The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  Eventually, she noticed that there was a thin slit in the wall high above her. As her eyes adjusted to the faint light, she began to look around. It was obviously a dungeon. Old chains lay on the ground and hung from rusty rings on the wall. Then she saw him and nearly jumped out of her skin. He was a wretched old man, nary a hair on his head, a wispy white beard barely hanging from a receding chin. There was nothing but skin on his bones. She had never seen such a pathetic creature.

  “Water…” he gasped. “Please, give me some of that water.”

  There was a large bucket next to the well, too far for him to reach. How terrible, she thought. That horrid servant brought in the water just to torture the old man.

  “You poor thing,” she said. She was, for all her curiosity, rather a soft-hearted girl. “Of course I’ll give you some water.”

  And so she did. At first she was a little put off at how greedily he drank it, bucketful after bucketful. She was a little more unnerved by how his eyes kept getting redder and redder. It’s only torchlight, she said to herself. By the fifth bucketful, she was afraid. The bony old man was now a huge, beastly creature with burning eyes. He looked at her with his head cocked to one side. He’s going to eat me, she thought, unable to move for sheer terror.

  Instead, he hurled himself at the stone door and pounded it to dust. He tore off the second door of iron in one blow. He shattered the third door of wood to splinters.

  The Raven turned back once more and looked at the princess. He smiled. It was not a pleasant smile at all. She screamed.

  Thus, the Raven escaped his unjust imprisonment and fled Vasyllia to hide and gather his strength for a final, devastating retribution.

  “Well, Tarin? Didn’t expect me to have a story that good in my skirts, did you?”

  “Tut, tut.” He winked at her. “Our judges have yet to make their choice.”

  The Alkonist were already conferring under the drowned girl’s tree, since it seemed she refused—or was unable— to come down. Voran could not hear what they were saying, or if they were speaking in a human language at all. There were far too many squeaks, burbles, clicks, and whoops for normal speech. Finally, they seemed to agree, though the drowned girl looked morose again. Voran hoped that meant she would not be allowed to tickle him to death.

  “We judge in favor of Tarin,” said the cat. “Hag, you must leave the Lows immediately. Since you seem to like the Raven so much, we suggest you join him. He’s in Vasyllia.”

  Voran froze in place. The Raven was already in Vasyllia? Could that be possible?

  The spark in the hag’s eyes spewed into angry flames. Starting with a low rumble, she shrieked, louder and louder until Voran thought his ears would burst. Her hair stood on end like a writhing mass of snakes. She pulled a jagged knife out of nowhere and lunged at Voran, arm upraised. She was a mere breath from plunging the knife into his heart, when she jerked backward as though someone threw a rope around her neck and pulled it hard. Voran looked at Tarin, thinking he had done it, but the old man stood a little way off, holding his knit cap to his head, staring up at a lamentation of migrating swans. Lesnik was once more the size of a tree, and one hand was outstretched toward the hag.

  “Let me go!” she screamed and thrashed wildly as she began to float above the ground.

  “The power of words can turn iron to gold, or bind fetters as fast as the roots of the elm,” said the giant Lesnik. “You know the power of incantation, and yet you still defy it. Your kind was always too smart for your own good. Now pay the price.”

  She began to hiss. Wider and wider grew her eyes, louder and more insistent grew the hissing. A snake’s forked tongue darted out of her still human mouth. Voran turned away to find Tarin next to him, looking at him intently.

  “What’s happening to her?” asked Voran.

  “Focus,” commanded Tarin. He pulled out an old sword from his robe-skirts. It was only then that Voran noticed the ropy muscle of the man’s arm. Tarin was an old warrior; the signs were all there. “Stay alert,” he said and gave him the sword.

  Voran felt a gust of wind from the direction of the hag. He turned to face her and nearly fell over from the shock. Instead of a hag, he saw two dancing reptilian heads attached to a serpent body as big as a longboat. She flapped two bat-like arms and flew up. One of the heads lunged at him and hot fangs slashed at his neck as he rolled away. Fear paralyzed him. He shook from exhaustion and lack of food. His mind screamed at him—Run! Run! Every joint of the serpent’s wings was edged with a claw as long as a dagger. Even her tail was razor-sharp.

