The Tale of the Prince and the Raven
Beyond the thrice-nine lands, in the thrice-tenth kingdom, there lived a restless prince. He had everything he could ever want—riches, health, a beautiful princess as his intended bride. But despite all this, wanderlust ate at him constantly.
So he left behind his love to climb the mountains, to explore the forests, to swim the rivers, seeking to slake the thirst of his restlessness. But nowhere did he find the peace he sought.
One day he stopped to drink from a pure mountain spring. It was a taste of paradise.
“Do you like the water?” croaked a voice behind his back.
It was a withered old man, all tawny beard and hair, twisted and resembling a tree stump more than a person.
“Yes, I do,” said the prince. “I do not think I have ever tasted such water.”
The creature leered with a leathery, lipless mouth. “Hah! That is nothing. I have water that will make this water taste like sand. Not only will you never thirst again, but your greatest desire will be fulfilled instantly. What do you desire most, young man?”
The prince could not believe his ears. Could this be the end of his quest?
Just then he looked up and saw a great eagle lounging on a spruce branch like a monarch on a throne. What exhilaration there must be in soaring through the infinite sky!
“I wish to fly as the eagle,” said the prince.
“A very worthy desire. The Raven can provide that.”
The prince had heard of the Raven, a mysterious spirit of the forest, though he supposed it nothing more than a story in the shriveled imagination of a village hag. He remembered the tales he heard in childhood—stories tainted with blood and loss. A creeping fear wrapped itself around his heart, but he laughed it to scorn.
“What do you require in return?” the prince asked.
“Oh, I require nothing. The virtue of my enchantment is such that I will partake, in small measure, of your pleasure.”
“Is there nothing else?”
The Raven shook his head, and the trees began to quiver, and the wind moaned like a crying woman.
“So be it,” said the prince.
The Raven pulled a carved wooden flask from his dirty robes, and the prince drank. Fear suddenly flashed in dreadful clarity as he saw the face of his beloved in his mind, pale as death. He gasped as his breathing grew more painful. Terror gripped him. He could not breathe. A light stabbed his eyes, and he fell.
It took him a blank eternity to realize he was flying. His feathered arms caressed the waves of wind as they hugged his eagle body. His eyes met the sun’s rays, and he did not need to look away. Through his eagle eyes, the sun was a spinning furnace of purple, orange, even green tongues of flame.
A dark streak dimmed the sun for a moment. A swan, feathers black as a mountain’s peak at midnight, flapped toward the mountain stream. Her beauty enraged him, impelling him to destroy this usurper of his glory. He screamed and plunged on the unsuspecting swan.
An alien emotion disturbed him. Pity, a frantic desire for mercy. The eagle recognized the prince still inside him, and he unleashed his anger to drown out the vestiges of man. A warm stream of blood poured over his talons. He could smell the swan’s life oozing out. Dropping her corpse with disgust, he turned once again to the dancing wheel of fire.
An intense pain clutched his chest. The colors of the sun turned grey and the whirling dance froze; the air cut his lungs like daggers. His arms lost their feathers; pudgy nobs replaced them.
He came to himself near the stream, a man again. He crawled to its edge. There, propped against a boulder, lay his beloved princess. Her face was white with death. He touched her cheek and took her hand. It was slippery; blood streamed down her arm. Her shoulder had the unmistakable imprints of an eagle’s talons.
A noxious croak jolted him. On a swinging branch above him, a raven was laughing, its black head nodding insanely. The prince lunged at it, but it flew without effort up to the sun, laughing still. Near the roots of a nearby tree lay the wooden flask, taunting him.
Silence. Then whispers bubbling up like a pot of stew reaching a boil.
“What a horrible story.”
“Is that a Karila story? Never heard anything so absurd.”
“What a disappointment. They don’t make Pilgrims like they used to, it would seem. What tripe.”
The whispers rose into a dull groan, the mass of people rocking back and forth like a river in the wake of a longship. Then they parted in the middle. Voran was confused at first, not being able to see, but as the parting reached him, he saw Rogdai and a few other wardens leading a young man, dressed in brown and green woodsman’s garb. Voran had a vague memory of the boy—he was a few years his junior in the warrior seminary. A dreamy, odd sort of boy. Not good for battle. What was his name? Tolnían, he remembered. A scout.
He felt cold as he realized what that meant. The chief door warden was leading a simple scout directly to Mirnían in the middle of a storytelling. Voran pushed some very annoyed old people aside and joined the small party approaching the stage. Rogdai saw him and looked as though he wanted to say something cutting, but he nodded curtly and looked forward.
“Rogdai,” said Mirnían, simmering with rage. “I hope you have sufficient reason to disrupt the storytelling.”
Rogdai bowed silently and moved aside, prompting Tolnían to walk forward.
“My prince,” said the young scout in a soft voice barely heard over the crowd’s commotion. “Living Water has been found in Vasyllia. They say a blind man has already been healed.”
“Rogdai,” said Mirnían, no longer trying to keep his anger contained, “you are a fool if you think this sort of rumor was worth stopping the storytelling.”
“But, Highness…”
“Don’t interrupt me. You know the proper protocol. It should be the elders in private counsel that gave us this information.”
“Mirnían,” said Voran, his heart dropping to his heels. “Rogdai is right. The Living Water is never spoken of in the Old Tales without mention of the Raven and his eternal quest to seek out the Living Water. To become the Deathless One.”
