Lebía loved watching Voran race back and forth on his black charger every morning, tightening up discipline among the warriors. She was proud of him, even if she laughed at him silently for being a touch pompous in his manner. He had no idea how ridiculous he looked.
That entire day, Lebía walked alone. By the evening, she had grown lonely again, and almost regretted coming. Finally, Voran rode to her and dismounted, handing his reins over to one of the younger warriors. Voran looked eager to speak, his mood lightened by the warmth of the day.
“How much longer, do you think, until we reach it?” Lebía asked.
“Well, the weeping tree is supposed to be not far from the Nebesti border on the side of Vasyllia’s lands. Roughly one hundred miles through mostly mountainous terrain. At the rate we’re going? Two weeks, maybe more.”
“Will we come near Nebesta, the city?”
“No. The Dar’s road splits in two at the Nebesti border. We go straight, the road to Nebesta goes left, hugging the border along a narrow valley until you hit the city at the end of the valley. It’s beautiful, you know. All wood where Vasyllia is stone. A confluence of two rivers and some of the most gorgeous forests you’ve ever seen.”
“I wish I could see it.”
“You can see the border range over there.” Voran pointed at a series of jagged peaks that started at their left and reached all the way to a point directly ahead of them. They looked like the rotting teeth of an old man. Fog encircled the tips of the left-most peaks, and something darker than fog swirled there as well.
“Strange,” said Voran. “That looks like smoke.”
He stared at the column of cloud reaching toward Vasyllia from the Nebesti side. It was pinkish in the late morning sun. Then he shook his head, thoughtful, before turning back to Lebía with a smile.
“Lebía, here I am blabbing away. And you have not yet told me why you so wanted to see the weeping tree.”
Their road led straight ahead to a dip between two drum-hills, the left crowned with aspens, the right with birches.
“It’s easier for you, Voran. You are an intimate of the Dar. I sit at home. Sometimes the pain of our parents’ absence is like a physical illness. There are mornings when I can’t rise from bed.”
“You hope the Living Water will heal that wound?”
“To be honest, I don’t think it will. But yes, I hope.”
“There is something else, then?”
She found a barrier between her thoughts and her words. To speak was as hard as to move a boulder covered with moss from a riverbed.
“Voran, there is something very wrong in Vasyllia. The omen merely confirmed it for me.”
“Yes, I have begun to feel it as well, swanling.”
“It sounds terrible, what I am about to say. It has hurt so much, seeing how everyone was willing to attack our father in his absence, when he couldn’t defend his name. With such obvious enjoyment, too. People who allow that cannot be good. Now, I don’t even care much for Vasyllia anymore. I’m going on this pilgrimage because I can no longer stay in the city.”
Voran looked thoughtful.
“Lebía, I agree with you. But do you know what the Pilgrim told me? He told me Vasyllia was everything. He told me I must never let it fall. As if I could do anything about it.”
The last sentence was said more for himself than for her, she thought.
“Is that why you seek the Living Water?” she asked
“Well, the Pilgrim told me to find it. But there’s also something else. In the Dar’s chambers, when I saw that the weeping tree is at the top of a tor called Sirin’s Peak, I felt a summons as strong as the music ever was.”
“You hope to find the Sirin?”
He nodded.
The first of the pilgrims had reached the narrowing pass between the drums, being forced to walk only three or four abreast. Voran and Lebía were still on the downslope of the road, and for a moment the sun hid behind the right drum, only visible in the golden leaves of the birches crowning it. When the sun came up over the trees, it was fire-white, brighter than Lebía had ever seen. It rose with a faint music, as though singing. Then it hit her. The light was not the sun. A Sirin perched on the top of the central birch, bathed in her own light.
Yearning pierced Lebía’s heart with a keen, pleasant pain. She knew, in that knowledge that surpasses a movement of thought, being something already formed in the heart, that the Sirin on the mount offered Lebía a choice to meet face to face. No more distant visits, no more hints of music. She could have the soul-bond only read about in tales. She could be consumed in the fire of the Sirin.
