“Lord Farlaav, are you sure? Perhaps in the heat of the—”
Lord Farlaav lifted himself up from the litter with a groan and grabbed Voran’s arm, gasping with the effort.
“Listen to me! I saw what I saw. If you do not believe me, there will be nothing to stop him.”
“Him? Who?”
“This is not a human enemy we strive against, Voran. The Raven is coming.”
The effort was too much, and he collapsed in a dead faint. A pool of red seeped into the furs at his back. Adayna pushed Voran aside and called for help.
Voran’s mind reeled, but his instincts took over. He seemed to hover over himself, watching as he ran back and forth, cajoling here, ordering there, pushing, pulling, jostling, and helping along. Within an hour, he and Adayna—she had a new stick and had tied a wolf-fir around her chest with a leather thong, giving her the appearance of a nomadic priestess—led the mass of wounded Nebesti toward Vasyllia. He carried the skeletal girl on his shoulders. She was Farlaav’s great-granddaughter. Both of her parents, Adayna’s daughter and her husband, had been killed.
For the first day, Adayna spoke little, leaving Voran to his thoughts. He was almost unnaturally calm after his encounter with Lyna, but his mind told him that he was courting disaster for seeming to abandon the pilgrims, even for the sake of these thousands of refugees. Anyone else would be lauded by Vasyllia for saving the remnant of Nebesta. But it was more likely that the son of Otchigen would be imprisoned for abandoning his charge and leaving the pilgrims to an untamed wilderness crawling with creatures from nightmares and an enemy that slaughtered people just to make an impression. The Dar would be right to imprison him.
Worse still, he had lost Lebía. Agonized worry for her gnawed at him—he was sure he would have a red gaping hole in his chest by the time he reached Vasyllia. The desire to turn back and find her was so strong that a few times his feet seemed to turn aside of their own accord. Every time he moved back to the path, he imaged Lebía’s corpse riddled with arrows.
Another fear was the realization that the only way he could justify himself before the Dar and Dumar would be to tell them of the Sirin. But that was impossible. No one believed in the Sirin anymore. Actually claiming soul-bond with a legend? Impossible.
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.
