“You will have to tell it to her, then. I was visited by a song this morning. It has not happened in decades.”
Rogdai understood. Writing a song was one thing, but being visited by one was another. This was an oracle. He bent to his knees and leaned on the deathbed, so the old man did not have to strain.
“I will not play it for you, for my fingers are stiffer than old roots. But I will sing the words.”
Rogdai’s heart leaped to hear the clarity of the old man’s bass, so unexpected after hearing his croaking speech. It was almost as though someone else sang through Bayan’s body, using it as an instrument. But as the words sank into his conscious mind, his heart did an about face and plunged into his heels for sheer terror. Bayan sang a prophecy of defeat.
The smoke! It blinds and frightens.
The shouts! They’re all around.
The flaming stones are falling,
But the shouts don’t lose their sound.
The Lords—impotent, silent—
Lie crumbled in the smoke.
The shouts increase their fury
At Dark’s death-dealing stroke.
You cannot see their faces,
For darkest is that hour
When skies light up in fury
At chaos’ gath’ring power.
While Raven in his glory
Declines to show his face,
The wise hear in the shouting
His rotting, fallen grace.
The time for words is over
For Light hangs by a thread.
Will no one stop the shouting?
Will no one stir the dead?
Rogdai walked like a dead man back to the walls of Vasyllia. Bayan’s words thundered through Rogdai’s consciousness as he joined the throngs headed for the Temple, feeling like a corpse carried by a swift tide. He could not tell Sabíana this prophecy. Not in her hour of glory.
Sabíana closed her eyes and reveled, for the last time, in being merely Sabíana, daughter of the Dar, intended of Voran, sister to Mirnían, Black Swan of her people. She opened her eyes, and now and forever she would be the Black Sun, the Darina of the dark time of Vasyllia. Swathed in a brown fur, Sabíana walked out from her gazebo slowly, with bowed head, not daring to look up yet. She stopped before the throne and turned to the assembled crowds, so full that some were even standing on the lowest boughs of the redbarks. Falling to her knees, she touched her forehead to the bare ground and raised herself up again. She repeated her obeisance three times before turning to the Grove of Mysteries.
The new chief priest, Otar Gleb, stood in front of the grove by the ceremonial throne—an unadorned chair intended to remind the future Darina of the need for humility in the wielding of power. He was a surprisingly young man with a joyful face, if somewhat ugly. His hair was blond and curling at the ends that rested on his shoulders. His eyes were deep and kind, so different from Kalún’s wells of contempt. He placed his right hand on Sabíana’s forehead as he half-chanted, half-cried in a sharp, high tenor, “Woman! Why do you approach the sacred grove?”
“To abase myself before the mercy of Adonais and to confirm his will in the choice of a new Darina.” Her voice sounded weak to her own ears, young and scared.
“Why do you, a humble slave, dare to take this duty upon yourself?”
“By the right of blood…” She paused, hoping she had memorized the words correctly. “…and by the humble desire of my people do I approach. I, a worthless thrall, do myself neither desire nor deserve such honor, such a dreadful duty.”
“How do the people answer this claim?” His voice rang out regally, and she was jealous of it. “Are they in one mind and one mouth of accord?”
“Yea!” echoed through the Temple, truly as if it were one, many-faceted voice.
The priest indicated that Sabíana should kneel.
“I confirm, as mouth and warden of the will of Adonais, your claim, slave Sabíana, daughter of Antomír, to the Monarchia of Vasyllia. Forget not that you are a servant of your people, the slave of a higher Dar. Rule in remembrance of the ancient Covenant that our forefathers made with Adonais.”
How empty that sounds, she thought. It reminded her of how difficult it would be to awaken in the people any understanding that the Covenant needed to be upheld as a reality, not merely as a beautiful idea.
One of the clerics held a gilded malachite box. The chief priest opened it carefully, pulling out a silver crown of ancient make. It was wrought in the shape of a flowering wreath, rising to a single peak above the forehead, like Mount Vasyllia. In the midst of the silver peak shone an emblazoned red-gold sun. Sabíana stood up, kissed the sun, then sat on the throne, still facing the Grove of Mysteries. He placed it on her head.
