It was a sword like its master—not much to look at, old, tarnished, but impossible to break. Unlike every sword made in Vasyllian smithies these days, it had no fanciful decorations, no etchings on the blade, no jewels on the hilt. Only one strange sign—something between a flame and a feather, or maybe some amalgamation of both—was stamped in the place where the thumb gripped, as though it were a reminder of something.
“Lord Tarin,” said Voran as they made an unusual stop in the early evening. “This mark on the hilt. Does it mean anything?”
At first Voran was sure Tarin would answer as the lunatic, but it seemed Tarin had a last-minute change of heart. “Have you heard of the Warriors of the Word?” he asked in a voice remarkable only for its normality.
Something warm and pleasant stirred in Voran’s memory. The piney smell of morning fog. The thrill of hiding all night in the burial grounds. The sting of young nettles on hands and ankles, and the white spots on the skin that burned and burned. Morning sprints through dewey fields, the wet rising up the leg with every step.
“Of course,” said Voran, smiling in spite of himself. “Every boy pretends to be a Warrior of the Word in childhood. The games are quite elaborate, and the stories are always the most colorful and strange.”
“They are not stories,” said Tarin.
“You are a Warrior of the Word?” Voran laughed, thinking Tarin was again playing the madman, but Tarin remained still and serious, until Voran’s laugh subsided awkwardly. “You can’t be. They’re legendary, like the sleeping-woods and the…” Voran felt himself turning red.
Tarin smiled, and it was warm, like a father’s. “Yes, it does take some time to come to terms with the legendary, I’ll grant you that. There are few of us left. None in Vasyllia. We were established by Lassar at the very beginning, you know, but always have we been consigned to the shadows. Those youths who show enough spirit are whisked away for the training at night, and though their parents know, everyone else is told stories of sudden illness and early death. You would be surprised at how many graves in old Vasyllia are empty.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because of the nature of evil, Voran.”
Tarin busied himself about making a fire, and Voran knew now was not the time to continue speaking, though he buzzed with excitement at having a childhood dream come true. He hurried to be useful, gathering dry moss and twigs for the kindling, but Tarin immediately threw out most of it as unsuitable.
“Get me some dry birch-bark,” Tarin said as he pulled out an old flint and a char-cloth from a tinderbox of wrought iron, garishly decorated in a flowing script that Voran couldn’t read.
After the fire had caught, Tarin began to dig in one of the packs. He pulled out two chipped earthenware bowls and placed them on the ground. Reaching into a pouch on his belt, he pulled out a brown rag, much-used, unrolled it, and took some dried leaves with his thumb and forefingers, rubbing under his nose. Even from across the fire, Voran could smell the earthy smokiness. Tea.
Voran never had a better cup of tea, not for the rest of his life.
“I suppose, since you’ve gotten me to say so much, you may as well try your luck with more questions, Raven Son.” Tarin’s eyes smiled, though his face remained serious. He cupped the bowl in dirty hands, resting his elbows on his knees, seeming to absorb the tea’s warmth with his whole body. Voran hastened to do the same. It seeped lazy comfort into his aching body.
“You said that the nature of the Warriors of the Word has something to do with the nature of evil.”
“Yes.” Tarin looked annoyed. “Is that a question?”
“The sign on the sword. What does it mean?” asked Voran, strangely afraid of speaking it aloud.
“Have you heard of transfiguration, Raven Son?”
Voran must have had a remarkably stupid expression, because Tarin winced. “Perhaps that is not a good place to start. We should start with the least important, and work our way inward, like a cockle shell.”
Voran had not the faintest idea of what a cockle was, but he knew it would be counterproductive to ask.
“Let me start by asking you a question, Raven Son. Why do you think that you were attacked in the marshes after we crossed from the Lows, while nothing happened to me?”
“You obviously have power, Tarin. I do not.”
