The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  He was gone.

  “Sabíana?” said the Dar, waking up. “Oh, thank Adonais! I was so worried for you.”

  “Father, my poor father.” She had not seen him this wasted away. He looked like an old man playing the part of the Dar on one of the market-day spectacles. She wanted with all her heart to cry, to comfort and to be comforted, but she had made the choice. She must be iron and stone.

  “Yes, my love.” He laughed softly and coughed. “I am at the doorstep, so to speak. I’ve always wondered if Death was a man or a woman. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”

  “Father.” Her voice sounded harsh to her ears. “The Pilgrim has gone. He asked to be remembered to you. He leaves us with hope.”

  “Did he say anything about Voran? About Mirnían?”

  Sabíana shook her head.

  “I suppose we must continue to hope, even when darkness falls. My dear, you must prepare yourself. Soon you will wear the crown. I do not think I will live out the week. I am so tired.”

  “Sleep, my dear,” she said, feeling strangely motherly toward him. “I am ready. Sleep now. Rest.” She did not, could not cry, though it seemed a violation of her nature to prevent it.

  Sabíana remained by his bedside all night. She left when the sky was still dark, but a certain tense watchfulness in the air predicted the coming of dawn. Feeling already burdened beyond what was humanly possible, she went outside, hoping against hope that today the fog would lift—though it had choked Vasyllia for weeks—and the sun would rise.

  As she left the palace, she stood before the Covenant Tree. It looked cold and pitiful. To think that this had once been a symbol of Vasyllia’s dominance over the Other Lands! She recoiled from the view and turned away.

  Sabíana closed her eyes and let the mist of the falls soak into her hot cheeks and burning eyelids. She saw, even through closed eyes, two red dots approaching her. She opened her eyes to see two firebirds flying toward one of the basins left especially for them to bathe in. Sabíana always loved to see them wash, rare as that sight was. They alighted on the lip of the basin, but as soon as they touched it, they disappeared in a white light, blinding Sabíana. The light didn’t abate, and Sabíana’s eyes adjusted slowly. Something many-colored fluttered and cavorted in the basin. The blur resolved, and Sabíana recognized her. She was one of the Sirin at Dubían’s bier. The one with the feathers dark as twilight.

  The Sirin bathed as a bird would, splashing light around her in defiance of the surrounding murk. The effect was like looking through the window of a dark room at the rising of the sun. Sabíana felt a thin filament weaving between her and the Sirin. The Sirin looked at her with eyes like lightning, opened her mouth, and sang.

  The weight of the song crushed Sabíana, as though she were pinned down by the full force of both twin waterfalls. But as it washed over her, it lightened her. The heaviness of her father’s sickness, the doubt over Vasyllia’s fate, the fear about her own place as future Darina, the pain of losing Voran—all of it fell away from her. She felt re-forged from within, the impurities burned away by the force of the song. The Sirin stopped, and Sabíana felt light enough to fly to the Heights. Barely evident inside her chest was a soft patter, like another heart, and the faint sense of warmth, like a candle flame.

  “My name is Feína, my swan. We are now joined until the Undoing.”

  Sabíana remained silent for utter wonder.

  “Sabíana, you chose a difficult path, but I will bear it with you. May it be a lessening of the burden on your heart.”

  “Feína,” she whispered, feeling no bigger than a child. “It is going to be terrible, is it not?”

  The Sirin spread out her wings and looked to the horizon. At that moment, the sun came up for the first time in weeks.

  Sabíana rushed to the first reach. It had been walled off for quarantine, its only entrance a black iron gate manned by several armed guards. Sabíana stopped for a moment, wondering if what she planned to do was as mad as her rational mind insisted. But reason had no place here, she told herself, and swallowed her revulsion.

  “Open the gates,” she said.

  The guards at the gate hesitated. For a moment, Sabíana was sure they would challenge her. She was in the middle of preparing a withering response when they simply turned, opened the gates, and bowed to her. Sabíana walked in. Immediately, the stench beat her back.