“Adonais, with your glory crown her…”
“So be it!” cried the priests.
“…with your invincible grasp wield her scepter…”
“So be it!” cried the clerics and the royal court.
“…with your omniscient providence guide her judgment.”
“So be it! So be it! So be it!” cried all the people.
Four of the priests lifted the throne with Sabíana on it to face the people. She felt the emotions they had all held back suddenly overwhelm her. Instead of cringing, her heart held firm, and she took the energy of their worry, their tiredness, their pain, and forged it inside herself into pure joy that streamed out of her to the tips of her fingers. She felt afire, re-forged, new. She smiled.
Everyone prostrated in the snow. Many faces were white with awe, even terror. She raised her hands to bless them, when frightened cries and gasps rose among the people.
“The crown! It flowers!”
Unprompted, many voices began to chant, “So be it! So be it!”
Sabíana threw off her fur, and her cream and gold underdress shone like lightning. Under the fur, she was girt with a sword. She unsheathed it and raised it high.
“Words? What use are they now?” Her voice rang even louder than the priest’s, and her heart rang with it. “Hope? What hope can you expect, my people?”
Her eyes teared up from the icy air, but she held her body firm. The steam floated from her body like an aureole. She felt the fire of the flowering crown on her head. She was half-mad with exhilaration.
“Death awaits the sleeping, death spares not the upright. It is death’s time, my people.”
The fear was everywhere, in every pair of eyes now, but still they hung on her words, hungry for more.
“Come, death, I say! Come, so we can spit on you. We are not your slaves. We serve life, and we defy you! Sword-fisted, helm-crested, we take life and we impose it on you!”
All through the crowd, swords were unsheathed and held aloft. They scattered the feeble light of the sun hidden in fog and the fires of the lanterns.
“We are a high people. We are the hammer of Adonais, the axe of the Heights. We are the wardens of the Three Cities. Arise with me, raise your swords and your hearts, set them alight, blaze forth the anger of the righteous!”
The sea of people seethed. Old men, boys, warriors, even priests raised weapons. Their eyes were alit with the war-wind.
“But dare I say the righteous?” She moderated her voice, allowing it to soften, as though she doubted her own words. “Are we not perhaps become fallen, diminished by long laziness and selfishness? Do we dare to take up arms in the name of Adonais if we have broken Covenant with him?”
Not a single voice, not even a whisper disturbed the silence of the frosty air.
“Hark now to the word of your Darina! I have found proof of the Covenant’s existence. I have read words carved by our fathers into the face of the mountain, words that cannot be unsaid. Hearken to the words of Adonais, my people!”
It looked like a wave struck the people’s backs, so quickly did they fall down on their faces. All the armed men thrust their swords into the ground before abasing themselves. Sabíana did the same, but she only knelt, her gaze intent on the
people she hoped to move to an act of insane heroism.
The herald read out the words that Sabíana had first read only a day before. Even now, after copying it for herself and hearing it reread many times, the words pierced with their power. It was not incantation or magic. The words had the power of making. These kinds of words were spoken by the deity that created them all. Sabíana was either committing terrible blasphemy, or she was re-forging a lost Covenant. She did not know which it was, but she had cast the stones, and it was too late.
After the herald finished, murmurs rose like the first rustling of wind that promised rain. Here and there she heard expressions of agreement. She searched for any sign of defiance, but all she saw was the adoration.
“Now is the time, my people. Now we must renew the Covenant with Adonais. But I cannot do it for you. We must all agree to it; we must all renew the Covenant within our hearts. Vasylli! Pledge yourselves to the will of your Darina, the will of Adonais!”
“So be it! So be it!”
The cries were reluctant at first, hesitant, but the sound rose like a fire. Soon the mountain shook with the repeated cries. Still, even now she saw that some held back. The fire of the flowering crown dimmed, and by the lessened light in the eyes of the people, Sabíana knew that the sign had faded. It left her aching and empty. She gathered the reserves of her strength.
