His conscious mind offered him the traditional riposte—will you stand by while the world burns? Yes, he said. If I learned anything from my master, it is that one man’s efforts may avail much, but not everything. It is too late to seek the Living Water, too late to seek pardon from my exile.
But what about Lebía? His stomach lurched in warning, and his heart tugged in rebuke. He had not thought of Lebía in so long. What had happened to her? To the pilgrims? Were they safe?
Then a picture flashed on his mind. Otchigen, with his familiar, thick braid and tightly curling black beard. He lay by the hearth in the sleeping embrace of three hunter-borzoi. Lebía, a newborn child, lay cradled on his thick forearm, her own arms extended at impossible angles, like an archer nocking an arrow, her mouth open, a wheezing half-snore rising up and down with the roll of Otchigen’s great body. Aglaia stood in the doorway, wrapped up against the cold, stopping for a moment before going out to pick the last of the rowan berries before winter. Her eyes were filled with tears, in spite of her laughing eyes. He remembered the immensity of the peace, the contentment of the scene, and some of its old grace still remained in his heart.
He ran into his shack to gather the barest of necessities. Somehow, he knew that the journey would not be a long one. Last of all, he took Tarin’s old travel cloak and wrapped himself in it. Perhaps, he thought, someday I can find respite in the life of a Pilgrim? He chuckled.
“Not likely,” he said aloud, his thumb tracing the comforting outline of his sword-hilt.
Voran reached the top of the rise. The view was a continuation of the same landscape surrounding the three shacks, save for a clear path, which led directly to a trellised doorway covered in green ivy. Voran laughed. Even for the Lows of Aer, this doorway was comically obvious. Maybe this was Tarin’s final joke? It was as though his old master were saying, “I know, Raven Son, you are quite the idiot, but I have made it easy for you.”
Voran ran forward, not even slowing to pass through the doorway. The already-familiar sensation of displacement and temporary confusion quickly faded. He stood on a wide plain, the thinness of the air indicating high elevation, and just ahead of him was the waystone, and not a stone’s throw beyond it—the giant head, still snoring as the flocks of starlings flew up and down, as regular as heartbeats.
Voran was thrown to the ground by something huge. A huge dark thing was atop him, its snout wet against his face. It licked him.
“I’m happy to see you too, Leshaya,” spluttered Voran as he labored to find enough space to breathe.
She growled. “You are such an idiot, Voran.” Her body quivered with mixed excitement, anger, and joy. He understood her completely.
“Tarin had said I would find a friend. I hoped it would be you.”
“That old goat. Do you know how long I waited for the two of you? Where is he?”
It was strange. In the excitement of seeing Leshaya again, he had momentarily forgotten everything. Now the world came crashing through the walls he had put up around himself, and all of a sudden breathing the very air seemed dangerous.
“They found him, Leshaya. He’s gone. Transfigured.”
Leshaya’s ears went back in pure animal fear, and she bared her fangs.
“It is time, then,” she growled. “There is something you must know about our friend, the giant head of Buyan. He is the father of a race of giants who wield immense earth-power. They’ve been asleep for a long time. But they have returned.”
Voran nodded, remembering Tarin’s warning.
“He wants to make a deal. He says he knows where the weeping tree is, and he is willing to show us the way.”
“For a price, naturally.”
“I imagine so. Come.”
The head was awake, its stillness more unnerving that the bluster it showed the last time they met. It raised its eyebrows ponderously, and Voran took it as the only sign of greeting the land-bound giant could still express.
“Well met, son of Otchigen. It is unfortunate that you did not inform me of your exalted bloodline the last time we met. I may have arranged things a little differently for you.”
“We don’t have time to play riddles this time, Buyan,” said Voran. “To be frank, I have no desire to treat with you. I would much rather seek my own path.”
“Are you sure about that, my boy?” asked the giant head, almost growling. “Have you looked at the waystone?”
Voran did. The writing was different.
