The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  Voran was taken aback. The man spoke in a beautiful accent, similar to how the old priests spoke. It was a pleasure merely to listen.

  “May you be blessed, my brother,” said the Pilgrim.

  The potter continued to watch after them as they walked back to the center of the market. Shame nagged at Voran, though he couldn’t exactly explain why.

  The Pilgrim returned to the center of the marketplace, where the tallest hats and the shiniest temple-rings congregated. Approaching a ceramics merchant, he pointed to an urn twice the size of the potter’s, glazed and hand-painted with fanciful images of animals and plants interweaving so tightly it made the head spin.

  “Ah, you have quite the eye, good sir,” simpered the merchant, his five jowls quivering with subservience. “Best Nebesti make, that is.”

  The Pilgrim raised the decorated urn in his right hand, the potter’s simple clay in his left. The crowd stilled. Just before it happened, Voran saw it in his mind’s eye, and he had to stop himself from laughing.

  “Sudar,” said the merchant, using the honorific of respect for a person of indeterminate social class, “may I ask what you intend…”

  All the ladies gasped in unison as the Pilgrim dropped both urns to the ground. The Nebesti urn shattered with a beautiful noise. Next to it, the potter’s vessel lay as though no one had even touched it.

  “And so falls Nebesta,” whispered the Pilgrim. His eyes bored into Voran. “But will Vasyllia prove to be as strong as the potter’s urn before the coming darkness?”

  Voran’s stomach churned at the Pilgrim’s words, but the Pilgrim merely turned and walked out of the market, accompanied by shocked silence. Voran picked up the potter’s urn and turned to pay the merchant.

  “Will a silver suffice for your trouble?” Voran asked, abashed.

  The merchant glared at him. “Five silver ovals. Not a lead jot less.”

  Voran chuckled at the merchant’s willingness to take advantage of the situation. But he still pulled out only two silvers. He handled them for a moment, looking over their rough edges. These coins were little more than slivers cut from a long bar of grey metal. How strange that they were more cherished in Vasyllia than the life-earned work of an artisan like the poor potter. Shaking his head at his own muddled thoughts, Voran dropped the silvers down in the bulbous palm of the merchant. He rewarded Voran with cursing eyes.

  The Pilgrim was already halfway back to the city, his shoulders bent and his step labored. Voran had no trouble gaining on him this time.

  “Sudar!” called a voice behind them. It was the potter. “Please,” he said, running up to them, “I know you must be a Pilgrim. Forgive me, but…would you honor my house…” He seemed to run out of words, though his hands continued to gesture expressively until he noticed and laughed at himself. Voran had never seen such unguarded simplicity in any man. Everyone he knew seemed to plan every gesture, every word spoken in public. This spontaneity was strangely refreshing.

  “Yes, we will come with pleasure,” said the Pilgrim.

  In the beginning was the Darkness. The Darkness covered the earth. Yet an ember of light there was in the high places. In Vasyllia, upon the mountain, the Harbinger found a people worthy of the Light. He blessed their leader, a man named Lassar, and he made a Covenant with them. As a sign of their calling, he summoned fire from the Heights upon an aspen sapling. As long as the fire burns, as long as the Covenant Tree remains young, Vasyllia remains blessed by the Heights, and the Darkness shall not touch it.

  - From “Lassar the Blessed and the Harbinger” (Old Tales: Book I)

  CHAPTER FOUR

  At the Potter’s

  The potter’s house stood wedged between two taller buildings—a common mead-house and a smithy. It seemed built of shadows more than wood. But the open door revealed a different picture. A bright hearth illumined a much longer interior than Voran expected. At the far end, the house grew into a two-story loft swarming with small children. Their clamor was far more pleasantly inviting than the sour smell of the mead-house next door. The potter’s wife, dressed in simple but clean grey homespun, laughed with her eldest daughter as they cooked something tinged with thyme and mint in the cauldron over the hearth. The potter’s many wares adorned every nook and cranny in the long house. Some pots clearly contained stores, but many more overflowed with flowers. Colors in mad profusion burst from unexpected corners—fabrics, blossoms, the bright eyes of a ruddy child. Voran was breathless with unexpected pleasure at the harmonious madness of it all.

