The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  “But I did not. As they left me alive, I considered it an uncommon gift from Adonais. I would go searching for my Aglaia, I thought. She was supposed to have been seen near Karila, so I sought her trail. I should have returned home; I know that now. I could have warned Vasyllia. But I wanted to find her. Instead, they found me again and brought me to their great secret, their true inspiration.”

  “The Raven.”

  Otchigen was taken aback at this. His smile was now venomous. “You know much more than I expected,” he said with a voice not quite his own. Terror ran up and down her back like mice. She clenched her hidden knife so tightly, she was sure it would draw her own blood.

  “Yes, I saw him,” continued Otchigen. “Well, not him, exactly. His vessel. That is what they called it, I think. It seems the Raven has a habit of possessing human bodies, though this vessel was hardly human by then. The Raven had consumed most of him already.”

  He stopped, the memory apparently too painful.

  “The rest is rather dim. The only other thing you might be interested to hear is that I did find one of my family out there. I saw Voran.”

  Evidently, whatever valiant effort she mustered to prevent her face from reflecting the mad dance of her heart failed miserably. Otchigen’s snigger was more than malicious, it was nearly feral.

  “Oh, yes. Happily living with a certain red-haired farmer’s daughter in the wilds. She was very fetching, if I say so myself.”

  Sabíana saw it. Voran entwined in lust with another woman. Hatred rose up from her depths with the sudden ferocity of a winter blizzard. She looked at Otchigen and spots danced before her eyes. She nearly fainted.

  There was bestial hunger in the face of Otchigen.

  “Why, Sabíana, you look upset. You did not set your hopes on Voran, did you?”

  All pretense had been dropped. This was not Otchigen, but some thing wearing him like a winter coat. And yet, that frightened her less than the visions of pain and blood that danced in her head—all of them variations on the theme of killing Voran.

  “Oh, you could kill Voran easily, Sabíana. I know you would like that. For me, it would be a simple thing to arrange. I could do that for you.”

  Her vision swam; her thoughts moved like stale molasses. Everything about this seemed dream-like in its simultaneous vividness and indistinctness. Small details took on ridiculous clarity—the ashes fell by the hearth in a floral pattern, the blood pumped through Otchigen’s temple like a wriggling worm, she had a speck of dirt under her third left fingernail. The room looked like it was underwater.

  “All you have to do is desire it with all the force of your will. I will make it happen. Go ahead.”

  Sabíana tried to look away, but couldn’t. Voran lay on the flagstones at her feet. His eyes were closed; he seemed to be in great pain, his skin pasty and splotched with red in several places; his shirt was open just enough to allow for a quick knife-thrust to the heart.

  “Imagine that you are plunging that knife you hold in your hand into Voran’s heart.”

  She gasped, sure that he couldn’t possibly have seen the concealed knife.

  “How did you know?” she began, her voice sounding groggy, half-drunk to her own ears.

  “That you were ready to use that thing on me? You are not as subtle as you imagine, Sabíana.”

  Though her mind recoiled from it, the desire to plunge the knife into Voran’s exposed chest uncoiled itself like an adder inside her chest, an adder that had slept her whole life, waiting for this moment. She knew Voran was not actually there, that this was some kind of phantasm conjured by her imagination or by the power that possessed Otchigen’s body. But it no longer mattered. She wanted to kill Voran, and the desire was warm and sweet like too much wine.

  “Just do it,” he whispered. “I offer you your heart’s desire. Go ahead. Take the knife, stab him, plunge the knife in.”

  An ever-shrinking part of her still felt intense revulsion, but it was too late. Her hand moved up of its own accord, the knife coming out of its concealment like unfolding fangs. Voran’s chest moved up and down steadily with his breath. She thought she could see the thumping of his heart through his ribcage.

  “Just a little stab. So little effort, but the pleasure is great, I promise you. Go on.”

  “NO!” She screamed and hurled the blade into the hearth. Immediately, Voran dissolved, and the light in the room went dark. Only a glimmer remained among the smoldering logs. Sabíana faced the savage fear weighing on her and willed herself to stare at Otchigen, though she knew he was Otchigen no longer.

