Voran wondered if that were really true.
They spent most of the day at Siloán’s. Afterward, Voran was morose and unwilling to talk. He meandered through the first reach’s dingy streets, wondering at how few trees remained in these levels. The only greenery he saw was the occasional kitchen garden. The Pilgrim took his arm and led him up a staircase leading into the second reach. Just before entering the archway to the clean and orderly streets of the military sector, they stopped at a naked outcrop with a perfect view of the crowd in the plain still feasting in front of the city. From this vantage point, the embroidered designs of the pavilions of the rich took on a life of their own. Here was an embroidered dragon, there a longboat with sail unfurled, even owl eyes staring from butterfly wings. Everywhere the colors danced as the mist from the waterfalls showered the feasters with drops of gold and opal.
“Beautiful, is it not?” The voice behind them was low and musical.
“Good eve, Mirnían,” said Voran, feeling oddly abashed. “I had hoped you would be about. I wanted you to meet the Pilgrim in person.”
“A Pilgrim in Vasyllia,” said Mirnían, his right eyebrow barely rising.
Voran felt like a hump-backed invalid next to Mirnían, though the prince was not much taller than he. Curling gold hair resting on his shoulders, eyes grey as a storm, perfectly straight teeth—Mirnían had everything that Voran did not have, but desired greatly.
“My father the Dar will be pleased to see you, though he is much engaged with matters of state at the moment. I can walk you through the market in the meantime.”
“We spent most of the morning there, Mirnían,” said Voran.
“Well,” said Mirnían as though brushing off a mosquito, “I hardly have time today, in any case. Pilgrim, surely you have tales to tell of the other lands. Yesterday’s storyteller was a disaster. Would you honor us on the stage? Tomorrow will be the last triumphal day before the Dar calls off the hunt for the white stag. Your story may help alleviate the disappointment the city will feel at our famed hunters not finding any trace of it.” Mirnían stared at Voran significantly.
“I would like nothing more, Prince Mirnían,” said the Pilgrim.
“Excellent. I will send for you at the proper time. You must forgive me, but matters of state, you know.”
Voran breathed a sigh of relief at Mirnían’s departure.
“Why do you dislike Mirnían?” asked the Pilgrim.
Voran was annoyed at the Pilgrim’s astuteness.
“We were very close as children, and soon I am to be his brother. And yet…I don’t dislike him, it’s only…”
“Tell me, did he take the Ordeal of Silence with you that year, Voran?”
Voran’s heart sank. He nodded.
“He did not last, did he?”
“No, he broke after two weeks. But there is no shame in that. It is a very difficult ordeal.”
The Pilgrim stared without expression at Voran, until Voran looked down in shame.
“Voran, do you know why the Nebesti urn cracked so spectacularly, while the potter’s vessel did not?”
Voran shook his head, not daring to raise it yet.
“It was baked in too hot a fire.”
Voran looked up.
“I thought the heat strengthened the clay, Pilgrim.”
“The right amount of heat does, just as the right amount of adversity strengthens any relationship between two people. But there is one fire that is always too hot. Do you know what that is?”
Voran did not answer.
“Envy.”
They joined the main road of the second reach that led through the open marketplace—now empty of stalls—toward the center of Vasyllia. Ahead of them stood the large central square, at the heart of which stood the Covenant Tree. Pale flames danced over the translucent leaves of the aspen sapling, which stood barely taller than a man. For a moment, Voran thought the fire was low. But that was unlikely. It was months still until the day of the summoning of the fire.
“Pilgrim. Do you think the potter is right? Can we restore the ideal of Vasyllia? Or are we just idealistic dreamers?”
The Pilgrim exhaled a long, wheezy breath, all the while staring at the sapling. Finally, he looked at Voran with heavy eyes.
“Come, I will show you.”
