The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1)

by Nicholas Kotar

  “I promise, my lord.”

  “I am no longer your lord, Voran. You are a free man. Though you are so unprepared, so unprepared.”

  Once again, Tarin had a mumbled conversation with himself. Something knocked at the door, a soft knock, not threatening at all. It chilled Voran to the marrow. Tarin’s eyes were full of tears.

  “I have been cruel to you, Voran, but it was done with a pure intention, I hope you realize. And it has not been enough. I am throwing you to the Powers, and I do not know if you will survive. But if you do not, we will all die.”

  He fell on his knees and began scrabbling at the hard earth of the shack. For a moment, Voran wondered if madness had finally struck Tarin, but the old man looked up after his fingers had grabbed something, and he smiled his usual, impish grin. He scratched out a wooden trap door, pulled on it, and the trap screeched open.

  “This place is protected, as I said. The line of sentinel spruces is a line of power, and the rest of my land is encircled by a river of fire—both are a deep magic from the days of Founding. If the Raven’s horde has truly passed it or avoided it somehow, then there is no hope. More likely, they are casting illusion at us from the other side. In any case, you must chance it. At the end of this passage, you will come out on the banks of the river of fire. You must not hesitate even a moment—jump in. It will be excruciating, yes. You may be consumed by it. But we have no more time to prepare. The battle has come to us.”

  Before Voran could say anything, Tarin pushed a sheathed sword, bundled in fresh black fabric and tied with a new belt of black leather, into his hands and nearly threw him into the passage.

  “Go, before it is too late.”

  The knock on the door repeated, still soft and not remotely threatening.

  “That is good,” said Tarin, smiling. “It suggests they are not actually here yet. You may have time. Run!”

  The darkness in the passage was so thick that Voran was sure it would simply eat him before he could pass through. The silence was so complete that it thundered in his ears. His heart did its best to try to jump through his chest. He exhaled until there was no breath left, then inhaled a long, pure breath, and began to repeat the word in his mind.

  “Saddaí. Saddaí.”

  There was no change in light, but suddenly he realized that his hearing was enough to tell him exactly where to go, how long the passage was, and how fast he could run without falling or crashing into anything. This must be how a bat sees, he thought. He wrapped himself in the black fabric—which turned out to be a full cassock with fine bone clasps all the way down the front—strapped on his sword underneath it, and ran forward, the loose edges of the garment flapping behind him.

  It seemed a long time, but the air eventually changed, becoming cold and fresh. The passage sloped sharply up, and before he knew it, he stood outside on the banks of a small river that flowed contentedly as though it were the middle of summer. It took him a moment to realize that this must be what Tarin had called the river of fire, but it looked merely river-ish.

  “It took you long enough, my sweet,” said the drowned girl from above him. She landed on him like a cat, and her claws were just as sharp. Her arms and her hair engulfed him. He tried to push her off, but she was inhumanly strong. As he thrashed, he tripped on something and was on the ground. They rolled back and forth violently, and Voran felt her nails tickling him. They were cold as iron.

  At first he laughed, it was so absurd. But it soon grew unpleasant. She laughed and laughed and continued to tickle until the nails dug into his skin, and the pain was searing. He found it harder and harder to breathe. The stars danced before his eyes for a moment, and he felt himself go under, but then she sprang off him.

  “That was a foretaste,” she said in her girlish voice, dusting off her arms with her fingers, again parodying a typical gesture of a courtly woman. “I can kill you quickly, or I can do it slowly. It depends on my mood. Now you know.”

  Voran reached for his sword, but it was not there. She held it, still sheathed on its belt, though it seemed to disgust her, like an old cheese gone green.

  “None of that, Voran. Last chance. Take my offer, bed me properly, and I will take you to the weeping tree.”

  “You lie, as I should have known. You are in the Lows of Aer with me. Of that, I have no doubt.” He felt the soreness under his arms. His hand came away bloody, and it disgusted him more than the sight of blood ever had before. “You cannot bear me over the barrier unless you are on the other side.”