Tarin nodded and chuckled. “Well, that is part of it, yes. But my kind of power never frightened the Raven and his beasts very much. No, you were attacked because you are still stained. What you did with the hag bound you to her. Yes, some of the chains loosened when you killed her, but you are not free of her curse.”
“But it felt like every link of that chain burst apart when I spoke that word you gave me.” A sudden insight flashed on him, and he felt foolish. “Is that the word that your kind is named for?”
“Well, not quite, but if we don’t get into the details, yes. When you were attacked in the marshlands, you called a great power to your aid by the invocation of the name. A power even greater than…well, perhaps now’s not the time to talk about that.”
“Greater than what? The Sirin?”
Tarin had a pained expression, the kind a parent has when their child no longer believes in childish fancies.
“Yes, certainly greater than the Sirin. It was a taste of the power with which the Warriors of the Word are invested. But if you were to neglect yourself, if another ruse of the darkness—like the red-head in the village—were to ensnare you, you would be in great danger. They know your weak point, and now you should expect to see buxom young women throwing themselves at you in every village. I doubt you’ll be able to keep chaste for long.”
Voran felt disappointed, for he had hoped that his deliverance from the hag had been immediate and complete. Now it seemed it would take a deal of labor to wean himself from her continued influence. He should have known.
“Never mind,” said Tarin, eyes closed as he smelled the tea. “I will help you with that. If you are willing to suffer through my training, anything is possible. The power to which we submit is an old power, a wild power, one that makes and harmonizes out of nothing in perpetuity. Not the soft, gentle divinity you Vasylli are used to worshipping in the Temple.”
“You speak as the Sirin do—” Voran stopped in mid-thought. “Of course! The Sirin. They also thrive in a similar power, one equally destructive and loving. Do we even know Adonais, whom we claim to worship? Have we become so comfortable with a loving, endearing father figure that we stopped considering his unbridled power?” With chagrin, he realized by Tarin’s rapt expression that he had spoken these thoughts aloud. “But what am I saying? What do I know about all this?”
To Voran’s increased embarrassment, Tarin laughed out loud, making no effort to conceal his enjoyment.
“Oh, Raven Son. How close you come to wisdom, without even realizing what you are saying. If only you could see the whole truth!”
“Why not tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe me. You may even want to do something drastic. You may even want to kill me.”
The conversation was not going as Voran had hoped. For the first time since the hag’s village, Voran feared Tarin.
“If that is true,” countered Voran, “then how can I know whether to trust you?
“Indeed, my falcon,” Tarin said, chuckling. “You have hit on it exactly. How indeed?”
What a terrible lack of an answer, thought Voran.
The silence surrounding them deepened, until even the crackling of the bonfire faded. Gently, with no jarring effect, Voran’s heart inclined to the calm surrounding Tarin like his own breath. Unbidden came the word to his lips—Saddaí—and he whispered it, feeling the stillness reach out to him and envelop him, until the very act of questioning seemed spurious. How long they sat thus, minutes or hours, Voran never could recall. It was one of the most wondrous moments of his life.
“You begin to understand, Raven Son. Good. I hoped you would.”
&nbs
p; “Lord Tarin, it has no words, what I experienced,” said Voran, breathless with wonder. “It was as if the most thunderous harmony and piercing silence mingled into one. Time raced and stopped altogether, all at a still point. It was as if I actually experienced truth personally, and yet I know nothing at all. How can I explain it? If the power of the sea could be contained in a drop of water, if the limitless potential of words could be expressed in a single thought. An infinite multiplicity in a single entity. Is it I who even speak? I don’t recognize my own voice.”
“What you experienced is but a splinter in the Great Tree, so to speak.”
Like a sunset, the nameless experience faded, but it left behind a twilight magic.
“What else was it like, Raven Son?” Tarin’s eagerness was child-like.
“It was like being on fire.”
Tarin slapped his knee loudly, his smile creasing every possible inch of his face.
