The lands under the protection of Vasyllia are called “The Three Lands” or “The Three Cities,” meaning, of course, Vasyllia, Nebesta, and Karila, with the lands appertaining to them. There are also other smaller principalities that officially owe allegiance to one of the Three Cities, but in fact are largely independent. There is Negoda, an offshoot of Nebesta, which shares the Southern Downs with its Mother City. Tiverna, Bskova, and Charnigal pay tribute to Karila. They make a kind of three-pointed gate to the hilly country that sits at the foot of the Vasylli-Nebesti Mountains. Another five or so cities do not even merit a name, for they stand at the edge of the Steppelands. Only nomads live beyond…
-From “A Child’s Lesson in Vasylli Geography,” (Old Tales, Appendix 3c)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Gumiren
The kestrel keened, hung on the air, trembling with ecstasy, then plunged down into the shadows. Sabíana, standing on a palace turret, thought of Voran. Whenever they had walked in the forests or simply sat in silence together, the kestrel had always commanded his attention. He had called it a “windhover.” She never really understood why he was so entranced by the small sparrow-hawks. But now, its appearance was enough to make her cry. Again.
For the first three weeks after Voran’s exile, Sabíana had rushed about like a madwoman, busying herself in important and unimportant work. She even finished the embroidered Sirin banner. One morning, when the fog seemed ready to smother Vasyllia, she woke up with the realization that she had never been so tired and lonely. She returned to her bed, hoping no one would hear her sobs. She slept the entire day.
That evening, when she woke up, she was refreshed and able to think about Voran without the memory gouging out the remnants of her heart. Until the kestrel.
Once again, the kestrel soared to the clouds, fell backward and caught himself right in front of Sabíana’s face. Its mouse-like squeak was almost comical, but she couldn’t laugh. Truly, its sleek, mottled shape was beautiful.
It hovered before her, staring at her.
“Go to him, little sparrow-hawk. Tell him to hurry back for me.”
The kestrel flew away, and Sabíana saw it ride a wind-gust out over the Covenant Tree—now no more than a normal aspen sapling, naked in the winter cold—into the forests beyond Vasyllia. Perhaps it had understood her. She stared after it as far as she could, until it melted into a dark band of cloud.
Except it was not cloud. It moved toward Vasyllia with supernal speed, and it twitched. She heard them before she realized what they were. The skies crawled—ravens by the thousand circled over Vasyllia, croaking discordantly, calling for the coming of the war to fill their bellies with the flesh of the dead. They remained high above the city, out of bowshot. Sabíana’s uneasy apprehension turned into dread.
Then she saw them: shimmering, dancing abysses at the very edge of the plateau. They resolved into a mass of men carrying torches. There were so many of them! Ten thousand strong or more. The enemy was here.
“Come, Sabíana,” said the Dar. “I need you at the wall with me.”
The Dar, standing outside her chamber door, shimmered in a halo of torchlight. He was surrounded by black-clad warriors in full armor.
“Parley?” she asked.
He nodded once.
She rose and wrapped herself in a wolf-fur before joining her father in the ring of light. It was already dark in the city, and only smoking torches provided illumination—an angry, red glare that bloodied everyone’s faces. It all seemed somehow too vivid to be real, the way Sabíana sometimes felt in a dream the moment before awakening.
As they walked—Dar Antomír a few steps ahead of Sabíana—she felt an itch near her left ear. Someone was staring at her. She turned and caught the open glance of the warrior to her immediate left. He blanched and turned away. She recognized him.
“You are Tolnían, yes? The scout who brought us the report about the weeping tree?”
“Yes, Highness,” he mumbled in confusion. “Kind of you to remember me.”
“How could I forget you? Your tidings were the beginning of all this, were they not?”
The warrior—if he could be called that, for he was no more than a boy—blushed a little.
“Speak your mind, Tolnían. It would give me relief.”
“Highness, forgive me. I was only wondering if there is anything I can do to relieve the Dar. I can almost feel the weight of ruling pushing him down.”