  “How clever you are.” She looked disappointed. “Never mind. I can still get my pleasure by force.” She lunged at him with the speed of a lynx, but he had no desire to stay and fight. He merely stepped a few paces back and fell into the water. The girl recoiled from the splash with a shriek. Voran, not stopping to think, splashed her as hard as he could before she could get away. The water caught fire on her hair, and in a moment, she was a blazing inferno, running away into the darkness. Her wail cut into him almost as painfully as her nails had.

  Voran was in pure, clear water, but somehow it was also fire, though nothing like the usual red-orange flame. Each little eddy was also a translucent tongue of fire, and he was covered in them. At first, the flames were dew-like—soft and cooling and thicker than water. Then the pain seeped in as the flames reached through his clothes into his skin. He threw off the new cassock—it somehow remained untouched by the fire—and hurled it to the shore. It landed next to his sword.

  He fought down the rush of panic, held his breath, and forced himself to submerge completely. It was excruciating, as Tarin had said. As he washed, he burned. As he took off the thick layers of mud and sweat, layers of skin sloughed off as well. Soon the pain was a scream in his ears, but he forced himself not to come up. He continued washing himself, continued mouthing the word—Saddaí, Saddaí—until even the scars from the serpent-hag came off in purplish clumps.

  He stood up, bracing for the cold air, and waded out of the river. The water should have frozen on his skin the moment he broke, but the flames continued to dance over his body, though they no longer hurt very much. With a flash of embarrassed fear, he touched his head and chin. No, his shoulder-length hair was still there, only smoother and silkier, as was his still young beard. He sighed in relief.

  He wrapped himself in the new cassock. It was clean. He had last been clean months ago. That moment, a short moment of exhilarated pleasure, was one of the longest of his life, one he would remember again and again for many long years. The fabric was thick and well-woven, excellent for cold weather, though he wished he had his old travel gear from Vasyllia to go atop it. As it was, his training with Tarin had hardened his body against cold in a way he did not think possible. All Vasylli prided themselves on their ability to bear cold, but his capacity to endure it now was far greater than the hardiest Vasylli.

  There was something else that was different as well. As he realized what it was, he almost wept for the sheer joy of it—the soft palpitation in his chest, as of another heart.

  Lyna had come back, and with her came the dawn. She sat on a low bough of a bent-over oak, its bark green with moss. Behind her head, the sun rose between two distant hills, giving Lyna a halo of gold. At first, he couldn’t see her face. When his eyes got accustomed to the light, he saw she was smiling.

  “Lyna, how I longed to see you.”

  “Oh, my falcon. My poor falcon. You cannot imagine the pain I felt when you broke our bond. It can be remade, if you wish it. But it will be painful as nothing else.”

  Voran laughed dourly. “Today, that seems appropriate.”

  “First, you must hurry. Tarin has crossed the line of sentinel trees to distract the Raven’s creatures, so that you could escape. I do not know how long he has left.”

  As soon as Voran passed the line of spruces, the swirling darkness was on him, and invisible bonds stronger than steel pinned him in place. His senses sharpened, so that every movement of his pinioned arms was a cacophon
y of pain. At first, he saw nothing but murk, but the shadows resolved like fading smoke around a prostrate figure on his knees, bloodied hands clasping a hoary head, face planted firmly into his thighs. Voran refused to believe this was Tarin. Over him towered a hideous monster—a leonyn over seven feet tall, his head and face a horrible amalgam of feline and human, with only the worst qualities of both. He bared brown fangs and roared as he beat Tarin with a monstrous leather whip, edged with many tails.

  Voran could not move. His frustration reached a boil, and he screamed out his defiance at the mass of formless creatures swirling in the darkness around the leonyn and Tarin. The lion-thing turned to look at Voran—its eyes were black shards of the void swirling around them—and smiled.

  “Ah. The hag’s lover.” The leonyn’s voice was incongruously gentle. “Well met at last. How typical of your kind to hide in the stinking marshes. Quite a warrior you are.”