She desired it as much as she had desired anything in life. It all welled up inside her—all the injustice, all the pain, all the promises never kept. Had she ever asked for anything for herself? Did she not deserve this consolation more than anyone? No one else even believed in the Sirin.
But then, she looked at Voran, and something inside her balked. He was so unhappy. And he was so incapable of being unhappy. She was used to it. He needed this more than she did.
“Voran, do you see the birches on the top of the hill there?” she said, her voice heavy. “It’s a good vantage point, is it not? Would you do me a favor? Go up there and see what waits for us on the other side.”
Immediately, the light faded, the music faded, the world faded. Voran’s eyes widened and he gasped in pleasure. She knew that now the Sirin sang for him alone. She had made her choice, and the Sirin had accepted it. Voran rode off without looking back. Lebía wept.
If man is to brave the Heights of Aer, to face the Throne of the Most High, he must endure the seven baptisms of fire. The soul-bond is the first baptism of fire. The second is the passage from Earth to the Lows of Aer. The third is the shedding of the skin of the old man. The fourth is the first death. The fifth is the great sacrifice. The sixth is the second death. The seventh…is a mystery.
-From “On the Emulation of the Powers” (The Sayings, Book VII, 7:1-7)
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Sirin
The song of the Sirin rang out, drowning out the noise of the pilgrims. Everything else faded from Voran’s mind. It was even more intense than in the forest the first time. He left his horse in the hands of one of the warriors. He felt it would be somehow blasphemous to encounter a Sirin on horseback.
“Lead them on,” he said, not even realizing who it was he was talking to. “I’m going to take a look from the top of that hill.”
Voran climbed, slogging through cold mud to a stand of birches leaning upward along the incline of the hill toward the sun. Their exposed roots held the earth like grubby hands. Voran slipped over them, finding the way harder than it looked. As he reached the head of the drum-hill, he cleared the line of trees and entered a small clearing, in the middle of which stood three white birches, taller than the rest, still clad in autumn gold. His Sirin perched on top of the middle tree and sang. Voran found that his cheeks were wet with tears, and his heart sang in unison with the Sirin. Approaching her was nearly impossible, as though ten strong men were pushing back against him with all their force.
He could go no further and went down on his knees, the linen shirt under his mail sweat-soaked and sticking to his skin. The Sirin no longer chanted, but Voran feared to look at her. She flew down, alighting in front of him, so that her face was directly in line with his. Mastering himself, he forced his eyes to lock with hers. Something inside him shifted. He heard a soft, regular thumping, as of another heart, and a small flame came to life in the center of his chest, radiating warmth to the rest of his body. He heard many musics—joyful, haunting, terrifying—all at the same time, but with no disharmony. He was covered in golden flame, warm and dew-like, and he did not burn. His mind lurched with terror; his heart raced with joy.
“Voran.” Even when she spoke, she sang. “I am named Lyna.”
Voran could find no words for a long time, content only to look into the abyss of her eyes. It was never easy for
him to look into another person’s eyes. It was dangerously intimate, and he was squeamish about that kind of intimacy. Looking into her eyes was like staring from a peak at a river at the bottom of a valley, jumping down without closing his eyes, and then plunging into the river, only to find it had no bottom. There was no single word for it.
After a long time, he retreated from her eyes and saw that she had an oval face framed with auburn curls, a mouth that seemed incapable of laughter, an expression of austere sorrow, like a living statue. Under her collarbone, undulating blue-green feathers shimmered down to her golden feet and talons and ended at the black tips of her outstretched wings.
“What a blessed and cursed day this is, Voran.” Her wings moved with her speech like human hands. “Sirin and man are joined once more, though it comes at the time of testing.”
“Why have you waited so long to greet me, Lyna?” His voice sounded crude compared to the music of her voice, like two rocks tapping each other.