Sabíana looked ahead at her father, who walked briskly with the head of the company. He betrayed no outward signs of stress.
“You are a bit young to be able to read people so well, Tolnían,” she said.
“I never had a childhood, my lady. My mother and father died when I was little. They were ambassadors to Karila.”
“Do you mean—”
“Yes, they were among those massacred.”
Sabíana was surprised by the calm tone. It was full of warm remembrance, but resigned in a way typical with older men, not youths.
They had reached the turret built into one of the carved trees framing Vasyllia’s doors. They climbed onto the platform, and Sabíana’s heart grew cold, her limbs heavy, at the sight of the enemy. There was no end to them—torches as far and deep as the eye could see—endless lines across the high plain, into the groves on either side, and all the way down the slopes until they were shrouded in fog. Sabíana nearly despaired. She and the Dar approached the wall, and a banner-bearer raised a large, black banner with the figure of a High Being. Sabíana couldn’t remember what sort of being it was. Perhaps someone invoked during wartime.
In the torchlight, details were difficult to distinguish. The invaders were all dressed similarly in loose kaftans cinched at the waist, worn over tight-fitting pants—good riding clothes, Sabíana realized—and no external markings seemed to distinguish the common soldier from the officer. All of them were brown-skinned, squat, well-built, with silky black hair and faces like round bowls. There was some similarity in feature to the Karila, but these had a much more pronounced angle to their eyes. It looks like they’re always laughing, thought Sabíana with an unpleasant lurch in her stomach.
One of the largest came forward, surrounded by a guard of archers with bows impossibly long, almost the height of two men standing on each other’s shoulders. Surely, they were no more than ceremonial, she thought. But the grim set of the archers’ jaws changed her mind. This leader had a silk scarf tied to his fur-lined conical hat, probably to designate importance. He looked up at them and bowed to the waist. He then snapped his fingers, and a large band of shirtless, muscular brutes armed with spears pushed a prisoner forward. He looked familiar. Then she recognized him, and she reeled at the edge of abysmal despair, barely holding on. It was Dubían.
“Father, what does this mean? What about…”
“Hush, my dear,” he whispered, his eyes set and firm. “We know nothing. Not yet.”
Dubían was bloodied and his face was swollen, his eyes barely visible. The brutes pushed him down to his knees with spear-points. The silk-scarfed leader said something in an undertone to Dubían, and to Sabíana’s surprise it sounded like the Vasyllian tongue. How could these mysterious enemies from beyond the Steppelands speak Vasyllia’s language? Dubían shook his head, stubbornly looking down. The leader took up a heavy horsewhip and beat him twice. Dubían tilted his head up, though Sabíana still doubted he could actually see much, so battered was his face. She pitied him, but the face she saw in her mind—battered and bruised—was Voran’s. Her hands trembled.
“Highness,” rasped Dubían. “Forgive me. I have failed in my charge before you. I did not come in time to warn you.
The whip cracked again. The leader angrily muttered something at Dubían.
“Dubían, my son,” said Dar Antomír with unexpected vigor, though Sabíana couldn’t mistake the slight tremor, “do not fear to speak. Whatever they force you to say, say it. You are not accountable. Adonais forgives, and so do I. Speak.”<
br />
The leader guffawed and slapped the back of Dubían’s head, almost as a friendly encouragement. Sabíana’s stomach lurched again dangerously.
“I thank you, Highness.” Dubían crouched over in pain, then forced himself to straighten. His eyes were now completely shut. “The Gumiren have one condition. They will allow Vasyllia its peace and continued existence. In return, the Dar must recognize the lordship of the Ghan of Gumir, though as a courtesy he will retain the title of Dar. Every ten years, three of Vasyllia’s best young men and three of Vasyllia’s best young women will be sent to the capital city of Gumir-atlan, to be given in marriage to the clan-lords and ladies of the Gumiren. An additional tribute of timber, furs, gold, and wine will be levied every few months. Furthermore, a representative of the Ghan will preside at all ruling sessions of the Dar. He will have power to supersede the Dar’s command, should the Ghan’s wishes contradict those of the Dar.”