  The people were teeming, like rats in a gutter. Dogs and children lay together on the road, covered in sores. Mothers rocked babies that cried for milk from withered breasts. Eyes with no hope looked at her, then looked away again. Flies swarmed. Burial mounds poked up everywhere, like cysts on dry skin. Garbage lay interspersed with the half-rotting carcasses of horses and goats. Some children played near the dead animals, apparently unsupervised.

  Many, especially the aged, fell at Sabíana’s feet and kissed the hem of her robe. They chattered at her in their own dialect, words interrupted by sobs.

  Sabíana’s tears gushed, and it took a good deal of self-control to prevent the sobs from shaking her visibly.

  What has happened to Vasyllia? How could we have allowed this to happen in our own house?

  Just down the lane, a doctor in the pantaloons of the merchant class applied some sort of creamy poultice to the sores of a pregnant woman. His hands were caked with the white cream, and his goat-beard was smeared with all manner of dirt and blood. But he didn’t seem to notice. In fact, the dirt only made his hazel eyes shine brighter. They looked like little suns. Sabíana, mesmerized, came to watch what he did. He looked up at her, recognized her, but looked back down at his work without acknowledging her presence. Her momentary wounded pride faded when she saw how pockmarked the young woman was. She was probably no more than twenty, but she looked over fifty.

  “What does the poultice do?” Sabíana asked, feeling foolish for having nothing more erudite to say.

  “It heals the sores,” said the doctor nonchalantly.

  “Heals them?” That surprised her. From what she heard of the plague, it had no cure. “But what about the plague?”

  “Plague?” He snapped his head at her, his eyes furious. “There is no plague. It is only lack of food, lack of water, and dirt. That is all.”

  Sabíana’s head began to spin. She should have known. The Dumar hadn’t quarantined anyone. They had caused “the plague” in the first place.

  “Guard!” she called, and four immediately appeared at her side. “You, inform the elders of the warrior seminary that every cohort is to be called to the marketplace this moment. Every merchant table and booth is to be disassembled, and tents for the refugees are to be built from them. You, go to the healers and tell them that the refugees are to be relocated to the second reach, and that they will need care immediately. You, go find the Marshall of the Dumar. He is to be told that there will be a collection of food, living necessities, and medicine from the houses of the third reach, beginning tomorrow morning. You, go to the palace and tell the scribes to await my coming. Warn the criers of city-wide circuits tonight and tomorrow. Why do you still stand here? Go!”

  They went, bowing hastily. “Dear Feína,” she said silently. “The Pilgrim may have said that remaking the Covenant is beyond our hope, yet I will restore Vasyllia to its honor in spite of it all.”

  “Highness!” The voice was behind her. She turned to see Rodgai in full armor, save for an uncovered head. “You are summoned to the palace, my lady.”

  She understood.

  “I come,” she said, and her voice cracked. As she passed, the soldiers inclined their heads. The whispers accompanied her out of the first reach: “The Black Sun. Our Black Sun.”

  Dar Antomír’s eyes blazed with unearthly light as he lay on his deathbed. Sabíana understood it to be the last surge of life before the final dimming. He saw her and smiled, extending a bony hand. She took it—he was still so strong for a dying man—and fought to contain the tears. The light in his eyes was almost blinding.


  “Sabíana,” he whispered frantically. “Listen to me, listen. I have seen a vision, a final gift. I knew I had few hours left to live, and I begged Adonais as I have never begged before, to tell me something of my sons. For I had no hope left.

  “As I lay on my bed in gloom, I was in my chamber no longer. I stood at the edge of a stream fed by a cascade of falls. The river wove into a deep emerald pool, fringed with a dense assortment of birches, osiers, and hollies. Beyond the trees, jagged hills sheltered the pool from all wind. On three sides was the pool thus sheltered, but the fourth was a great tumbling waterfall.

  “I walked to the ledge and there was no bottom in sight. I looked once more and saw a different sight—a dry marshlands with many rivers snaking through it. Two men ran across it, pursued by a shapeless darkness. Still a third time I looked, and I saw the Great Sea, interminable to the horizon, and in it lay an island from which grew a white sapling covered in golden leaves.