“Yes! You asked about the sign on the sword? It is the wing of a Sirin that has undergone the baptism of flame. It is said that, to scale the Heights of Aer, one must be baptized in fire seven times…”
Tarin grew thoughtful, and his recent inspiration seemed to run out. There was much Voran did not understand, but it seemed he would have to content himself with waiting for now. Nevertheless, he decided to try one more question.
“Why do you call me Raven Son?”
Tarin, torn from his train of thought, looked irritated. “The question of your name is not mine to answer. You will know soon enough.” He stood up and began to pack. “Time we were off. Not so far now.”
“Are we so close to the weeping tree?” asked Voran.
Tarin stopped, sighed heavily, and stretched himself to his full height.
“Raven Son. You must give up all thoughts of finding Living Water. You are not ready. You need to be trained. When you are ready, we will both seek it.”
An avalanche of fury burst from Voran’s chest. “Vasyllia is on the brink. You said it yourself. Why do we dawdle? We do not have the time!”
“You do not direct the flow of events in the world, Voran. There is a greater power than you at work here. If you go now, you will be eaten alive in minutes. Have you heard nothing of what I have said? The hag’s curse still stinks on you. Do I need to remind you of the five reasons for your slavery, especially the fifth one?”
The morning sun revealed a change in the landscape. In the distance towered a line of cedars—incongruous amid the bare trees and low shrubs—standing as if sentinels over an ancient borderline.
“That is the extreme end of ancient Vasyllia,” said Tarin. He hoisted his single pack and turned toward the cedars.
They reached the treeline by midday. The cedars were even more impressive in proximity, standing so near each other that the other side was barely visible, even through the trunks. There was something shimmery on the other side, as though they looked into a pool of water, not a landscape.
“That is a doorway, yes? We are entering the Lows again?”
Tarin winked at Voran and chattered like a chickadee.
As they passed through the trees, they were plunged into complete darkness. Voran could only see Tarin’s outline in the shadows the trees cast. On the other side, to his disappointment, Voran saw nothing but a fallow, brown field. Drab elms, shorn of leaf, surrounded the field. Nestled under a particularly large elm, still within the shadow of the sentinel trees, three greyish wooden shacks slouched.
They appeared hardly standing, almost ready to fall over at a whisper of wind. Sloping thatch roofs, brown and ancient, bleary windows framed in dirty, cracked carvings—these were the only adornments, if they could be called that. They seemed to have been thrown together on a whim, not built according to plan. Voran’s heart sank at the thought of living in such a place. Tarin, on the contrary, seemed genuinely excited, and even broke into verse again.
“I know you marvel at this land,
This paradise, my palace grand.
Does not its splendor catch the eye?
Do not its many towers high,
Replete with every earthly need
Surpass all legends that you read?”
He spread his arms out like a child presenting a favorite toy to a new friend. He actually seemed to believe in his own description of this eyesore as a palace.
The inside of Tarin’s shack was as the external appearance would suggest—four walls, a rough pallet in the corner, the straw brown and pungent with neglect, a bench, a small table. On the windowsill stood several clay jars with twigs sticking out in odd assortments. Tarin diligently watered the twigs, as if they were exquisite roses. Voran half expected them to sprout on the spot, but nothing happened.
Voran’s own shack was much the same, except without the twigs, for which Tarin apologized: “You have no garden, Raven Son. You have yet to earn it.”
The brief tour completed, Tarin sighed and seemed to brace himself for something unpleasant. Walking to a sort of courtyard of mud between the three huts, he drove his staff into the soft ground. Turning to Voran, he said, “Raven Son. If you have any idea of what is good for you, you will water this tree”—he indicated the staff—“every morning, until it flowers. Today, since we’ve traveled long and you are tired, your work will be easy. Come.”
He led Voran behind the largest shack, where Voran saw a large metal tool that looked like the lower jaw of some huge animal, with rusted metal teeth pointing up. It had a harness that looked fitted for an ox. Voran’s heart sank.