Dar Antomír suddenly took a spear from one of his retainers and hurled it over the wall. It landed point-first at the feet of the leader. Sabíana gritted her teeth, expecting an immediate reprisal. The leader smiled derisively and spit on the spear.
“Vasyllia rejects your offer, Gumir!” cried the Dar. “We know who you are. Tell your Ghan’s masters that we will never treat with them. Our blood and our lives first, you filth!”
The leader smiled no more. The Dar turned away from him and spoke to the wall-guard.
“This is the time of testing, my children. Stand fast, and fear no darkness!”
Sabíana sensed the rising of an invisible cloud of anger from the direction of the Gumiren. The air itself seemed poisoned. The leader rattled off a curt command in a guttural language that sounded like spoons beating each other. He pointed at Dubían. The entire army of Gumiren shrieked—a high-pitched, blood-curdling whooping that sounded more beastly than human. Dubían’s guards hurled their spears at their prisoner. His face twitched, but not a sound of pain escaped his lips. He half-fell to the earth, the spear-shafts twisting his body awkwardly.
A shout rose among the Vasylli.
“Rogdai,” cried the Dar, “now!”
Sabíana felt the shadows widening around her into dancing spots, and everything started to go dark. The shrieks pursued her into the darkness.
“Princess dear! Little one? Wake UP!”
Sabíana woke, finding it difficult to remember where she was, why she was wherever she was, and even for a brief moment who she was. A round, wrinkled face with two apple-red spots on her cheeks was not a foot away from hers. There was something familiar about it.
“Well, my chick. Took you long enough.”
“Nanny? What are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in ages.”
“You were not doing so well. They needed my special knowledge.”
The old face, wrapped and tied elaborately in the manner of widows, had hardly a tooth left in it, but still she smiled in that way only the old have, so full of memory. Sabíana imagined how the old woman must be seeing all her selves—the precocious child, the headstrong girl, the Dar’s solemn daughter—in a single moment. It unnerved Sabíana, though the sensation was not unpleasant.
“How long have I been sleeping?”
“Sleep? That wasn’t sleep, my little one. Three days. They thought you had caught the pestilence.”
Everything came flooding back, especially Dubían’s broken body lying askew on the muddy ground. Again spots danced before her eyes, and the world swam around her. Enough of this weakness, she said to herself. I am of Cassían’s proud line. We have iron in our hearts, and if all others fall to the madness out there beyond the wall, I will not.
The world righted itself, though Nanny still looked worried.
“Poor Dubían,” Sabíana whispered. “How terrible to die within sight of home, but never to enter it a last time.”
The corners of Nanny’s mouth trembled.
“Adonais is good, my little one. You should have seen them! Our Vasylli went war-mad. They stormed those… whatever-they-call-themselves. Those pigs never expected the mad charge. A hundred of our best men. They fell on the enemy’s thousands like bees. Dubían they brought back. Yes, it was at great cost. We lost many, but the enemy lost more.”
Sabíana swelled with pride, and the tears gathered. She held them back. “How brave Dubían was. He never cried out. Not once! Though the pain must have been terrible. His wounds…”
“Mmmm. Yes. I washed him, you know, ducky. His face. You should have seen his face. Well, I’m sure you will. You were never one to shrink from death.”
“How could I? Mother died so young…” Her poor father. How he must be suffering Dubían’s loss. “Nanny, how is the Dar?”
The old woman’s breathing became erratic, and a sob escaped.
“Oioioi,” she keened, “my Dar, my wonderful Dar. He would not be so badly off if Dubían wasn’t killed. He can’t ask him—”
“About Voran and Mirnían,” Sabíana finished for her. “I must see him, Nanny. Get me my housedress. The green one.” She swooped into action, every movement of her body pushing the dangerous thoughts about Voran further away from her mind. The old woman, well-versed in the behavior of the Dar’s family, stopped chattering and hurried to be useful. She dressed Sabíana calmly, with firm, quick hands. Sabíana was grateful for it.