The Pilgrim took Voran’s arm, his grip like an eagle’s talon. A white light enclosed them, rising out of nowhere, and for a moment Voran saw nothing but the light. Then it dimmed, and the aspen burst into wild color. The aspen was surrounded by red and silver fire—firebirds and moonbirds frolicked and sang with the kind of joy one sees in a one-year-old child just awoken from a full night’s sleep. Surging waves of purple, red, orange, blue, brown pulsated around the tree—songbirds unable to contain themselves enough to sit on a branch. All their music interweaved as though imagined by a single mind, harmonized from a single melody.
The single melody came from far above the aspen sapling. Three Sirin reigned over their kingdom of lesser birds, flying a distant circuit around Vasyllia. One wept, one laughed, one remained stern and impassive. All three sang, each her own variation of a single melody, each weaving in and out of the other, first a motif of joy, then a shadow of grief, replaced by a long moment of introspection. Then all three sang in unison, and Voran fell on his knees, unable to bear the weight of the music pressing down on him.
All around, Vasylli walked with heads high, backs straight, quiet joy and hidden song evident in each face. Strange flowing robes adorned both men and women. It was as though one of the old Temple frescoes had come to life.
“This is Vasyllia as it used to be, yes?” Voran asked the Pilgrim, his voice hardly above a whisper. The Pilgrim inclined his head, looking around with an expression Voran couldn’t quite define.
As he looked at them, Voran was amazed at the faces of these past Vasylli. Nearly everyone in his own Vasyllia walked with bent shoulders, eyes turned inward, faces full of cares. In this Vasyllia, joy burst forth from the eyes of every person. But there was something more. Voran tried to focus above the music of the Sirin, and suddenly he saw.
“Pilgrim! I can see every one of their talents. That man. With his own hands, he will carve the great stone chalices catching the falls, working days and nights without end. When I look at that girl with the long hair, I see an embroidered banner that will be carried in battle, sparking inspiration in the hearts of many warriors. That woman will raise a Dar long to be remembered. That man will raise a temple in a land far away, a land of endless fields of undulating grass. And their hearts! Every person has a flame in their hearts, burning steadily. What is that flame?”
“It is the soul-bond with the Sirin. This is the Vasyllia of the days of the Covenant. Over one thousand years ago. Lassar of Blessed Memory is Dar.”
Voran gasped in pleasure. No time was more decorated with legends. No time gave more of the Old Tales and Sayings than the reign of Lassar. But the pleasure was short-lived, as his own Vasyllia returned to his thoughts, so grey and drab compared to this place.
“How much beauty has been lost, Pilgrim. Every person here is a maker, a creator of vast potential. I can see every man, woman, and child shine with beauty, beauty made and beauty lived. Now all we care about is the latest trinket from Karila sold at market.”
Voran sat down on the bare earth, hugging his knees. He felt exhausted, emptied, confused. Why did the Pilgrim show him so much? Was something expected of him in return?
“Why did we lose it all, Pilgrim?”
The Pilgrim’s half-smile faded as he looked down at Voran. “Many reasons, my falcon. Chief among them, you forgot your part of the Covenant.”
“We have always been taught that the Covenant between Vasyllia and Adonais was merely an instructive tale. A reminder of Vasyllia’s greatness, surely, but not literally true. What have we forgotten?”
The light faded as though the sun were obscured by a cloud. Voran looked up at the sky, but there were no clouds in the sky. Yet
the darkness deepened. A chill crept up his arms and down his back. He shivered.
“You forgot the Darkness, Voran. It has been so subtle, these centuries. So wise. And now, no one even remembers it. But it lives. Look up, Voran.”
He pointed at the sun, looking at it directly, to Voran’s amazement. Squinting in expectation, Voran turned to the sun.
It was almost completely gone, a creeping darkness devouring it. The darkness ate and ate, until nothing was left. Voran began to shake with fear.
“It comes, Voran. The Darkness comes.”
All around Voran, men and women were running about, hands shielding their faces in fear. Mothers clasped their children, husbands encircled the waists of their wives. They were no longer in the flowing robes of Lassar’s time. Voran’s heart plunged.
“Yes, Voran,” said the Pilgrim. “This omen is not of the vision. It is happening now.”
Vasyllia roiled around them. A river of people rushed through the gates back into the city. Guards in the Dar’s black livery ran past Voran, trying to restore order.