  “Then I stood on the top of the tallest mountain in the world, and the earth was riven at my feet, riven and bleeding. A voice thundered at my right, coming from a pillar of a thousand eyes and a thousand wings, all of fire and light. It spoke these words to me:

  “‘Behold, this is the place of death and the place of healing. Tell me, Dar of men. Will the water flow?’

  “I said to him, ‘It will, for without it the world will wither and die.’

  “He said, ‘It will, but only if the falcon sheds its skin, the swan spreads its wings, the bear forsakes its hunger.’”

  At these last words, the fire within Dar Antomír simmered and began to fade.

  “Father, not yet, please!”

  “Do not grieve for me, my child. Do you not understand?”

  “No, father, I do not,” her voice subsided to a hoarse whisper.

  “The falcon is Voran’s blazon, the bear Mirnían’s. They are alive. And the swan is you, my love. It is your time now.”

  His eyes wandered beyond Sabíana, smiling at something he saw there. She looked up to see a dark-haired Sirin, her face wet with tears. Sabíana found her strength returning.

  “Taryna,” said the dying Dar. “I am ready. Take me with you.”

  Sabíana walked out of the chamber, hardly conscious of anything except her grief and the need to hold it in, to not give it any quarter. Rogdai stood at the door. One look at her face, and he fell on one knee and took her right hand in his own shaking hands and kissed it. His face was hot to the touch. He looked up at her through his own veil of tears, and said, “Praise be to Darina Sabíana. May your reign be long, and may the holy gaze of Adonais shine upon you.”

  Kalún had waited in the palace cherry grove for what seemed like hours. He was growing extremely displeased with Yadovír. He had had such high hopes for the young man. But all Yadovír seemed to do was run around, very busy and very solicitous on behalf of the Dar, though with little to show for the work of their conspiracy. With every passing day, the pestilence reached its pox-ridden hand closer to the third reach.

  Something rustled in the trees. Yadovír squeezed himself between two trunks and nearly poked his eyes out on the groping branches.

  “You do seem flustered, Sudar Yadovír, if I may be allowed the observation.”

  Yadovír sighed in obvious exasperation.

  “Otar, I know you expected me to arrange matters with greater alacrity. But I do have good news. All is in readiness for a meeting with the Ghan himself.”

  “This Ghan travels with his own army?” Kalún was hardly a strategist, but it seemed a foolish way to conquer future tribute states. Unless the Ghan never intended to return to his capital city of Gumir-atlan.

  “So it would seem, yes.” Yadovír did not seem perturbed by it. “At great personal danger to myself, I arranged an exchange of information with their camp. They made it clear that they would welcome us tomorrow night.”

  “How are we supposed to do that? Walk out of the city and stride over to the enemy side? That should go over very well with the door wardens.”

  Yadovír ignored the sarcasm. “The Raven’s escape, Otar Kalún. You know the old story, yes? Well, it seems at least part of it is true. There is a way out of the palace through the dungeons. An old passage into the forest below the city. Not many know of it, and those that do, think that it’s been blocked for centuries. But I was curious, so I checked. It is mostly blocked, but after some careful manipulation of the fallen rock, I found that one or two people will be able to squeeze through with a little difficulty.”

  “How convenient. Can you guarantee our safety?”

  Yadovír smiled, and there was a kind of madness in his eyes. “Oh, Otar Kalún, I think we have gone too far to think about safety.”

  Gamayun, the Dayseer, sits in an ivory tower in the sea of times. Does she sing the future into being, or does she only speak of what she sees? No one knows.

  -From “The Tale of the Black Sirin” (Old Tales, Book VII)

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A Narrow Escape

  Tall warriors, robed in grey, faces confined behind black iron helms with no eye-slits, held screaming children over vast fire-pits. The mothers, shrieking in despair, all turned to Voran, asking him that most horrible of questions: “Why?” Tortured forms that once were men—now misshapen freaks with empty eye sockets and bald, bloodied pates where their hair was torn off—huddled around him, reaching for him with blackened nails. The ones without eyes saw him the best.