“My falcon, the love of the Sirin is a blazing fire. We cannot force it on anyone. For generations, none have been ready for the soul-bond. It is a glorious thing, but it is heavy, as any true love must be.”
Never had confession of love sounded so simply, and yet if the earth gaped and volcanoes erupted around him, he would not have been surprised. After the soul-bond, he felt nothing could ever surprise him again.
“Lyna, can I stay here with you? Must I continue my journey to the Living Water?”
“You do not know what you are saying, my falcon. No love can exist where there is no forward movement. If you stayed here too long with me, you would be consumed. You are not ready for the full bond.”
“There is so much I do not understand, Lyna. So many questions. What is happening to Vasyllia? With the Covenant Tree?”
“The tree’s fire is fading, Voran.”
“Is it the Covenant, Lyna? All we Vasylli remember is hints of old stories.”
“They contain much truth, those old stories. The Covenant was a simple thing. Vasyllia was to protect the Outer Lands against all darkness, caring for and nurturing all peoples. In return, Adonais girded them with power. Nothing could touch Vasyllia. The Harbinger summoned the fire that confirmed the Covenant. While the aspen is on fire, the Covenant stood. When he returned, he witnessed the covenant broken. The fire will fade until it is no more.”
Voran’s heart chilled. The Harbinger. The greatest of Adonais’s allies; a name never spoken above a whisper, so great was the reverence attached to it. Did she mean that the Pilgrim was the Harbinger? It would explain his strange powers.
“No one in Vasyllia believes in the Covenant, Lyna. Even I find it hard to fathom with my mind alone.”
“Do you wonder, then, that no Vasylli is bound to a Sirin anymore? In the time of Lassar, nearly every Vasylli was bound to a Sirin. Five hundred years later, in the reign of Cassían, less than half were. Now, four hundred years after the death of Cassían, no one seeks the old beauty.”
“How could something this important be forgotten, Lyna?”
She was silent for an age. She seemed to be searching for the right words.
“When love grows cold, my falcon, eternal truths darken.”
“You are saying that we have not done our part to care for the Outer Lands? But we have enough troubles in our Vasyllia. The separation of the reaches—it is a terrible thing. How can we be held responsible for the welfare of outsiders, if we cannot keep our own house in order?”
Lyna sighed heavily and shook her head. Her curls danced in the wind.
“Your own heart can answer that question, Voran. But there is so much noise there, so much confusion.”
“Lyna, you must speak to me as though I were a child. Please, I want to understand. Be patient with me.”
“Yes, my falcon, I will try. Recall the image of Lassar’s Vasyllia that the Pilgrim showed you. Was there anything unusual about the people you saw?”
“They were more joyful than any people I have ever seen.”
“Do you imagine that their Vasyllia had fewer problems than your Vasyllia? You would be a fool if you did. You know your histories. Lassar was a man of war; only after many trials, much blood, did the Harbinger come to him with an offer of Covenant. And yet, the joy in their faces. You saw it. Joy like that comes from only one source. Pain.”
Voran nodded, remembering his talks with the potter.
“Yes, pain. Did you not suffer pain during the Ordeal of Silence? Were you not rewarded for that pain a hundred-fold? Does not the artist suffer his creation? Do you not think all those people you saw suffered pain in the making of those works of beauty whose loss you so lamented?”
Voran was surprised that he did not wonder at Lyna’s deep knowledge of his thoughts and emotions. Truly the bond they shared was soul-deep.
“Tell me, Voran. What is the most beautiful thing a man can mold and form, though it is not of his own creation?”
How many times had he pondered the same question while sitting half-frozen on the banks of their river of a morning?
“His own life,” he said.
“To make his own life beautiful, what must he do?”
It came to him like floodwaters, overwhelming.
“A human being can only become truly human if he lives for others. That way, the way of love, is by necessity the way of pain. Shared pain. Co-suffering.”
He felt the dew-flames flare up around him again. A darkness of which he had never been aware lifted from his heart, and he was calm. He could not remember the last time he felt so calm.