  Tarin looked up. His face was battered, but his eyes still had the old fire. He assessed Voran for a heartbeat and seemed content with what he saw. With a groan, he got up. The leonyn stepped back in surprise.

  “The old goat has some strength left,” the creature said and hissed, skin stretched back over his gums, revealing all of his fangs in challenge.

  Tarin paid him no attention. He assumed the stance of the storyteller and cried out, as if in challenge, “How do you feel, young man?” The leonyn beat him again, but Tarin only flinched at it, as if it hurt no more than a mosquito’s bite.

  Voran remembered the ordeal with the hag, when Tarin told the story of the healing of the crippled young man by the Sirin. To his amazement, Voran did feel an increase of strength, as though the river of fire had newly forged him.

  “I feel the strength of ten men within me,” Voran said, echoing the words of the young man in the story.

  Tarin laughed with tears in his eyes, and the leonyn stepped back in fear. Into the blackness flew Lyna, her eyes glowing golden fire. She fluttered overhead like a falcon readying to dive. Voran shrugged off the power holding him pinioned as if it were string. He unsheathed his sword. His heart beat like a hammer on new steel, and his sword responded. It turned red with heat, then lightning-white, as if it were itself furious at the attack of the Raven’s creatures.

  From a deep recess of his heart, something flowed out like fresh wine bursting out of its cask. He began to sing, and to his heart’s leaping joy, Lyna sang in harmony with him—a hymn he did not know, yet it flowed unimpeded from his lips.

  I arise today

  Through the love of the Heights.

  Light of sun, radiance of moon,

  Splendor of fire, speed of lightning,

  Swiftness of wind, depth of sea,

  Strength of earth, firmness of rock.

  I arise today

  Through his strength to protect me

  From snares of the darkness,

  From tempting of pleasures,

  From everyone who wishes me ill,

  Both far and near, alone, among many.

  I summon today

  All these Powers to keep me

  Against every cruel and malevolent power,

  Against every thought that kills body and soul,

  Against poison and burning,

  Against drowning and wounding.

  I arise today

  Through a mighty strength—

  The power of the unspeakable word.

  May the grace of the Heights

  Sustain us forever.

  He rushed sword-first in a wild attack, completely careless of life and pain. The leonyn unfurled like a banner into ash and black smoke, though his black eyes still burned in the storm of the formless ones. Voran flew at the seething wall, and his white brand cleaved a furrow in it. The sun’s light streamed in like water, and the slit expanded outward, pressing in on the host of creatures until Voran, Tarin, and Lyna stood in the sunny marshland, and before them spun a column of blackness swirling in rage, reaching higher than the clouds.

  A flash like a thousand bolts of lightning struck the mass of the Darkness. Voran fell on his face from the force of it, barely able to look up. Something mountainous looked down on him and spoke in a voice like a thousand trumpets in unison.

  “I come as summoned, Son of Otchigen.”

  It was a giant in the form of a man of light and fire. His eyes were suns, his teeth were moons. Six tapered wings of gold, lapis, emerald, ruby, silver, and topaz flickered in constant movement about his body. He had four faces turned in each direction—a man of searing beauty, an eagle, a lion, and a Sirin. As monstrous as such a creature should be, Voran could hardly keep from worshipping him right there on the field of battle, so beautiful he was. In his outstretched right hand, he held a sword of fire that was at once the sharpest metal and the hottest flame. In his left was a war hammer the size of a small mountain.

  The giant attacked the column of darkness, and everywhere he walked, the earth opened and fire burst forth. Fissures in the ground yawned open, and winds swirled from every direction, visible winds like molten gold and silver. Voran realized they were not winds at all, but living creatures. They pushed the mass of the Raven’s creatures inexorably down into the earth. The formless ones wailed and burned and cursed, but they could not withstand the attack. Voran’s entire body shook from fear and exhilaration, and he fell into a stupor.

  Voran came to himself as silence once more reigned on the marshlands. He feared to look up, feared the Power he had summoned. He wished he could just crawl under a rock and wait until everything went back to normal again.