“Come, Pilgrim, we must go.” He took the Pilgrim by the arm, but the big man did not budge. Voran turned back at him, questioning.
“Voran, it begins. So soon, and so much yet unsaid. They move so quickly against us. If you remember anything, remember this. Find the Living Water. They must not find it first.”
The prince lay dead, his heart pierced by his own brother’s arrow. The wolf and the falcon watched over him.
“Fetch the Living Water,” said the wolf.
The falcon flew beyond the thrice-nine lands, into the thrice-tenth kingdom. He found the Living Water under the shade of a young apple tree in the first garden of the world. He poured it over the prince’s wounds, and they faded away as though they never were. The prince came to life again…
-From “The Tale of the Deathless and the Living Water” (Old Tales: Book II)
CHAPTER FIVE
The Story
Though the darkness that swallowed the sun soon dissipated, it took the greater part of the day to calm Vasyllia. After ensuring Lebía was well, Voran put on full armor and joined the ranks of his brother-warriors as they attempted to calm the people and prevent any outbursts of public violence. Only a few young men, their blood up, tried to take advantage of the mêlée to settles scores, but they were easily contained.
Voran returned late to find the house asleep. Not bothering to take off his mail, he crumpled in exhaustion at Lebía’s side and feel into a deep sleep.
He dreamt that he walked back to the center of Vasyllia, toward the Great Tree. The path widened into the square, paved in large flagstones, all four sides lined with the gabled inns and taverns of the second reach of Vasyllia. The burning aspen seemed small, its flames sputtering.
Walking around the sapling, the Pilgrim caressed its leaves as one caresses a lover before a long separation. His singsong rumble was nearly in unison with the hum of the twin waterfalls, which from this vantage point appeared to plunge directly on either side of the aspen, framing it. His words were inaudible, but chant-like. His joy-pierced tones were tinged with grief.
The flames of the tree flared for a moment, then died.
The song of the Sirin flooded the air. Voran’s Sirin flew once around the sapling, chanting with the Pilgrim. Voran’s chest ached as though his heart were torn out. He was desperate to run to her, to beg her to sing to him, but as is the way with dreams, he was immobile as stone.
Voran awoke to clanging pots and shattering crockery. The house was in an uproar, servants rushing about and whispering nervously to each other.
“Cook, what is all this racket?” Voran asked as he entered the kitchens, still in yesterday’s mail.
The cook, thin as a reed—everyone jokingly called her “your lardship” behind her back—did not even stop to look at him.
“Prince Mirnían sits in the high hall with the Pilgrim, breaking his fast. There is to be a city-wide storytelling today. The Dar hopes it will calm the people after yesterday’s omen.”
“And you did not think to wake me?” Voran growled.
She flashed him a knowing smile and turned the piglets spinning over the hearth. “Lady Lebía said you’ve not snored so loudly in weeks. It would’ve been a crime to wake you.”
By the time Voran dressed and made his way down to the hall, Mirnían and the Pilgrim were already mounting horses in the courtyard.
“Voran,” said Mirnían with a sardonic smile, “so good of you to see us off. I had quite an appetite today. Her lardship tells me there are no more partridges in your cellars, I’m afraid. Do tell her how much I enjoyed them.”
Voran cursed inwardly. Partridge was his favorite.
“I will see you at the storytelling, I hope. Don’t forget that it’s in the main square today. All festivities outside the city walls have been canceled after the omen.” Mirnían turned his horse around and rode off. The Pilgrim followed, surrounded by an honor guard of twelve black-cloaked spear-bearers in helms.
As he joined the crowd of all reaches walking to the storytelling, Voran was pleased that he had an opportunity to walk alone. In his worn travel cloak, he easily blended in with the crowd, affording a rare pleasure of hearing the latest rumors.
Most of what he heard was nervous tattle, the people still nagged by yesterday’s fear. Voran let those conversations wash over him, seeking a word or phrase that would force his attention. There! The words were innocuous enough on their own, but there was something unnerving about them.