“Where do you think Vasyllia received its name?” she asked. “The Vasylli is the one who gives his life for another. You all know it; you all repeat it endlessly. But meaning is lost in endless repetition.”
“Vasyllia was named after the Covenant,” Voran whispered to himself.
“Yes. There are few true Vasylli left, Voran.”
“Lyna, what can I do?” He felt small, like a child called to account for his older siblings’ misdeeds.
“Seek the weeping tree, my falcon, before it is found by one who has sought it for ages.” She shimmered and began to fade. “We must part now, but know that I am always with you, even if you cannot see me. You are unformed yet, Voran, only crude clay in the hands of the potter. There is risk and loss in every meeting, so choose carefully when you seek to see me again. I leave you with hope. The Harbinger walks the earth once more. If he finds true Vasylli, as he did in the time of Lassar, he may reforge the forgotten Covenant. But I fear much pain and loss must transpire before then.”
He heard the sound of wind whistling through reeds as Lyna flew up to the sun. She was gone, but her song remained in the flickering flame warming his heart.
When Voran came to himself, it was already late evening. Nowhere did he see any sign of the pilgrims; even their racket, which he thought could be heard for miles, was absent. How long had he been with Lyna? He shivered with cold and rising dread.
Then he remembered how his encounter with the white stag seemed to move him to a different place entirely. The Lows of Aer. Only entered in certain places and times, and always perilous. He looked around in consternation. Truly, this was not a place he recognized. There was no road, only an overgrown path such as a woodsman might use. The peaks of Vasyllia’s main range were much closer than they should have been and in front of him. In the dim light, it was difficult to make out much.
He must have entered into the Lows of Aer during his encounter with Lyna. Coming out of them, he must have been displaced again. He would have to be more careful about crossing that threshold in the future.
He heard something behind him. A cry or a moan. Could be an animal, but it sounded human. He ran toward it, along a path cresting to a grassy knoll. When he looked over its edge, he gasped.
As far he could see, a beech wood extended to the horizon, rising and falling gently. A mass of people labored through the trees, their number greater than he could count. Some w
ere already rising up the hill to meet him. They were bloody and hobbled. Then he understood the sound. The wailing of grieving women.
Leading them was a tall middle-aged woman leaning on a branch. She saw him about a stone’s throw away, stopped, her expression confused, but not frightened. Next to her walked a skeletal girl no more than six years old.
“Matron,” Voran called to her. “What is all this? Who are you and what has happened?”
“Are you but the skin of another changer, come to devour what is left?” She threatened with the branch. Her voice was like dried peas rattling in a box. She had a strange accent. Nebesti, probably.
“I do not understand you. I am Vohin Voran, the son of Otchigen of Vasyllia. I bear you no ill will, Matron.”
Her eyes seemed to shift somehow, as though she had not fully seen him until now. He felt the flame in his heart surge toward her, and she gasped in surprise. When she could speak again, her voice had more power to it.
“They are all dead and burning, dead and burning. Blood, fire everywhere. Like…living torches…” She shuddered. “Son of Otchigen, we are all that remains of the ancient and glorious city of Nebesta. The Second City is destroyed.”
The world is not as it seems. You think there is only the visible world for the living, and the invisible for the dead and the immortal? You are wrong. There are many realms interweaving with each other like the threads in a tapestry. Most are invisible most of the time. But sometimes, some people fall into other realms or encounter the denizens of those places. Some of these Powers are good. Many are not…
-From “A Primer on Nebesti Cosmology” (The Lore of Nebesta, Book I, 3:6-8)
CHAPTER NINE
The Fall
Among the ubiquitous women and children—some walking but most hanging on their mothers—Voran found no men at all. The implication was chilling—whoever did this had killed or captured the men and sent the women forward to spread tales of terror in their wake. Whoever this enemy was, they were cunning beyond Voran’s experience.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 8