“So be it! We will be his people again, and may he guide our death-stroke against the foul enemy outside the walls!”
The terrible understanding dawned in the eyes of many. They understood.
“Sing with me, my children!” She stood up. “We go to war.”
The warriors surrounding her bellowed the opening chords of the ancient call to war, and the women and children in the Temple joined them. Even the clerics sang, tuning into the single harmony like a bag-pipe warming up. Over their combined voices, Sabíana unfettered her own, and it flew above the choir like a hawk catching a warm gust.
The Heights resound with thunder;
The mountains sing aloud.
Our people burn with anger
At the enemies’ gathering cloud.
We gird our arms with iron;
We bind our tongues with prayer.
Our children and our loved ones
We leave to Sirin’s care.
O Adonais, hear us,
Defend us as we cry:
“Annihilate this Darkness,
And give us strength to die.”
Lord! Give us strength to die!
The fog outside the city glowed yellow, swirling with loathing, challenging any who would come. Arrayed like rows of candles ready to be lit, Rogdai’s men tensed for the charge behind the great doors. A moment before, the gates throbbed with the violence of the drums; now the air echoed with silence. Rogdai held his breath, trying to calm the thump of his heart. Any moment now the call to charge would sound. As mad as he knew it was, and probably fatal, he was infected with war-wind, and his finger itched to feel the cramp of a sword-hand after hours of battle.
All around him, the men stood with jaws set and swords out, so still they could have been statues. His heart burst with pride at their form. Only the banner-bearers betrayed any of their eagerness, but they were all boys still in the seminary. Rogdai recognized Tolnían, the young scout who had started everything with his report about the tree that wept Living Water. He impressed Rogdai more than the other boys. There was no bravado in his manner, only calm determination that belied his tender years.
“Ho there, boy!” called Rogdai at Tolnían. “I believe I see your nanny over there. Hide, or she’ll uncover your secret. What are you, ten?”
Tolnían didn’t even flinch as he answered. “Vohin Rogdai, before this is over, we will be arming ten-year-olds.”
Rogdai laughed, because it was necessary, not because he was amused.
Tolnían’s hand-woven banner—a Sirin in flight, talons bared—caught even the sickly glare of the foggy sun, sowing light on the warriors. Rogdai felt a semblance of hope rising. He turned to look back at the palace. He imagined he could see Darina Sabíana even at this distance, raising her hand. Something gleamed in the highest turret of the palace, and the braying, glorious cacophony of trumpets exploded around them.
The doors groaned. Rogdai screamed white-steaming anger as his men rushed out into the high fields around the city. All of his brothers strained—he could sense it as his own strain—for that fearful first blow of steel against steel, that entry into the whorl of war. He sang, and his brothers took up his song, an old ballad of death and glory.
They were answered with silence. Out and out they poured through the open doors, but no enemy came to greet them.
Something hissed and crackled around Rogdai. A wall of malice rose up from the very earth, it seemed. The fog swirled, as if some huge, invisible finger was mixing a poison to choke all who approached. The hissing grew louder. Rogdai realized it came from above. Swarms of ravens plunged down in a blinding attack, a black wave of talon and beak. Just ahead of him, the fog suddenly resolved itself into thousands upon thousands of Gumiren. But then they all changed, as though their human forms were cloaks to be cast off before battle. He faced an army of monsters.
Most were chimaeras combining human and animal features in the most grotesque parody of creation—leonyns, wolf-men, bull-men. Huge snakes seethed everywhere. Some walked on short legs, and some were no more than worms with mouths that unfurled outward to reveal rows of dagger fangs. Everywhere, growls replaced the calls of men.
“What in the Heights is going on?” Only decades-long discipline stopped Rogdai from running away, screaming.
“It is the Raven, Vohin Rogdai,” said Tolnían next to him. All that was visible of his fear was a slight paleness in his cheeks. “The Darina was right. Only Adonais can help us now.”
