Yet he saw no other possible solution. He could not abandon the refugees. Neither could he fathom abandoning the pilgrims. But he had no idea where they were. To make matters worse, the farther he traveled from his encounter with Lyna, the more his sense of loss and yearning deepened. The flame in his heart remained alight, but it did not fill him, only leaving him warm enough to live.

On the second day, Adayna was more inclined to speak. He was glad of the change. Speaking to himself was becoming tiresome.

“Adayna, does your father still live?”

“He fades, Voran. I hope he will survive to Vasyllia. To see Dar Antomír would ease his passing, I think.”

“Tell me, what did you mean when you thought I was a changer?”

She looked at him with the gaze of those who have seen too much to care about social niceties. Voran felt a flush creep up his cheek.

“Did you believe my father’s account of the Raven’s army of horrors? I saw it myself, Voran, too clearly to doubt. A warrior, seemingly human, who changed shape before my eyes. Where a nomad archer stood one moment, the next lurched a creature with a human body and a lion’s head.”

Voran said nothing, though the dread inside him deepened.

“Nebesti lore tells of changers, spirits of the abysses who wield the power of transformation. Vasyllia has no such legends?”

“I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Nevertheless, it is spoken of. The Raven is the first of these.”

“The Raven I know, though many think him merely a cautionary tale.” But if the Sirin were real, could not other legends walk the earth as well? Find the Living Water, said Lyna. If the Raven walked the earth, it was clear that he came to Vasyllia to find the Living Water. How would Voran ever convince the Dar of the need to protect the weeping tree from a monster out of stories?

“That carn ahead of us,” said Adayna, “the one red with sun-blood. Is that not Vasyllia Mountain?”

“Yes, it is.” Voran smiled at her use of the word “carn”—an archaism in the Vasylli language. “A few more days, and your people will find refuge.”

“But for how long? Surely you cannot doubt that the Gumiren come for the jewel of the Three Cities?”

There was faint irony in her voice, and Voran recognized Nebesta’s old jealousy at being the Second City. He could not blame her. If what Lyna said about Vasyllia’s responsibility to care for all Outer Lands was true, then the Vasylli had much work before them to restore goodwill with Nebesta, Karila, and the lesser cities. Too many years of bad blood. Housing the refugees of fallen Nebesta would be a good start.

Vasyllia Mountain grew by the day, and on the seventh morning they were within sight of the city. Here, the dirt paths they had taken finally merged with the Dar’s road. As soon as Voran and Adayna, walking a bowshot ahead of the others, had stepped on the road, something slipped in and out of view at a point where the road dipped down and out of view.

“What was that?” said Adayna, tense with fear.

“Vasylli scouts. Don’t be afraid. They are only performing their duties. Now the city will be informed, and we will be met at the gates.” Voran’s even tone belied his perturbation. Why had the Vasylli scouts allowed themselves to be seen so easily? Were things truly falling apart so badly in Vasyllia that even the scouts couldn’t stay off the Dar’s road?

By mid-day, they approached Vasyllia, wading through the stubs of reaped wheat, still poking through the half-frozen soil in the fields of harvest that lay before the city. The gates stood open, and three companies of warriors in black were arrayed before them, banners—gold sun on black field—unfurled, spears glistening in the late autumn sun.

“You said we would be met,” said Adayna, “but I did not think you meant armed warriors.”

Voran walked ahead with Adayna, his hand tight on his pommel. Two mounted guards cantered toward them, both swordsmen. To Voran’s disgust, one of them was Rogdai.

They had not spoken since their wager. Rogdai had seemed eager to avoid Voran, and Voran had been happy to oblige.

Rogdai took off his helm.

“Vohin Voran, I charge you in the name of Dumar with abandoning your charge of protecting the pilgrims. You must come with me immediately.”

Voran was struck speechless. He had expected at least some banter about his father’s wine, at least, before things got unpleasant.

But to be charged by the name of the Dumar, the assembly of the people? That was interesting. The Dar was still on his side, it would seem. That gave Voran a measure of courage.

“Vohin Rogdai, I will come with you as soon as you can give assurances to the daughter of Lord Farlaav, Adayna, that the remnant of Nebesta will be given refuge in Vasyllia.”

Rogdai hesitated, then dismounted. He fell on one knee awkwardly before Adayna.

“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “Remnant? Is what Vohin Voran says true?”

Adayna stood tall and straight, through Voran sensed her exhaustion.

“It is. We are all that remains of Nebesta, Vohin Rogdai. I cannot speak for our outlying villages, though I fear the worst. I hope Vasyllia will remember her hospitality in this time of need.”

Rogdai looked down at the ground, unable to hold her gaze. He seemed embarrassed to continue speaking.

“I am… sorry, my lady. The Dumar has made it clear that all refugees must remain outside the city until further notice.”

“Apparently, the Dumar did not inform the first reach, Rogdai,” said Voran, pointing to the city.

A mass of first-reachers poured through the gates, bearing tents, blankets, pots, and sundry other daily necessities. They were led by the potter from the marketplace, the one who made the perfect clay urn. Voran was pleased to see Rogdai seething with impotent anger.

“Lady Adayna,” said Voran, “the poor of Vasyllia offer you hospitality, even though her leaders have forgotten what the word means. When you have settled your people, I invite you to lodge at my own home. I will speak to the Dar on your behalf, have no worry. Rogdai, the Lord Farlaav of Nebesta is lying wounded among the refugees. Lady Adayna will show you where he lies. Of course, you will want to accompany him to the Dar’s palace yourself.”

Rogdai looked like he wanted to bind Voran with chains on the spot, but he merely turned to Adayna and bowed his head in agreement.

“Oh,” said Voran, as though it were an afterthought, “and please arrange for my father’s wine to be served to the Nebesti. They have need of refreshment.”

Voran turned away, not waiting for a reply. He felt Rogdai’s hatred like a hot poker in his back. As he walked through the ranks of warriors, he expected to be stopped by one of them at any moment. But they let him pass.

As he approached the gates, tents were already springing up like mushrooms after an autumn thunderstorm. Voran saw not a single second or third-reacher among them. Only the poor of Vasyllia had come outside the city to help the Nebesti in their hour of need.

Voran spent most of the day arranging for food and more tents to be sent out to the Nebesti outside the city walls. As he feared, none of the rich wanted anything to do with the refugees. Even in the second reach—many second-reachers themselves had known poverty at some point in their lives—only a few families, most of them from the warrior caste, opened their doors to him.

That evening, he sat in his own kitchens enjoying the last of his father’s wine. He had only drunk half the chalice when the pounding on the doors threatened to splinter them.

Her lardship came into the kitchen, her face red with annoyance.

“Voran, it’s the palace guard.”

Voran smiled and nodded.

Four black-liveried warriors in full armor, led by Rogdai, stood outside the door.

“You will leave your sword here, Vohin Voran,” said Rogdai. “Accused traitors are not allowed arms in the palace.”