If left you go, there death awaits
If right you go, there death awaits
If straight you go, there death awaits
If back you go, there death awaits
Voran became aware of a brooding sense of menace bearing down on him from all sides. He had a strong desire to turn around, but his heart told him that if he did, he would be dead in seconds.
“Is this another riddle?” Voran challenged Buyan, his hand on his sword.
The giant head laughed. The sound ripped several shrubs in the vicinity out of the ground with their roots still intact.
“I am quite sick of lying here in the ground, tied by the Powers. It is time for me to come out. My sons are awakening. Zmei is already abroad.”
The sun hid behind clouds over Voran’s head. He looked up, and it was not a cloud, but a giant in full armor, a spear in his right hand, his teardrop shield taller than the walls of Vasyllia. He inclined his head at Voran, but his face was backlit by the light of the sun surrounding his head like a parody of a halo. It called to mind the omen of the darkened sun.
“Why would I ever want to help you, Buyan? Do you not come from the same fallen line as the Raven?”
“Do not insult us,” bellowed the other giant, Zmei. “Our power is not his borrowed power. We are the power of the earth. Ancient, eternal, self-sufficient. We owe allegiance to no one but ourselves.”
“Our power is mighty,” continued Buyan’s head. “But it has been chained, contained for too long. You will restore that power, and in payment, we will give you Vasyllia, for you to refashion in whatever way you see fit.”
For a moment, Voran saw the vision of the Pilgrim, the Vasyllia of old where every person was animated by a burning soul-bond. Could they truly have the power to give him Vasyllia? He could restore its ancient splendor. He was sure he could. But at what cost?
“I am but a humble warrior,” said Voran. “I don’t seek to play a role in the games of the Powers. I only want to find my family. Leave me be.”
Buyan raised an eyebrow. “Your family? We can arrange that.” He smiled, and his old, rotting teeth stank.
Like a bolt of lightning, Zmei’s spear flew over Voran’s head. Voran ducked. It hit with a sickening thud, and not into the ground. Voran trembled, not wanting to look at what he knew he would see, but forced his eyes to look at Leshaya.
She was pinned to the ground, so completely that she had no leverage even to push herself up, like a butterfly pinned to a piece of parchment. Something about her began to change, shift, like ripples on water. Her wolf form lessened, faded, turned in on itself, lost its color. Voran became ill and vomited violently. She was not Leshaya. She was his mother.
“You did not know?” said Buyan, all innocence and good humor. “Yes, Aglaia was transformed by my power all those years ago. It was a mercy. She was on the verge of death, were you not, my dear?”
“Why do you do this?!” Voran pulled out his sword and tensed, ready to fling himself at both giants.
“To make a point, you fool,” said Zmei, moving just enough to let Voran see his face—beautiful, yet cold as chiseled stone. “We have no love for the Raven, and the Raven fears us. It is time for us to reclaim ownership of the earth. Your supposed master, the Power you call Adonais, has abandoned you. The Covenant, such as it was, is broken. We offer you everything that he gave you, and more. All we need is Living Water.”
“You need Living Water as well, little man,” said Buyan, looking significantly at Aglaia. “Better hurry, or y
ou won’t be able to heal her.”
Voran looked at Aglaia. Her hair was whiter than he remembered, but otherwise no different than his memory of her, except for the paleness of her face and the look of absolute terror in her eyes. They rolled into the back of her head, and she fainted, though she did not fall, stuck as she was by the spear through her chest. Voran’s terror swallowed him, and his hands shook uncontrollably.
But something in his mind nagged him. It was something that he should have noticed a long time ago. The Raven had great power; these ancient giants claimed to have even greater power. But the Raven had not even seemed to make the attempt to seek out Living Water, going straight to Vasyllia, as if that were his only goal. And Buyan claimed to know the location of the weeping tree. So why did the giants not take it for themselves? There were reports of at least one person being healed by the tree. Unless….
“You cannot find the weeping tree without me.”