  She swooped over him, nicking his arm with her tail. The wound bubbled and burned. Tarin grabbed him and pushed him forward with a cry. Voran grasped the old sword and ran at the diving serpent. She evaded his slash and battered him with iron-clawed wings. Again and again he faced her. Again and again she eluded him, punishing him for every miss with another slash of her tail. Soon the ground was black with his blood.

  But with every new wound, his old strength, his old freedom clawed its way back, even as his vision began to swim and his arms sagged with fatigue.

  The serpent landed as Voran tottered. She slithered toward him, one of her heads reaching forward ahead of the other, eager to deliver the death-stroke. But the other head would not be outdone. It opened its jaw and buried its fangs in the other head, just as it was about to lunge at Voran. The bitten head jerked and thrashed, beating the ground spasmodically. The other head then lunged at Voran, but now he was prepared. With a quick feint, he lured the head forward, leaning back at the last moment. He hacked once, and the head lolled, still half-attached. He kicked the neck aside and hacked again. The head fell away, spraying turbid blood. The bitten head writhed, then stopped.

  Tarin laughed until tears poured down his cheeks. He embraced Voran—heedless of all the blood—and danced around him, holding Voran all the while. He kissed his cheeks three times. The Alkonist were nowhere to be seen.

  “Well, the first step is taken, Raven Son. How many more until your chains come clanging off? We shall see, we shall see. Come along now.”

  “Tarin, how long have I been here?”

  “Over a month, my Voran. It’s deep winter in Vasyllia. Spring is not far coming.”

  Voran collapsed into Tarin’s arms, his legs giving way under him. His hands trembled, and he could not control them. Tarin held him fast as he carried him to the bank of the river. He washed his wounds tenderly. Barely conscious, Voran felt relief as pleasant as a day-long thirst quenched. His eyelids drooped. As they closed, he saw the kestrel on Tarin’s shoulder chattering insistently. Tarin smiled.

  “Silly bird. He wants you to know that Sabíana misses you. She told you to hurry back.”

  The story begins from the grey, from the brown, from the chestnut-colored horse. On the sea, on the ocean, on the island of Varian—a baked bull stands with a pounded onion. In the side of the bull, there’s a sharpened knife. Now, pull out the knife. It’s time to eat! This is still not the story, but only the pre-story. If anyone listens to my story, he will receive a sable and a marten coat, a beautiful wife, one hundred gold coins for his wedding, and fifty silvers more for the party!

  -From the traditional pre-story of all tales (Old Tales, Book I)

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Sore

  Mirnían took his place among the villagers for the first time on the day after his healing, standing among them as their equal in the central square. Otar Svetlomír was the first to embrace him with tears in his eyes, then every other member of the village followed suit. Soft snowflakes fell throughout this almost ritual greeting, steaming on his new skin.

  “With the blessing of Otar Svetlomír,” said Mirnían, raising his voice for all to hear. “I hereby announce my intention to marry the Lady Lebía, daughter of Otchigen of Vasyllia.”

  All the old women raised their hands to their mouths and laughed, shedding their years in their joy. The children danced around the couple, chanting their names
to the rhythm of their feet.

  “Ladies!” cried Otar Svetlomír. “Are you waiting for my invitation? Get on with it!”

  Mirnían felt his eyes grow wider as every single woman in the crowd surrounded him and pushed him away from Lebía. The younger ones did it while laughing hysterically. The old women—some without a single tooth in their head—sang:

  “Away, away! Avert your eyes,

  The sacred distance don’t despise

  For now’s the time the bride must die

  To all her past. Cry, nightingale, cry!”

  They turned him until his head spun and he fell. At that, they chittered like birds and gave him his space. Then they descended on Lebía like a swarm of bees.

  “Cry, nightingale, cry!” They sang. “Cry, nightingale, cry!”