“No. First show me the fallen warrior,” said Sabíana as they left her bedroom. She would not use his name. To name him would be to personalize him. No more. She must become stone.
He lay in a vaulted room with high ceilings. As in the Dumar’s council room, decorating each corner of the room was a tree carved of stone. The air shimmered gold from the many candles surrounding his bier, which stood like an altar in the center of the room. Dubían was arrayed in ancient robes over golden scale-mail. The candlelight ricocheted off his helmet and greaves. His red beard looked almost bloody next to his white face, yet he smiled slightly. He looked so young. The few lines that etched his forehead in life were smoothed away by the hand of death.
Sabíana dismissed Nanny. She had a sudden urge to pull aside Dubían’s armor, to see the wounds for herself, to understand the nature of their enemy, but his face stopped her. He was so peaceful. Where was Dubían now? Was his spirit still living? Had it flown away somewhere? Why did his body appear still so vigorous, even in death? It looked like he would open his eyes at any moment and sit up to speak to her.
The candles flared, becoming impossibly bright. Their light rose like a wave, no longer gold, but pure, blinding white. Voices, faint and ethereal. The sound of wind whistling through reeds. The voices arranged into harmony, at first simple, then growing in complexity until it was like a river bearing down on her, like the rush of wind through heath, like the pounding of the sea on stones. Sabíana fell to her knees.
Three Sirin sat over the dead warrior’s body and sang. The first—her wings green as the forest—cried tears of fiery joy. The second—her wings like living sapphire and amethyst—cried tears of inconsolable pain. The third—her wings dark indigo like twilight—did not cry, her face grave and reverent. They took Dubían’s body with their talons and unfurled their wings, raising him gently, rocking him like a mother would a child. The colors of the gem-feathers burned from within, until they were flames engulfing his body. Sabíana’s eyes watered with the pain of looking at this light—so much brighter than the sun—and she was forced to turn away. From the corner of her vision, it seemed to her that Dubían opened his eyes and gasped for breath, but when she turned back to look, they were all gone. The world seemed grey and faded in their absence.
Hag: a shape-shifter of dubious loyalties. She may or may not be immortal.
Leshy: a spirit of the forest, Alkonist. Sometimes goes by the name “Lesnik.”
Rusalka: the unquiet soul of a drowned girl. Likes to tickle young men to death.
Bukavach: a six-legged amphibious monster with a taste for human flesh.
Vila: also known as “rain
maidens.” They feed off the powers of others.
The Storyteller: a large cat with an inordinate love for fairy tales. Alkonist.
Alkonist: a general label indicating any creature of authority in the Lows of Aer
-From “A Bestiary of Vasyllia” (Old Tales, Book II)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
An Ordeal of Stories
“Breakfast time, my darling Voran.”
It was the girl’s voice, not the hag’s. He dusted the night’s snow off his filthy rag-blanket. When will she tire of this game?
As usual, he was surprised he slept at all. Every night, as he lay down on the brown straw near the outhouse, he hoped he would simply freeze to death. Every morning he woke up, aching and miserable, but very much alive.
This morning, like all mornings, the smells coming from the lopsided hut were obscenely delicious. His eyes confirmed the promise of his nose—the table was littered with thick, buttery pancakes, stuffed chicken and pike, pickled tomatoes and cucumbers. He groaned slightly. The girl—her red hair a gorgeous mess framing her pale beauty—laughed a little as she blushed. He almost laughed himself. She was so obvious in her attempts to force the information out of him.
“All this I prepared for you,” she whispered. “You do not know how hurt I am that you never eat. Please, I beg you, join me today. You must be very hungry.”
He sat down next to her, compelled by that invisible string binding him to her will. She took a pancake, doused it in butter, slathered it with red caviar fit to burst, adorned it with dill and parsley. Then she lifted it to his nose. The smell was overwhelming.
Voran turned his face away, though it took a great deal of effort to do so.
“Why do you do this to yourself, Voran? All you have to do is tell me. Simple. A few words. What do you seek in the Lows of Aer? Then all this food is yours. And so much more.” She leered at him, and he nearly vomited again.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 16