“The land is not fit for sowing,” said Tarin, his hands on his hips as he looked over the field with an expression of distaste. “I have not harrowed it in years. Hundreds of rocks in the soil, I’m sure. So. Strap the harrow on your back, since we do not have a proper ox, and you, as we already know, are my ass. Collect all the rocks and pile them up on the left side of the field.”
Voran laughed. Tarin’s face frosted over, turning white as his eyes grew larger. He drew his sword.
Voran stopped laughing.
“Raven Son,” said Tarin calmly. “It would be wise for you to consider even the most ridiculous things that I say as indispensable. May my words be sacred scripture for you.”
He turned back to his hut. “Oh, one more thing. You are never to enter my palace without abasing yourself before it, face to the ground, and saying in a loud voice, ‘I, who am wretched, beg leave to enter.’ Those words, please, slave. You may not rest or enter your own rooms without my permission.
As Tarin turned, Voran tried his best to burn Tarin to the ground with his eyes. But nothing happened.
The sun had crested by the time Voran began. The harrow was old, and its teeth were worn down. Sometimes it didn’t pick up stones at all, just nudged them for a few feet, then gave up with a groan. Voran had to work every inch of the field with his hands, digging into the sandy soil until his fingers hit stone, then digging them out, then repeating it all again.
Soon he gave up the harrow entirely, and just crawled up and down the field, digging up stones.
The sweat poured down him and his chest burned from the inside. Worse than the fatigue was the mind-numbing boredom that accompanied such work. He imagined all the different ways he would make Tarin suffer. Soon his irritation extended to stones, trees, shacks, everything. All his thoughts became a long drawn-out grumble.
After digging up all the stones, he carried them to the left side of the field. Some of the stones were almost as large as he was. These he could not raise, but only push inch by inch to the edge of the field. Voran soon realized that he had lost much more strength than he had thought. Maybe Tarin was right. Maybe a stick-thin former warrior with no endurance wasn’t the best choice to find the Living Water.
As he placed the last stone on the pile—now taller than he was—he sat on the earth and closed his eyes. A thought flitted through his mind: Tarin told him he could not rest without permission.
“AAAAAASSSSSSSSS!”
Too late.
He stood with one arm cocked on his hips, like an irritated mother.
“But…you said…”
Tarin shushed him.
“Did anyone give the idiot leave to speak?” He addressed the shacks directly, then cupped his hands to his ears, as if listening for their response. “No? I didn’t think so. Go, fool. Carry the stones across to the other side.”
“But Tarin…”
“Don’t dare to call me by my name. What? Don’t you have an ounce of shame? I am your lord, so call me so. Now take the stones away, and put them in their proper place. You’ll never finish at this pace.”
Voran sized Tarin up, thinking it was time to teach the old man a lesson. Tarin merely laughed.
“You don’t want to try it, boy. Believe me.”
For the next few hours, Voran carried all the stones to the other side of the field.
The next day, Tarin told Voran to return the stones back to the left side. The day after that, he told Voran to put the stones back in the soil.
“What?” said Voran, his fists balling up of their own accord.
“You heard me,” said Tarin, as calmly as a corpse.
The day after that, Tarin told Voran to dig the stones up again and pile them up on the left side of the field.
“The left?” asked Voran. “You’re sure?”
Tarin grinned at him stupidly and crowed.
Voran dug up the stones and piled them up again. Without even realizing it, he fell asleep while placing the last rock on the heap, still standing.
“UPUPUPUPUPUPUPUP!!!!”
Voran jumped in the air, and all the rocks fell on him, nearly burying him alive before he managed to roll aside.
Tarin was dancing around the field, smacking a wooden spoon on a frying pan. Every time he had to take a breath, he stopped and hopped in place three times, as though that would help him inhale more air. Then he danced again, smacking and screaming “UPUPUPUPUPUPUPUP!!!” at the top of his lungs.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 25