Buyan’s face darkened visibly. “It is the nature of our power. A bargain, sealed ages ago with the Powers. We would rule the earth, but we abandoned our right to travel the other realms.”
“But you know of a doorway?”
“Yes,” said Zmei.
It explained much. People could cross over into the other realms. Some, a few, obviously had, and they were healed by the Living Water. But the giants could not.
Voran looked at Aglaia’s limp body, at the blood choking her clothing, and he went on his knees to touch her face. It was still warm.
“I will come back for you, Mother,” he whispered.
An icy breeze pushed Voran’s hair across his face, coming from the right. Not a bowshot away, Voran saw a hole in the fabric of reality, a shimmering gap. On the other side, mountains stood tall, and atop one of them was a tree, made black by the setting sun behind it. Before stopping to even think, Voran ran to it and jumped through.
O tombs, you tombs,
Our eternal homes!
Long may we live,
But your doors we must face.
Our bodies belong
In our mother, the earth.
To be given to the soil,
To be eaten by worms.
But our souls will wander
Each to his own place…
-Old Nebesti funeral dirge
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The Raven's Choice
Horrible cries surrounded Sabíana, exploding into her confused consciousness and fading to nothing in strange waves. Dimly she glimpsed blasts of flame and smoke belching from rents in the earth. Not yet fully recovered from her fit, she saw everything with varying focus, through a fog. She couldn’t form her thoughts into complete patterns; the words gathered together only to hit an obstruction like a wall inside her head, and she gave up, exhausted from the effort. But through it all, she heard the sound of wind whistling through reeds. Sabíana felt the nearness of Feína, the terror receded a little, and her mind began to clear. But her limbs were still stone-dead.
Feína sang quietly. All the noises of war, the screams, the madness faded away, replaced by the blossoming rose-fire of the Sirin of flame. Sabíana’s thoughts gathered in her mind like raindrops falling into each other down a windowpane. The pain was still there, but now it was bearable.
“My Sabíana,” said Feína. “I cannot bear to see you like this.”
The voice was in Sabíana’s mind, as was the vision of the Sirin of fire. In her mind, Sabíana found it possible to answer.
“Feína, I do not know if I can bear my burden much longer. Please, lighten it for me.”
“I cannot, my swan. It is beyond my power.”
“Dear Feína, I think I could bear it if I understood what is happening. Why do I not just die and leave this pain behind? Why do I linger?”
“If that is what you wish, Sabíana, you can lay down your life right now. You are given that choice. But if you die, the last spark of light in Vasyllia dies with you. The Raven’s victory will be complete.”
“So I must remain and suffer on? How can that possibly benefit anyone?”
“Your suffering is not without purpose, my bright swan. Your remaining in Vasyllia is a challenge to the Raven that cannot fail to bear fruit. Ever the Sons of the Swan will be a thorn in his side. And perhaps, if things go as Lyna hopes, you will be the source of his downfall.”
Sabíana understood the reference to Voran. He was alive, and he still strove on his quest. His image warmed her heart, and the song of the Sirin rang out, stoking her inner fire until it blazed. She understood.
Her presence in Vasyllia was necessary. The Raven would not touch her; she was Cassían’s line, and he needed legitimacy if he was to maintain any sort of power other than the rule of the fist. She must slowly heal, slowly become an image of endurance and hope for true Vasylli. Perhaps Adonais would see her sacrifice and would re-forge the lost Covenant.
Sabíana regained full consciousness at Yadovír’s side as the smoke began to clear. Near her, the young chief priest Otar Gleb lay on the stones, bloodied, but still alive. Yadovír seemed to be protecting him, or keeping him for his own use later. Gleb nodded at her once and raised his hand, blessing her. She felt new strength rush into her.
The Gumiren had herded all the people of the city to every open square and courtyard in Vasyllia. The faces she could see seemed barely human; nearly all had succumbed to brutish terror and hatred. Only a few still had the same light in their eyes that she had ignited at the coronation.