  The creature was shadowy and black, all darkness and chaos spread out like huge wings, and its eyes burned darker than the darkest black. It did not speak so much as groan like falling boulders. She did not need anyone to tell her that this was the Raven.

  “Too late, Sabíana. You’ve let me in.”

  The Raven embraced her with wings of shadow and death, and Sabíana choked under their weight and the pressure of the malice bearing down on her.

  The door flew open with a crash, and a winged fury of dark blue feathers and ice-grey eyes flew into the room. Faintly Sabíana heard the music of wind whistling through reeds. Time ceased for Sabíana. All that remained was the song—wailing, keening, bursting with ancient power. Feína sang, and each note was a barrage of fire-arrows, a forest of spears, a field of slashing blades. Her wings were a rushing wind of fire, hurtling the song at the Raven. He shrieked in agony and hatred and released Sabíana. It felt like the snapping of twine, and Sabíana fell back.

  But Feína was only one Sirin. Despite her song, despite his pain, his wings moved ever closer, choking her. Feína battled on with voice and talon, trying to gouge out the eyes of black flame, but he repulsed her. Her song faltered, faded, and stopped. Her fire turned into shadow. The Raven growled over his two fallen adversaries. Sabíana closed her eyes, ready for death.

  A light brighter than the sun shattered the gloom of the Raven, forcing Sabíana’s eyes open. Its edges were red and white flame, curling and twisting like living creatures. The Raven burned from within, and his agony shone out of his eyes like a beacon on a foggy night. A magnificent rose of light and fire swelled and blossomed from inside him, until he was completely engulfed in a writhing pyre that smelled of crushed rose petals. The Raven screamed and dissipated into a foul, swarming mist burned up in the rising fire of the hearth. Soon all that remained was the rose of fire.

  “Do not fear, my own Sabíana. Look up.”

  Sabíana recognized Feína’s voice, but it was different. What she saw was impossible. Feína was still a Sirin, but a Sirin of flame that filled the entire room with her warmth and soft fragrance. Her every fraction cascaded with kaleidoscopic light, her eyes so effulgent that Sabíana couldn’t look at them directly for more than a few seconds. But somehow Feína seemed more truly a Sirin than ever before.

  “Dear Feína, you saved my life! What happened to you?”

  “I…Oh, by the Heights! How wonderful!” Her voice was as bracing as the sound of morning trumpets on a cold, clear day of winter. “Sabíana. You saved me. I can see…so much. My Lord, how wrong have we all been!”

  “What is the matter? What do you see?”

  Feína’s eyes bored into Sabíana. The flame that she had ignited in Sabíana’s heart fluttered and flared. Sabíana wanted to embrace Feína for a mad second, before she remembered Feína was fire. She laughed.

  “I cannot put it in words yet, my Sabíana. But know this. What you did by resisting the Raven may have changed the fate of Vasyllia. It may have been a pebble. But sometimes, sometimes pebbles start avalanches.”

  There is still hope for Vasyllia. Sabíana nearly collapsed into tears before bracing herself again. I am stone. I am steel.

  “I will come to you again soon. Soon.”

  A great wheel of fire began to spin about Feína, faster and faster until Sabíana had to look away. Even with her eyes shut, the wheel danced purple and green before
her. When she opened her eyes, she was again alone in her warm room, but the sweetness of Feína’s fragrance still wafted in the air, cleansing any vestige of the Raven’s presence. It was only then that she noticed the body of Otchigen near the hearth. He was wasted and drawn, nearly a skeleton, but his dead face was once again his own, and it was finally peaceful.

  The Ghan was tense, rubbing his hands together, and Yadovír noticed with disgust that they were nearly black with grease. He also noticed that of all the people at the table, the Ghan alone used a knife to cut his own meat. It lay on a plate next to Yadovír, its handle slippery with the grease from the Ghan’s hand.

  Yadovír grabbed the knife. Falling on Kalún, he plunged the knife right into the cleric’s neck, through the silky hairs of his beard. The expression on the priest’s face was one of complete surprise. A horrible gurgle seeped from his throat, and he fell over, dead. His eyes were still wide from astonishment. Yadovír crumpled over to the ground and vomited.