  Lebía tossed off her heavy fur. Underneath, she wore a white dress. In the light of the winter sun, she was blinding.

  Mirnían had to turn away.

  “Oh, my single braid, my single braid!” someone sang with a voice like the last songbird in winter. Mirnían sighed involuntarily. It was Lebía. Where did she learn to sing like that?

  “Is it time for my braid to be split?” Lebía keened, almost wailing. “Is it time to part from my father’s house?”

  At that, she tottered and stopped. She looked ready to fall over. Mirnían’s heart plunged. Of course. Lebía had not had a father in years.

  All the young ladies encircled her, their arms entwined. They picked up her song, and Lebía came back to life.

  “It is not time yet, nightingale.

  Your braid is single still…”

  Two young men picked Mirnían up and hoisted him on their shoulders.

  At that, the children cheered.

  “Wash, wash!” they called. “Wash away the old life, bring to life the new!”

  Two more men picked up Lebía and brought her near to Mirnían.

  “Now is the time for the last word,” said id Otar Svetlomir, chanting. “You will no longer speak until the fateful day. Choose wisely.”

  “The lady first,” said Mirnían, remembering the words of the rite.

  Lebía looked at him for a long time. She did not even blink. Her presence grew inside him until it was too large to fit in his heart, and his heart seemed to grow. Then it was too large for his chest. He was sure he would burst.

  “All that I lack now,” said Lebía, “is Voran, to make my joy full.”

  Mirnían’s heart froze at the words. At that moment, seemingly for the first time, he remembered that Lebía was Voran’s sister, and hatred for him threatened to drown out every other emotion. Something stabbed him under his left arm, like a pinprick.

  “My love?” Lebía’s shoulders tensed, as though she had read his thoughts. What was wrong with him? Why did he have to kill his own happiness the moment it was born? He forced Voran out of his mind, though a sliver of hatred still pulsed deep within.

  “Burn away the old life, my love. You and I will be everything to each other.”

  She sighed, but seemed content.

  “Wash, wash!” cried the children. “Wash away the old life, bright to life the new!”

  At that, Mirnían and Lebía were carried to the opposite sides of the village for their ritual bath.

  The village feasted deep into the night on trestles set up in the center of the village under a sky plowed with stars. Mirnían and Lebía sat at the high table that was built on top of a mound of earth, but Otar Svetlomír sat between them. He made sure they hardly had a chance to look at each other.

  The food was never-ending. As soon as all the fresh trout was devoured, platefuls of boar magically found their way to the tables, followed by venison. Ale flowed more plentifully than mountain springs.

  Mirnían had never seen Lebía so happy.

  As the village’s smith blew the midnight oxhorn, everyone fell silent.

  “Behold, the beauty of the bride!” someone called.

  The women all keened—a wild, unfettered sound. It sent pleasant chills down Mirnían’s back. Something walked up the road toward the square, something huge. It bobbed up and down like a drunk man.

  “What in all the Heights?” Mirnían heard himself say.

  It was an effigy of a young woman with a long braid, carried on a stick by a boy with red cheeks. It was the size of a house. Ribbons flew from every conceivable place on the effigy, in all colors ever seen by man. Or so it seemed.

  “The beauty! The beauty!” All the women keened again.

  “What shall we do with the beauty?” asked Otar Svetlomír from his seat.

  “Burn away the old! Make way for the new!” cried the women.

  The effigy was now in the midst of the feasting crowd, facing Mirnían.

  “Who will burn away the old?” Otar Svetlomír stood from his seat. “Who will make way for the new?”

  Mirnían looked around, expecting one of the girls to answer. But no one did. Then he realized, with a sinking feeling, that everyone was looking at him.

  Oh no, he thought. These village rites are all quaint enough, but they can’t make me actually take part. Can they?

  Everyone looked at him. No one moved.

  Finally, Mirnían turned to look at Lebía. There it was again—that new look. It commanded.

  Mirnían sighed and stood up. The crowd erupted into cheers.

