“Do you remember what your nanny used to say about this passage? About the Raven’s escape?”
She stifled her annoyance. She would make sure he would apologize later.
“Yes. She would still tell me the tale now, given half a chance.”
“You were not at the storytelling, were you?”
She had been expecting something about Mirnían’s outburst. She braced herself. “No. I’m sorry, Voran. Mirnían has so little self-control, sometimes.”
Voran looked at her with a confused expression. “Oh, that? I had forgotten about it already. No, I mention it because the story the Pilgrim told was about the Raven. One I have never heard before. It’s certainly not in the Old Tales.”
As if on purpose, a chill wind howled through the passage, dimming the torches. Sabíana’s blood chilled.
“Pilgrims don’t say anything without good reason,” she said.
“Yes, exactly. Just after the story, Tolnían came with news of Living Water. It made me think.”
“About the traditional link between the appearance of Living Water and the Raven’s eternal quest for immortality?”
“Yes. What if it’s true?”
Sabíana guffawed, but stifled her laugh. He actually looked upset.
“Voran, you don’t believe those stories are actually true?”
He looked about to continue, but a thought occurred to him and he stopped, dropping Sabíana’s arm. He assessed her with cold eyes, the eyes of a stranger. She felt frigid and half-naked before his gaze.
He turned away without saying another word.
“I don’t think there is any way of preventing mass pilgrimage to the weeping tree,” Mirnían said as Sabíana and Voran entered.
“There’s nothing wrong with pilgrimage, my son,” said Dar Antomír, faintly disapproving. “I would go myself, had not Wicked Woman Age grabbed me by the left ankle.”
The room was tense with expectation. Dar Antomír, never more bent and careworn, insisted that Voran and Mirnían exchange the brotherly kiss. He beamed at them with sanguine eyes, though Sabíana could not help noticing how thin was his white beard—once an avalanche on his chest. They grudgingly embraced, and only the pleasant babble of the Dar’s speech managed to ease their tension as they stood around a small table, staring down at a map of Vasyllia.
“There must be military presence, of course,” said Mirnían, though he offered his counsel carefully now, as if expecting Sabíana to contradict him immediately. She kept her peace.
“Yes, and more than a few warriors,” said the Dar. “Do you see the opportunity, my children? I’ve long wanted to gauge the response to a strong military show on the outliers, especially those with Nebesti blood ties.”
“Have there been any rumors of discontent from that quarter, Father?” asked Sabíana.
He smiled ruefully. “Only Vasylli are simple enough to think that all lands relish to be under the lordship of Vasyllia. The purported place of the weeping tree is very near the Nebesti border. I know Lord Farlaav of Nebesta well, and I do not think he is the opportunistic kind. But the same cannot be said of others in his court. Do not forget Nebesta is traditionally governed by a kind of mass fist-war they call a representative assembly. Nothing like our Dumar. Voran, what do you think?”
Voran seemed mesmerized by something on the map, his concentration so great Sabíana expected the map to go up in flames. He seemed not to have heard the Dar.
“Voran?” she asked, touching his shoulder. He recoiled from her as though her touch were hot iron.
“I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered, shocked at himself and probably also at the livid flush she could not hide. “I am not myself.”
He looked away from Sabíana, shimmering with barely-repressed energy.
“Highness, I beg you to allow me to lead the pilgrims.”
He trembled feverishly, his face white except for a crimson smear on either cheek. A thin sheen of sweat gathered on his hairline.
“I don’t think so, Voran,” said the Dar, assessing Voran through half-closed lids. “I would be much comforted by your presence at my side, especially now that the Pilgrim has disappeared. Too many dark omens.”
Voran did not seem to have heard a single word.
“Highness, my family is indebted to you for everything, I know that. You have given far more generously than I or Lebía have ever deserved. You know I have never asked anything for myself.” He paused, seemingly out of breath.
“No, Voran, you have not,” said the Dar, his frown deepening.
“I ask it now. I must seek the Living Water. It is not merely for myself. The Pilgrim told me to. For Vasyllia.”
Mirnían snickered and rolled his eyes. To her surprise, Sabíana found herself agreeing with her brother’s reaction.
“Voran, you are not well,” said Mirnían, his voice lathered in sarcasm. Voran did not even acknowledge him. It was not that he ignored him; he seemed not to have heard him at all.
“Highness, I beg you.” Voran’s voice was no more than a whisper, but it seemed to echo.
Dar Antomír's eyes began to fill with tears. Sabíana knew why. This whole situation was a repetition of Otchigen’s ill-fated command of the embassy to Karila. It filled her with dread.
“I sense this is something I cannot prevent. May Adonais bless it.”
Voran fell on one knee and bowed his head. Dar Antomír placed his right hand on his head and kept it there for a moment. When he lowered it, Voran couldn’t help notice how covered it was with brown spots, how gnarled beyond recognition.