“Well, I am not going back, crying for my nanny, boy,” said Rogdai, punching himself on the chest to knock his sense back into his body. “Vasylli! For our Darina! For the Black Sun!”
“The Black Sun!” The lines caught the chant like a wooden ball and passed it on, until the field rang with it.
There was no time to form ranks: the monsters were among them, biting and clawing. Before charging, Rogdai looked back to see how Tolnían fared, and laughed to see him mumbling some prayer under his breath.
“Careful, boy, it will take steel, not words, to survive today.”
“I am not interested in surviving. I am interested in the annihilation of this Darkness.” He smiled, but it was a warm smile, a smile of farewell.
Then, Rogdai was in the midst of it, and the war-wind took him. Even through the haze of red, Rogdai saw that the monsters were aiming for the banners, as though the embroidered High Beings were a source of power. The Vasylli would not long survive without the hope that the banners held out to them.
One by one, the ranks of spear-men protecting the banners were mowed down by the rising enemy. One by one, the banners near Rogdai tottered and fell, and with each one the growls of the creatures seemed to grow more vicious. As they fell, the light they scattered faded, and Rogdai felt the terror rising with each downed banner. Some of the boys fled in screaming fear. They were easy prey for the ravens, who wheeled above, ready to swarm on anyone who ran.
A ring of spearmen directly in front of Rogdai disappeared like smoke. Before he realized it, he engaged a reeking lion-thing over seven feet tall, with two or three more at its heels. They pushed Rogdai back into Tolnían, and his strength proved nothing against them. Cursing aloud, he tripped on a rock and felt the sinews of his ankle tear. What a pathetic way to die, he thought.
But the creatures reeled from a new, ferocious attack. Tolnían had thrust the point of the banner into the earth and attacked the enemy like a one-man avalanche. Every stroke was perfectly directed, striking some vital part of the monsters now cringing from him. He hacked and slashed and parried with incredible skill, not a hint of fear in the way he held himself. The creatures shriek
ed with mad terror at his calm and deadly assault. They ran, falling over friend and foe alike. All around them the Vasylli, embolden by Tolnían’s courage, shouted and charged.
The banner-bearers that remained alive—and they were few—labored to raise all the fallen banners by lodging them in earth as Tolnían did. Once again, the images of ancient Powers rose over the battle-scarred slope. Some boys even began to climb the trees to lift the banners higher, to try to catch the sparse rays of sunlight. Rogdai was amazed—the ravens did not touch them, as if their resurgent courage somehow gave them added protection.
The battle raged. More and more creatures rushed at them from the mists below, constantly replenishing their losses. Rogdai saw many men simply crumple to the ground in pain, though they faced no enemy. Snakes hidden by creeping mists were everywhere. Rogdai himself was surrounded by a mass of snake carcasses, since they were the only creatures he could still fight off, unable as he was to stand on his torn ankle.
Then he heard the great bell, and his heart sang. Its velvet peal poured fresh strength into the men around him, and they redoubled their fury, pushing the monsters back into the churning mists. Someone picked Rogdai up and supported his weight. It was Tolnían. Together they pursued the enemy to the churning fog on the edge of the killing field.
Something bright flashed deep within the fog, and the mists dissipated with a breath of wind. Not a single monster remained in sight. All the way down the slopes, beyond the plateau surrounding Vasyllia, boulders and earth and grass were covered in the bodies of fallen Vasylli—many too young to be called men. Their dead faces were bone-white in the sun, expressionless and calm. Rogdai wondered if their spirits had found better habitations in the Heights. As he stared at them, the momentary ardor of victory cooled.
“Where are they?”
Not a single mangled corpse—or any trace at all—remained of the monsters that had appeared from hell and apparently returned there. And there was no sign of any Gumiren anywhere. Rogdai wondered if this was victory, or a prelude to something far worse.
The Song of the Sirin (Raven Son Book 1) Page 30