  A girl ran up to Mirnían, holding a candle. She gave it to him with hands shaking from excitement and cold. He skirted the table and approached the effigy. He shook his head, and smiled.

  “I will burn away the old!” he cried, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I will make way for the new!”

  He stayed as long as he could at the table after the effigy had burned away. He wanted to feel everyone’s joy, but something pricked like a thin dagger under his arm. At first it throbbed, then jabbed. By the time the sun began to come back up, his skin prickled with the same heat that he had while still leprous.

  Excusing himself to Lebía and Otar Svetlomír, he slipped into Lebía’s house and examined himself in the polished metal hanging on her wall. Facing him were nothing but eyes, deep gouges in a bony face that challenged him angrily. Were those his eyes? They looked more like Voran’s half-mad falcon eyes. He shivered, disgusted that he had allowed himself to descend to such a state. He shrugged off his shirt and probed under his left arm. There it was. He turned to see his side in the metal, and his heart plunged.

  There was no mistaking it. It was a sore.

  And behold, I will show you wonders in that final day. There shall be a black sun, and the moon shall turn to blood. A column of fire will stand in the midst of the congregation of peoples, and the temple of the abomination will fall, stone by stone. And yet not one of them will know it for the work of the Most High. Such is the work of the prince of lies, the great deluder of human hearts.

  -From “The Prophecy of Llun” (The Sayings, Book XXIII, 2:4-7)

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sabíana's Test

  Sabíana stood rooted to the ground before Dubían’s empty bier, unable to muster the strength of will to move.

  The Sirin were real.

  Everything was now different, and all possibilities must be considered—the Covenant first among them. If the Sirin were real, the Raven might be real, and they would need the help of the Heights against such an enemy. But how does one go about re-forging forgotten covenants? What did Voran say? We must begin by caring for the downtrodden of the Outer Lands.

  Freed by this thought, she hurried out of the room. She must make arrangements to care for the refugees. Now that the Dumar was disbanded, she must convince her father to open the first reach and to lift the quarantine, no matter what the risk.

  The door to the Dar’s chamber was shut, but she barged in as she always did, heedless of the proper form. She shut the door behind her. It thudded.

  The Pilgrim faced her from the other side of her father’s bed. His eyes were softer than she remembered. He showe
d no sign of the wounds on his body suffered in the Temple. He looked into her eyes, and she felt like there was someone behind her, so completely did his glance spear through her.

  “Sabíana, you have come. That is good.” His voice sounded like it came from a great distance, or even out of the deep past. “Your father sleeps, but he will wake soon. He will not see me again. You must tell him I am well, and that I have gone. He will be worried, as he always is.”

  Sabíana found it difficult to think, much less speak, in his presence. It was like trying to breathe under a waterfall.

  “Sabíana, I know you saw the Sirin take Dubían away. I know that you desire to re-forge the Covenant. But it is too late. The Raven is at the gates.”

  “But why is it too late?” she whispered, the tears gathering in spite of herself. “Surely Adonais can forgive.”

  The Pilgrim’s face dimmed at the mention of Adonais. “There are so few Vasylli left. The fate of Vasyllia now lies on the edge of a knife. I do not know what will happen, though I fear the worst. It is given to me to offer you a choice. Vasyllia’s trials do not have to be your burden if you do not wish it. If you come with me, I will take you to a place called Ghavan. There, the Covenant may be re-forged with the remnant of the faithful.”

  “Pilgrim, I am afraid.”

  “Yes, Sabíana. I fear as well. Vasyllia is a place far more important than you can ever imagine. If it falls, much that is good and beautiful in the world will wither. Possibly until the Great Undoing.”

  “I cannot leave Vasyllia, Pilgrim,” said Sabíana. “I cannot leave my father.”

  The Pilgrim smiled, and his face brightened and he became young, his wrinkles smoothing into the face of a beautiful youth, a face that shone white. His robes were gold like the sun.

  “You are indomitable, Sabíana. Perhaps I am wrong. Vasyllia may yet survive, with the Black Sun at her head.”