“You don’t believe me?” She was a matronly sort, fat from much childbearing. “He saw it, I tell you. That’s why I’m braving this morning, what after the omen, you know. I want to see it for myself.”
“Your husband is always seeing things.” The second speaker was an older woman, probably unmarried, at least judging by a bitterness that sounded long-established. “He’s as reliable an observer as he is a teller of tall tales. Every time he tells that story about hunting the boar, he adds to the number of his wounds.”
“You never give him the credit he deserves. You will see. He said it quite clearly. The fire on the aspen is nearly out. And we’re nowhere near the day of summoning.”
Voran’s skin crawled. Perhaps what he had seen was not a dream, but a vision? Had the Pilgrim sung a funeral dirge for the tree?
Straining for the sight of the tree through the houses, Voran pushed forward through the crowd. As he entered the square, he stopped, hardly noticing the grumbling of the people who jostled past him. There was no mistaking it. The fire on the tree was simmering, no more. It looked as though a gust of wind would put it out.
Voran found himself stranded, the square too full for him to push his way closer to the stage at the foot of the tree. The tension stretched around him like a viol string at its snapping point.
“Friends!” Mirnían spoke from the stage, and the crowd’s noise lessened. “Some of you have already heard of our unexpected honor. Vasyllia is visited by a Pilgrim.”
All around Voran a murmur of appreciation rose. The tension eased palpably, and Voran breathed out with it.
“He has traveled alone for many days, and all for the pleasure of seeing our land. Let us welcome him.”
More tension released in the music of their clapping hands. Even Voran, who liked to think himself impervious to mob mentality, felt his heart swelling.
“Yesterday was a dire day, my friends, there can be no doubting it. Though I am loath to say it, the hunt for the white stag has been canceled, and the omen of the darkened sun is enough to chill the heart of the bravest. But lest we think our own misfortunes too great, let us hear of the horrors and wonders of the other lands. I put it to you, dear friends. Shall we let the Pilgrim take the mantle of the storyteller for the day?”
Once again, universal cheers.
The Pilgrim walked forward and assessed the crowd. All cheering stopped as the people shriveled under his gaze. Some even began to mutter in dis
comfort. An awkward chuckle broke out somewhere, but was cut off immediately. The Pilgrim seemed to be searching for someone or something. His eyes caught Voran’s, and Voran heard the Pilgrim’s voice clearly in his mind: I am sorry, my falcon. I am sorry for everything.
Voran’s breath grew labored. A sense of inescapable calamity seized him. He tried to still his breathing, but the more he tried, the tighter his chest constricted. It was painful just to stand there. He needed to escape, to be anywhere but here. But he was hemmed in on all sides.
“I once knew a man who owned a great wealth of cherry trees,” the Pilgrim began in a storyteller’s sing-song. “His cherries were legendary—they were just sour enough, just sweet enough, just red enough. But one year the cherry orchard produced no fruit at all. Some gardeners blamed the warm weather; others blamed the soil. The rich man was greatly saddened by this.
“He walked through his favorite cherry orchard, amazed at the beauty of the trees. The leaves were the same transparent green they were in early spring; a faint fragrance rose with every breath of wind. They were a sight to behold, but they had no cherries, and it was nearing the end of the picking season.
“And the rich man grew more and more sad at the failure of the orchard. But there was nothing to be done. The ground was expensive; he could afford no fruitless trees. And so, with tears in his eyes, he took an axe and chopped down every tree himself.”
The Pilgrim stopped. Slowly at first, then rising like the wind before a thunderstorm, the crowd gave rein to its disappointment. The Vasylli never liked parables, thought Voran. The sense of impending calamity lessened, but it took a great force of will to unclench his fists. There were white marks on his palms where the nails bit.
Mirnían approached the Pilgrim, apparently encouraging him. The Pilgrim’s shoulders sagged an inch further with each of Mirnían’s words. He seemed a man broken by grief. It was strangely incongruous—the scene was one of festival, with banners fluttering on every windowsill and the people dressed in their finest. And yet, the fire on the tree sputtered.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 5