  All of the Gumiren stood, hands on the defensive, shoulders tense and ready for attack. Only the Ghan remained seated, not having moved an inch. He took Yadovír by the shoulders, and pulled him back to the table. His eyes were cold and inscrutable.

  “You no common man, Yadovír. You make good Gumir. Is sad for me.”

  “Sad?” wheezed Yadovír. His face was still warm with the priest’s blood, making him want to retch again and again. “Why sad? I have done a terrible thing for you. I have killed the chief priest of Adonais. Do you not understand what that means?”

  “Ghan no fool, Yadovír. I know.”

  “Ghan Magai.” Yadovír collected whatever little was left of his self-control and forced his shuddering body to stay still. “Will you agree to my proposal? Do we have a deal?”

  “Yes, Ghan agree.”

  The emphasis on his title was unmistakable and significant, but Yadovír decided to ignore it.

  He sighed, and his whole body sagged with relief. He even began to laugh a little, not yet fully aware of what he had done, though that knowledge stood off in the shadows like a silent predator. The Ghan, however, continued to stare at him with hollow eyes. This was not how Yadovír expected them to seal a bargain.

  “Should we not drink to our bargain?” Yadovír smiled, but the utter lack of response from any of the Gumiren chilled him. Then he noticed that the Ghan no longer looked at him, but a little behind him. Confused, he turned around.

  It was a feathery, shriveled creature that would have been pitiful, if not for the eyes. They were black, but somehow they glowed with fire—not orange-red, but utterly dark. At that moment, Yadovír understood and despaired. With the desperation came a cold kind of acceptance that stopped the hammering of his heart and began to slow the blood flowing through him. So, this was why the Gumiren seemed to know everything in advance, he thought.

  “You are the Raven,” said Yadovír, his voice husky and not his own.

  “Ah, a clever one.” The voice was a bestial cackle, something between the wheeze of a sick child and the bark of a dog. “Well, you must have something you wish to tell me if you have gone through all this trouble.” The Raven looked with disgust at the corpse of the priest. “But do hurry. You cannot imagine how hungry I am.”

  The words nearly stopped Yadovír’s heart cold, but he forced himself to clear his throat. “I can be useful to you, Raven. I know the ins and outs of the city, and I am well studied in Vasyllian lore. I am an indefatigable worker, and…” As his mind blanked, he felt himself reeling from panic.

  “You can be useful, yes. I agree. I do not think it will be conceding too much to tell you that I have been disappointed in a line of attack I was sure would work. No matter. You provide me with a different opportunity. I am sure you will be happy to oblige. Yes, my little rat?”

  The Raven extended outward in flame and fury. The eyes turned yellow with a pit of black fire; the back expanded into billows of brown smoke like jagged raven wings. A clawed arm whipped out and picked up Yadovír by the scruff—a bird of prey dangling a rat before swallowing it. A foul stench filled his nose, and he began to dry heave.

  “I accept your bargain,” said the Raven.

  Yadovír fainted into the stench and blood and smoke, pursued into the darkness by the face of Kalún and his surprised eyes.

  When Yadovír awoke, he was in his own room back in Vasyllia, shaking in a pool of his own sweat. A rotting stink permeated the room. He tried to find the source of the smell—perhaps a mouse had died in the walls? —then realized that he was the source. The stench came from inside him.

  Elder Pahomy chewed his lip; Rogdai shook his head as his eyebrows furrowed deep into his head, threatening to dig into the soft matter underneath. They both avoided looking at her, instead inspecting every possible detail of the map laid out on the table in her private chambers. Sabíana’s impatience loomed over them all like a twisting snake’s head, poised to strike at the first sign of the prey’s lapse in attention.

  “Well, my lords? I ask you again? Is it as bad as I think it is?”

  Finally, Elder Pahomy answered. “It is worse, my lady. We do not have the force to dislodge this siege, and our stores are already thinning. The imprisonment of the traitors, though necessary, is vastly unpopular among the people with influence in Vasyllia.”