  Tarin laughed, and Voran awoke. Voran’s upper lip twitched. He snarled and barked at Tarin. His hands groped for a rock with which to beat the old man to the ground. With a start, Voran awoke again.

  They were still in the hag’s village, though some distance from the carcass of the dead serpent-hag. Voran’s wounds throbbed. The skin around them was yellow and gummy. He tried not to look, afraid he would be sick or faint. Tarin sat by the river, arms hugging his knees, looking at nothing. His lips moved noiselessly, repeating something. He turned at Voran and made a face.

  “You should wash,” he said. “You’re quite filthy, you know. A bath of fire would really be best.”

  “A bath of…what?”

  Tarin turned away and began to mumble to himself again.

  “Why?” asked Voran. Tarin’s expression was unreadable. “Why did you come to save me from her? What am I to you?”

  Tarin huffed. “I knew your father well.”

  Voran fell silent. It was not what he expected, and he was not sure how he felt about it. For so long he had grown used to avoiding thoughts about Otchigen, or when that failed, to hate him until his heart grew numb like an overused muscle. Now, to think of his father in any positive light was uncomfortable.

  “It’s a strange thing about words, Raven Son,” said Tarin. “We talk and talk and talk and never seem to get anywhere. While if you really meant the word, you could make a tree flower.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  Tarin chuckled and continued mumbling to himself happily, patting his head with his hand. His kestrel flew down from a branch above. Tarin made a show of falling to the ground in fear as the kestrel landed on his head, as though it were a dragon with talons bared. Then he turned over and laughed at himself.

  What a strange man, thought Voran.

  “That dream you just had,” said Tarin, “the warriors holding babies over bonfires. It was not a dream, you know.”

  Voran’s heart tripped and started again.

  “Vasyllia has fallen?”

  “Not quite. I didn’t say it was the present time that you saw. Just one of possible futures. It seems Gamayun whispered to you in your sleep. She really can be the most pestilent annoyance.”

  Gamayun? Who in the Heights was Gamayun? Voran was becoming infuriated with the man’s lack of useful answers.

  “You come here and rescue me,” said Voran. “You helped me kill the hag. Now what?”

  “Who said she was dead?” Tarin had an impish smile. “The hag is an intimate o
f the dead lands. Don’t count her out yet.”

  “Will you help me?” Voran felt like punching the crazy old man.

  “Will you help yourself?”

  Turning to a stone on his left, Tarin kissed it and blessed it with a strange sign. Then he crouched with his ear to the ground, listening intently, until his eyes closed and he began to snore.

  “Tarin!”

  Tarin opened his eyes and winked.

  “What should I do?” Voran felt no older than ten, called to account before the elders of the seminary. Come to think of it, this man could very well have been an elder in his time, if not for his madness.

  “Ah, something useful at last,” said Tarin, becoming serious. “I know of your search for the weeping tree. I can take you to it. One condition. You must become my slave.”

  Voran laughed. “You freed me! Now you want me to put on my shackles again?”

  “That is my condition.”

  “And if I refuse? What is to stop me from going to Vasyllia now? As you said, Sabíana waits for me.”

  Tarin grimaced like a masked jester. He extended his hand and began to count off his fingers. “First, those wounds will kill you soon. Second, you severed your bond with Lyna when you lay with the hag. You won’t stand a chance against anything out in the wild. Third, you are still in the Lows of Aer, and I doubt you will find a way back without me. Fourth, Vasyllia is already under siege by the Raven. Fifth, you are an idiot.”

  Voran bristled, but managed to keep quiet.

  “While I offer you a solution to all of those problems, especially the fifth one. You have the word of a storyteller, and tellers never lie. But you must become my slave.”

  There was no point in having this conversation. Voran was too tired to think, much less construct a rational argument.

  “I am leaving in ten minutes,” said Tarin. “Come with me or not. Your choice.”

  Voran followed Tarin through the village. Beyond a stone hedge marking the edge of the village, the valley continued straight for a day’s journey, then crested up into a narrow pass.