  The Pilgrim seemed to grow taller and wider as he entered, and his eyes lit up with more than the light of the hearth. He sighed in relief.

  “Come, come, my dears,” called the potter, clapping his hands as though herding a flock of turkeys. “It is as we hoped. A Pilgrim comes to our home! You will take part in the day’s celebration, yes, Pilgrim?”

  The Pilgrim laughed—a full-throated guffaw that encircled everyone with affection. Even the hearth seemed to leap.

  “What an unexpected joy!” he said. “And I thought no one in Vasyllia remembered this day.” Voran wondered what he meant.

  The simmering household boiled over, and all the children exploded into movement that looked perfectly rehearsed. Two girls, their braids pinned to the top of their heads, carried an embroidered hand towel to the Pilgrim. A boy of about ten years floated over with a silver basin of water—where did a potter manage to find himself a silver basin? —and spilled only a few drops on his way to the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim washed his hands, then lowered his head. The boy’s eyes sparkled with delight. He had obviously been hoping for this moment. He threw the remainder of the basin over the Pilgrim’s head. The Pilgrim exploded into laughter, and the two girls with the hand towel could hardly keep their hands steady for their own giggling.

  The eldest daughter brought a loaf the size of her head, still warm by the smell of it. The eldest son carried a frothing tankard of mead carved in the shape of a mallard. It was exquisite workmanship. The smallest boy—no more than two or three—stood by them with a ceramic cup full of salt. The Pilgrim tore off a piece, dipped it in the ale, then in the salt. He smelled it with his eyes closed, savoring. Then he threw it over everyone’s head directly into the hearth. Everyone cheered. Then he downed the tankard, leaving a sip for the boy who brought it. The boy looked like he had been given gold coins for his birthday.

  Pleasant gooseflesh tingled Voran’s back and neck. He had never seen anything like these rituals. They were rustic, but clearly ancient. How pitiful his own words must have sounded to the Pilgrim when he welcomed him into Otchigen’s cold, empty feasting hall.

  The potter walked around his children, tucking in a shirt-tail here, fixing a stray hair there. His wife gestured with eloquent hands to two more girls coming down from the loft so insistently that one of them fell before reaching the final rung. The entire family presented itself to the Pilgrim. But instead of bowing before him as Voran had expected, they exploded into a complicated line dance that weaved in and out of a circle of which the Pilgrim was the center. It felt spontaneous, and yet no one stepped on each other’s feet. Not even the smallest children. Above the noise of stomping feet, a song rose as if from the depths of the earth. Everyone sang it, even the Pilgrim.

  “We greet you, distant traveler!

  Rejoice, beloved brother!

  You’ve come from behind the mountain,

  You’ve risen to the high places.

  Now bless our grass, our flowers blue,

  Our bluebells with your words, your eyes.

  Warm our hearts with gentle words,

  Look into the heart of these brave children,

  Take out the evil spirits from their souls,

  Pour into them your living water,

  Whose source is locked, and the key is in Evening’s hands.

  Evening the bright took a walk and lost the keys.

  And you have walked the road and found it.

  May you bless us, if you
will,

  for many years, for the long harvests,

  for the endless ages of ages!”

  Voran found himself inching away from the song and the dance, since he was not party to its mysteries. But the eldest girl took him by the hand and led him into the pattern. To his own surprise, he melded into it without a thought. Something about the steps, the shape of the dance seemed natural, intrinsic, as though his feet already knew what to do. He even found himself singing the song, which they repeated three times.

  Finally, they all ended up in a rough circle around the hearth, seated.

  “Will you say the incantation, Pilgrim?” asked the potter.

  The Pilgrim stood up and raised his hands and began to chant:

  “The Evening of the year has come,

  And the joys of sun will fade to naught.