  “Not merely that,” said Rogdai, scratching the back of his head, his eyes wide. “The Gumiren have built siege towers of amazing complexity. They could use them at any moment, even in winter, but now they have stopped. There is nothing stirring their camp. Silence. Enough to drive us to madness.”

  “Or they simply wait for us to destroy ourselves from within,” said Sabíana and sighed. She had come to rely a great deal on the opinions of only two men. It was a dangerous trust she placed on them. I have no choice, she reminded herself through the pain of her ever-clenched jaw.

  “There is one option we have not yet considered,” said Rogdai, though he did not look confident in his own idea. “Escape.”

  “Are you mad?” Elder Pahomy looked personally offended at the suggestion.

  “Why not? I see two possibilities—one, a spear thrust through the enemies…”

  “You would sacrifice most of our fighting force to do that,” growled Elder Pahomy, his jowls quivering with anger, “and it may not even work then. We do not know the full number of this enemy.”

  “Or we may cross over the summit and flee over the back of the mountain.”

  Sabíana gasped, then felt the blush creep up. There was an ancient, traditional taboo about climbing Mount Vasyllia, though now that she thought of it, she could not call to mind a single good reason for it.

  “Why not?” she asked, directing her gaze at Elder Pahomy.

  He sighed. “Old superstitions die hard, I suppose.”

  She smiled at him. “For my part, I think crossing the summit in winter would be inviting disaster. How many of us would survive? And where would we go? For all we know, even Karila is destroyed.”

  “If that is our people’s only chance of survival,” said Rogdai, “why not set out farther east, toward the Steppelands? Or West, to the deserts and beyond.”

  “I do not know why,” she said, “but I have a strong feeling that Vasyllia must not be abandoned to this enemy. It is stronger than a mere sense; it is almost a compulsion.”

  “I agree with you, Highness,” said Elder Pahomy, and for the first time she heard respect in his voice.

  The door slammed open, and in flew a mass of silver robes billowing about a thin figure hidden somewhere in their midst. It fell at the feet of Sabíana. Rogdai lifted it, none too gently. It was Yadovír.

  “Oh, my lady,” he finally said. “It’s…unspeakable. Otar Kalún’s body has been found at the gates of Vasyllia. It’s rumored that he was murdered by the Gumiren for trying to strike a deal with them to save his own skin.”

  A novice came into the monastery. He knocked on the door, begging for admittance. The abbot came to the door, loo
ked at him, and shut the door in his face. The next day, the novice was still there, begging for admittance. The abbot came to the door, looked at him, and shut the door in his face. On the third day, the same happened. And the fourth. And the fifth. On the tenth, the abbot came to the door, looked at him, and opened the door. The novice entered.

  -From “The Paterikon of the Great Coenobium” (The Sayings, Book III, 4:8-11)

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Warrior of the Word

  A week of traveling the marshes satisfied even Voran’s appreciation for their beauties. He and Tarin now seemed to be beyond the knowledge of any people whatsoever. The only inhabitants of these lands were the many animals—rabbits, foxes, wolves, deer, and elk with antlers like young trees. None of these paid Voran any attention, but every one of them met Tarin personally, a friend returned from long travels. The wolves in particular greeted him with high-pitched yelps, no more than friendly dogs to all appearances, though if Voran was foolish enough to extend a hand too close to any of them, the fangs were quick to flash. Tarin enjoyed them immensely, loping on all fours with them, his tongue lolling out absurdly.

  They still walked day and night, but Voran grew accustomed to gathering enough strength during their short morning rests to last him the whole day. Despite the poverty of the village, Tarin didn’t refuse their gifts of food. It was enough to feed an army. Voran understood: refusing such gifts, given freely, would have been worse than stealing from starving children. Such was the hospitality of Vasyllia as it used to be.

  How far have we fallen, thought Voran with a pang.

  Though Voran now bore four packs instead of two—two were filled with rocks as punishment for his insubordination—Tarin allowed him to carry the sword, and leaning on it provided some support. Secretly, Voran was grateful to Tarin. The hag’s ravages had left Voran rail-thin and weak, and though he was not gaining much flesh, his muscles grew wiry like a horse’s.