  “Voran,” said Lyna next to him. “It is time.”

  Groaning within, Voran stood up and faced the giant, who towered over the place where the Raven’s horde had been. The great rents in the earth were healed, and the marshes looked as though nothing strange had happened at all.

  “I am Athíel of the Palymi,” said the Power in a voice that could rip stone apart. “I have heard much of you from my brother. He has hopes for you.”

  “Brother?” Voran’s voice sounded like the squeak of an insect.

  Athíel smiled, and it was like lightning. “Yes, the Harbinger. Do you wish to have your bond with Lyna restored?”

  “I do,” said Voran, with slightly more power in his voice.

  “Know this. The Palymi come as summoned by the great hymn of the Powers, but I can help you no more. You have gained much strength from your time with Tarin, but you must never forget that such strength is nothing against the Raven. You can only prevail as the true Vasylli have ever prevailed. Nurture the flame in your heart, cultivate your bond with Lyna. That bond is the lifeblood of good in this world. And take heart, dear one. Your path will be dark, and in the Heart of the World you will face the crumbling of everything you ever believed in. In that time, listen to the song in your heart.”

  Athíel raised his sword of flame and pierced Voran through the chest. Voran fell, his mind shrieking with the pain. It was as though his body had been unmade completely, then put together again, piece by piece. When his eyes could see again, he saw a foul green-brown vapor seeping out of the wound in his chest. It hissed in the crisp air until it ran out. The wound closed on itself, leaving a hairline scar down the length of his chest bone.

  Athíel was gone. The song of the Sirin was inside him again in thunderous harmony, and his inner fire blazed. Lyna flew above him, hovering on her jewel-wings, crying tears that landed on his face and steamed.

  “When will I see you again, my Lyna?”

  “I do not know, my falcon. Gamayun can see no further than this moment. I fear for you and for Vasyllia. I do not know how this will end.”

  “I will seek you after I find the weeping tree. Much will be determined there, I think. Will you come to me then?”

  “I am with you always,” she said, and was gone.

  The palace of Vasyllia has seven towers. The tallest of them is closed off to all, locked away, the key in the keeping of a select few. For th
at is the home of the treasure of Vasyllia, the bard of the Dar. Every Dar has had his own chosen bard. The last, and most brilliant of all, was blind Bayan, who outlived two Dars and died on the eve of the great battle for Vasyllia.

  -“A Child’s History of Vasyllia,” chapter 21

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Bayan's Last Song

  On the morning of the coronation, Rogdai was turned aside from his already mounting responsibilities by a very annoying boy. At first, he could not for the life of him recognize who the boy was and what his position in the household was intended to be. The boy was not particularly illuminating, waiting to be told to speak before offering any useful information on his own.

  “Go on, boy,” Rogdai said, exasperated, rushing through the halls of the palace as everyone else seemed to be going the other way. “Tell me your charge.”

  “It is my master. He begs a word with the Lady. He says it is very urgent.”

  Rogdai almost growled at him. “Who is your master, boy?”

  The boy’s eyes were as big as trenchers. “Bbbb…” he stammered.

  “Well?”

  “Bayan. The bard.”

  Oh, by all that is holy in the Heights, he thought. What horrid timing.

  “He will have to see me, I’m afraid,” Rogdai said. “The Lady has been in the Temple since midnight, preparing for her coronation.”

  The boy nodded and rushed forward, almost as though he were escaping Rogdai, not leading him. For that speed, Rogdai disliked the boy a little less.

  The old bard was dying. It was the smell that made it most obvious—something like stale bread and rotten fruit mixed with sweat. He knew that smell well enough from seeing both his parents die.

  “Vohin Rogdai,” Bayan croaked, his white eyes uncannily fastened to Rogdai’s face. “The Darina will not see me?”

  “She is at her coronation, my lord,” said Rogdai, his voice soft in spite of his irritation. Bayan commanded respect, even in the worst of times.