Yadovír twitched and his face pulled into a focused expression, listening intently. Looking at Sabíana, he seemed for a moment to lose confidence, as if he noticed some change in her, some addition of power. He must have decided it was nothing, because he turned away from her and faced the crowds. He spoke not in his own voice, but in one augmented by several others, so it seemed a host declaiming from a single mouth.
“High people of Vasyllia! You have fought valiantly, but not to victory. I, the Mouth of the Raven, now declare your doom. The women and children may all live, provided every one of them gives up the worship of Adonais and spits on the Covenant. You warriors must pledge your swords to the Raven and swear to do his bidding in all things. Refuse, and the beasts whom you defeated not an hour ago will gladly feast on your unarmored bodies. Warriors! How say you? If yea, raise your right hands in solemn oath.
It took a long time, but eventually nearly every warrior did so. Sabíana’s balance tottered, and her shakes began again. Somehow, she stopped herself and forced herself to watch on.
“Warriors of Adonais you were,” said Yadovír, sneering. “Warriors of the Raven you become. But first, a test. Desecrate the Temple of Adonais, and you will live. Refuse, and your women and children will die before your eyes.”
Now everyone was frozen in indecision. Sabíana understood them. It was one thing to denounce Adonais with the lips and to secretly worship in one’s heart and home. It was another thing to raise a hand against his Temple.
Yadovír leered like an old man of millennial cunning, gesturing to the Gumiren with an arm that was made more terrible by a suggestion of a wing-shadow behind him. The Gumiren built a pyre around the Covenant Tree and lit it. Sabíana felt the terror of the blasphemy like it was a living presence next to her. The Gumiren then gathered all the women and children like cattle and pulled the babies from the arms of their mothers. They held them over the fire. Unmoved by the screams, they stood still as cold stone, ready at Yadovír’s command to hurl the shrieking children into the fire, even as they reached for their mothers in uncomprehending terror. Sabíana thought her heart would rip apart from the strain.
None of the warriors hesitated any longer. Given torches and axes by the Gumiren, they rushed through the reaches like a swarm of fire-ants and vented all their fear and frustration on the trees of the Temple. Red-barks were torn asunder, burned, hacked to pieces. The Grove of Mysteries was mutilated, and Sabíana felt the death of each tree as though a child of hers were killed before her eyes.
The low wall surrounding the temple was broken stone by stone with meticulous malice. The altar table was hurled off the edge of the cliff. The lanterns were shattered, and with their undying flames the Temple burned, and the conflagration rose up to the Heights, joining the blasphemous sacrifice of the Great Tree. Sabíana closed her eyes and willed the tears to come, to unburden the heaviness of her heart, but they would not.
With an effort, she forced her eyes open again. She needed to see this horror to its end. The warriors who still refused to join the Raven were jostled toward the gates of the city. Many of them bowed before the burning Temple as they passed it, heedless of the sharp points wedged into their backs. At that small act of bravery, Sabíana’s tears came—slow and deliberate.
Many women and children followed their men, desiring no other fate than to join their loved ones in death. Most of the others who remained huddled away from them in fear. The crowd of faithful ones stopped at the open doors leading out of Vasyllia, and all turned back to Yadovír to hear the final pronouncement. His voice became impossibly loud, so that Sabíana was sure they heard every word.
“People of the Raven, denounce your allegiance to Adonais!”
Now there was no hesitation.
“We reject him!”
“Behold your queen.” He raised Sabíana roughly with a single hand, and she felt no more dignified than a sack of potatoes. Many faces blanched and lost all remaining hope when they saw her. I must look as bad as I feel, she thought.
“Behold your Black Sun!” Yadovír screeched. “May her reign be long and blessed!”
“Long live Darina Sabíana!” they all cried. Some of the women wailed and moaned.
Sabíana wanted with all her power to at least raise a hand to them, to acknowledge that she was with them in spirit, but no part of her body moved.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 32