force that had razed Nebesta to the ground.
Then he saw the Vasylli prisoners—all of them men. Hundreds of them, mostly tied back to back and thrown in heaps on the edge of the camp, just far enough from the fires not to freeze to death. It chilled him even as it confused him. What was the use of keeping all these prisoners? The possibilities were frightening, and ruefully he admitted that this was no common enemy. These were experts at total war. Several large mounds of earth lay beyond the prisoners, probably burial mounds for the dead Gumiren who fell when the Vasylli took back Dubían’s body. It reminded Yadovír that the Gumiren were still human, for all their prowess in war, and the thought gave him strength.
The leader stopped by the prisoners and said something to the six torchbearers. Two of them seized Yadovír and Kalún and tied them up back to back, pushing them down next to the other prisoners.
“What are you doing?” said Yadovír, heart and mind racing. “We have an arrangement!”
The leader laughed and said something in his tongue. The rest of them laughed and one kicked Yadovír. He fell over and his head landed on a rock.
Otchigen’s eyes opened, and their color was Voran’s. Sabíana shuddered, but kept quiet. He looked at Sabíana in some confusion, then recognition warmed his eyes.
“You’ve grown so beautiful, Sabíana,” he said, his voice a rasp, nothing like the booming voice that used to be. “But your beauty brings no warmth. How unlike your father you are.”
His words were not bitter, but strangely expressionless. It gave no foothold to her anger, which annoyed her.
“What happened to me?” he asked.
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Otchigen. How is it that you appear in the nether regions of the palace in the middle of a siege?”
He struggled to remember, it seemed to her. He shook his head.
“You do not remember?”
He shook his head again. “Did you say Vasyllia is besieged?”
She didn’t know what to think. Silence groped from him like heat from a fire, and Sabíana found herself entranced by his still undeniable presence.
“She disappeared,” he said, his breath ragged, his eyes glazing over. He seemed half-delirious. “On a day unmatched for brilliance and warmth, she vanished without a trace. My wife, my life-giving spring, my rock. What was I to do? I could not be without her. I left and wandered. Blank, faded years. Memories…bleaker than the wastes of the far downs…”
Sabíana was entranced, drinking in even the silences between his words. No wonder the people loved him, she thought. No wonder my father loves him.
“I never found her,” he continued. “Only rumors in lands where untamed forces twist men’s minds into shapes of horror. No, I do not want to remember.” He panted, and his face was spotted with red. “I heard that she had gone mad, that she was taken by men who would use her for her beauty. I never heard or found anything more. I was half-mad with hunger and grief. I am still mad, I think. Then, nothing. Somehow, I ended up here in your bed. Thank you, Sabíana.”
At the unexpected thanks, she felt herself redden. She turned away, eager to be freed of his enticing influence. This was not the playful Otchigen who used to wrestle with her and Mirnían in the tall grass, to the shock of their prim chaperones. This man had suffered, so much was clear, but he was too self-possessed for someone who had descended into madness. There was something indescribably alluring about him. It made Sabíana long to give up her self-control. This man could be an incredible Dar, she thought, then wondered why she had thought it.
She felt nauseous at the thought. He says nothing about the Karila embassy, she reminded herself, forcing herself to be calm. She failed and rushed out of the room in a confusion of scattered thoughts and emotions.
I will come, I will come
I will come to the Dar’s City
I will beat down, I will beat down,
With my spears the city’s wall!
I will roll out, I will roll out
The barrels from the treasury.
I will gift, I will gift
Them to my father-in-law.
Be kind to me, my father-in-law,,
As is my own dear father…
-Vasylli wedding song
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The Wedding
Nearly two months after the rescue of the pilgrims, the eve of the wedding arrived.
Three aspens stood in the center of
the village, alight with lanterns. A life-sized Sirin carved from birchwood adorned the top of the center tree. All of Ghavan Town assembled in a circle around the trees, and steamed breath rose up in tendrils entwining with the smoke from the candles in their hands. The women sang, their joy enough to banish the cold to the outer fringes of the village. But Mirnían shook from miserable cold, and he was ready to fall asleep on his feet from exhaustion.
They had been standing vigil for four hours already, Otar Svetlomír doing his best to keep everyone awake with his dynamic voice and inspired manner of serving. The vigil would last for at least another three hours. Mirnían felt guilty, in spite of all his rational objections to this ancient rite. Every person he looked at was on fire from within. Even the children were still awake, their cheeks pink and their eyes sparkling. As for him, he could barely prevent the snores before they erupted from his throat. He berated himself. Why can you not stay awake, even for a service performed for the sake of you and your beloved?
So he stood, and gradually the inner grumbling stilled. Yet he remained apart from the rest, especially Lebía.
Otar Svetlomír approached Lebía and took her by the hand. To the accompaniment of a rhythmical chant in the women’s voices, he led her around the trees three times. The children, who had been waiting for this moment for hours, began to ring small handbells handed out before the service. The sound was chaotic and wonderful. Lebía smiled, but tears ran down her cheeks.
Mirnían remained cold, both in body and in heart. He wished with all his strength to include himself in the joy of the village, to foretaste the pleasure of tomorrow’s wedding, but his emotions were dull, like a bell cracked from excessive use. The sore under his left arm flared, as though mocking him. Whoever said that all mystical experiences are wishful thinking should be publicly flogged, he thought.
The men erupted into a joyful chant, almost a shout. Lebía returned to her place next to him, and Svetlomír took Mirnían’s hand and led him around the trees as well. The bells clanged twice as frantically. One little boy in particular was so red-faced with the exertion of wringing every possible ounce of sound from his bell that Mirnían was afraid he would faint.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 21