  Now sleep in earth, our fathers dear,

  Kept warm by our remembrance, tears.

  We’ll give you joy again anon,

  When the rising sun sees snow no more.”

  The potter handed him a bowl filled with oil. The Pilgrim poured it over the fire. It was scented with lavender. Voran breathed in as long as he could, savoring the symphony of herb, cooked fowl, and sour mead.

  Now, platters of food passed from one to the next around the circle, and everyone ate with their hands. A large horn full of mead was also shared by all. Voran’s head spun from all the constant movement, but his heart was warm and content.

  Was he even still in Vasyllia? Nothing in the third reach compared to this simple joy in life. He had thought that the scholars and warriors of the seminary had preserved the mores and traditions of old Vasyllia. But there, everything was formalistic, strict, conventional to a fault. Repeated movements without inner content. Everything in the potter’s world was replete with significance.

  “Thank you, my friends,” said the Pilgrim from his seat, “for celebrating the departed with me. It is fitting. I had thought no one kept the Evening anymore.”

  He looked at Voran, his eyes probing. Voran felt the flush creep up his cheek.

  “Tell me,” Voran whispered.

  “The Evening, my falcon. It is the old festival of the dead. The remembrance of our departed parents. The send-off of the world into the sleep of winter.”

  Two of the younger girls giggled at Voran’s stupidity. He was surprised to find himself smiling.

  “I have never heard of this festival. How many others have I not heard of?”

  “There’s the Day of Joy,” said a boy with a shock of white hair, probably no more than three or four. “Then the Presentation of the Bride, the Awakening of the Ground, the Cleansing of the Harvest, the Summoning of Fire…”

  “That one I know,” said Voran, abashed at the child’s precocity.

  “There is much that you third-reachers don’t notice, I’m afraid, Vohin Voran,” said the potter, laughing. “And even more that you’ve forgotten.”

  Voran was mortified. The potter had named him, and he had no idea what the potter’s name was.

  “Sudar, forgive my rudeness. What is your name?”

  “I am called Siloán, Vohin Voran. You are welcome at my hearth.”

  Again, Voran wondered at the purity of the potter’s accent. Priest-like, it was. As though speaking the language of Vasyllia had sacred meaning in and of itself.

  The conversation weaved in and out of Voran’s hearing as he descended into brooding. Shame uncoiled itself inside him. There was so much he didn’t know about his own city. So much beauty wasted in the putrid alleyways of the crumbling first reach.

  Siloán put a rough hand on Voran’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. It lifted the fog from Voran’s heart. They conversed. Easily, without constraint. Siloán spoke about things Voran never expected a potter to know—about ancient songs, about the ways of craft that Voran thought long lost, handiwork that required creativity of mind as well as skill of hand.

  “You see, Voran…I am sorry, may I call you by your godsname?”

  Voran hadn’t heard the term “godsname” since he was in school. It was an archaism, a term found more often in the Sayings than in daily conversation.

  “Yes, of course, Siloán. It would be my honor.”

  “I thank you. As I was saying, your bewilderment at the richness of our life here in the first reach is understandable. It is all connected with our general sickness as Vasylli. You must have noticed how the people of our great city prefer cheap, gaudy wares to the beauty of a craft well done.”

  “Yes,” said Voran, thinking of the shattered Nebesti urn. “Things are not made with beauty in mind anymore.”

  “Have you considered why this is?” The potter seemed eager to share his own theories, so Voran extended an open palm to him, encouraging him to speak on. “Creating something truly beautiful requires labor pains. Vivid as childbearing. Not many willingly choose such a path, especially if every craftsman is encouraged to churn out cheap trinkets by the dozen.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Voran, warming to the topic. “Without the time of labor, there will be no pleasure from the fulfillment.”

  “You both reason well,” said the Pilgrim. “But I want you to think it through to its end. Imagine if every person in the entire city-state avoided these labor pains, as you’ve called them. Not just craftsmen, but fathers and mothers, priests and elders, Dars and representatives.”

  “It is like a disease,” said Voran, feeling the gaze of the Pilgrim like fire on his cheek. “A disease that would weaken Vasyllia. Not only as a nation. All would become weak in spirit. If not already dead.”

  “And consider this,” said the Pilgrim, his every word carefully enunciated. “What if Vasyllia were faced with an enemy. Not any enemy, but one that lived for an ideal. That was ready to die for it. What if this enemy were a follower of a dark power, servants of another god?”

  “We would not stand against them,” whispered Voran, his voice heavy. “Not for long.”

  “Voran, that is what I fear as well,” said Siloán. “We are a trivial people if we only come to Temple services because Dar’s law closes trade on holy days. A people with dead hearts.”

  “And so we must do everything we can to reawaken that flame in the heart,” said a new voice from the doorway.

  The potter beamed at the newcomer. “Otar Gleb! We only needed you to make this evening perfect. Come, come!”

  The newcomer was a young priest whom Voran didn’t know. He was dressed in a linen cassock with no adornment other than a red embroidered belt. Blond ringlets and short beard with a few white streaks framed a sharp face with exaggerated features. At first glance, he seemed fantastically ugly, especially with a broken nose that covered half his face. But his smile came easily and illumined his pale-blue eyes. When he smiled, he was beautiful.

  “Vohin Voran,” he said, approaching Voran and taking his forearm in the traditional warrior greeting. “We have not met, but I have long wished to know you. How fitting that it should be this day, and in such illustrious company.”

  When he saw the Pilgrim, he went a little pale, as though he saw something in him that Voran did not. The Pilgrim smiled in acknowledgement and nodded once.

  “By the…” Otar Gleb cleared his throat and chuckled. “What an honor to meet a Pilgrim. Truly you bless this day, when we bring joy to all our dead.”

  “Vasyllia is blessed while its clerics still zealously labor for the flame in the heart,” said the Pilgrim enigmatically.

  The conversation around the hearth grew even more boisterous, if that was possible. Voran watched the young priest intently. He was different from most priests he knew. Less concerned with outward appearances. When he spoke to someone, even the smallest child, he looked them in the eye and didn’t flinch or allow his eyes to flick away. His smile was always ready, always present in the corner of his eyes, but he only let it blossom fully when he felt joy in himself. Everyone seemed physically drawn to him, despite his ugliness.

  “Otar
Gleb,” said Voran in a rare lull in the conversation, “please forgive my rudeness, but are you a first-reacher?”

  “No, Voran. I am a second-reacher. Merchant stock, as it happens. But with no interest or ability in the fine art of trading. And in any case, you know, I’m sure, that one of our priestly vows is the rejection of reacher status.”

  Siloán chuckled. It seemed that he and Gleb shared a private jest.

  “But now that you mention it,” said Gleb, “I find the division into reaches to be a crippling reality for the city, don’t you think, Siloán?”

  “No, not in the least,” said the potter. “Only in our segregation can we hold to the traditions that are so fast disappearing, even in your second reach.”

  “But the separation limits the reach of your wares, does it not?” said Voran. “Not many third-reachers will buy first-reacher work these days.”

  In answer, the potter reached behind himself and pulled out an urn, very similar to the one he sold to the Pilgrim. Except it was more beautiful. At first glance, it seemed no more than a simple clay urn. But the longer Voran looked at it, the more perfect it seemed. Its proportions were flawless. Its form and color were unique. The gradations of the natural clay had been manipulated with purpose, but to look as though it were the work of nature. There were even words and figures in between the swirls of clay, invisible to the careless eye.

  “Yes, I see you understand,” said the potter. “If this urn were to appear in a third-reacher stall at the market, it still would only sell to the discerning eye. And those are rare in any age. Especially our decadent one.”

  “You do realize that by limiting yourself thus you are depriving your family of comfort and riches?”

  “Oh, you third-reachers!” laughed Siloán. “You have so much that your hearts have become small. You can live very well with very little. Sometimes, it is better this way.”