“Well, now what?” said Mirnían pointedly, as though this was all Voran’s fault.

“I don’t know,” Voran said. “It’s too late to go on in any case, especially if we’re going into those woods. The morning is wiser than the evening.” Or at least I hope so.

“I knew you would have some sort of inspirational nonsense from the Tales, you fool,” burbled Mirnían. He walked off, head down and shoulders slumped. His words stung Voran like the slap of a birch-switch.

As their mounts munched on the last few greens remaining among the ascendant browns, Voran gathered wood for the fire. Like the insistent buzzing of a fly, he felt Mirnían’s anger, though the prince pointedly refused to look at him.

In the failing light, swarms of swallows kept him company. They wheeled low, almost at ground level. It’s going to rain, thought Voran. But the sky was already planted with stars, and no cloud obscured their glint. Neither was there any heaviness in the air. And yet, the birds seemed weighed down. There was something chaotic about their flight, nothing elegant about their circles. A few almost flew into each other, and there was none of the usual playfulness in it. Voran shivered with unease.

All three of them took turns trying to light the fire. All three failed. It seemed to break something in Mirnían’s resolve. Voran felt a wave of anger slap him a split second before Mirnían spoke.

“Voran, I have long wanted to ask you. You must have thought of this much over the years. Why do you think Otchigen murdered all those innocent people in Karila?”

Voran’s nails bit into his palm as he balled his fists. What a coward, he thought. Mirnían could find nothing to attack Voran with directly, so he struck in his soft place, in the place that he could not defend.

“You as well, Mirnían?” asked Voran, pushing the nails deeper into his palm, hoping the pain would keep the anger at bay.

Dubían tried to play conciliator. “Never mind what other people think.” He glared at Mirnían. “I’ve always been sure Otchigen was also killed in the wild, only his body was never found.”

“I don’t know,” said Voran. “Somehow, if he were dead, I think I would be more sure of it. No, he’s alive, but something prevented him from saving those people. It’s not an easy choice to willingly return home only to face judgment.”

Mirnían chuckled, clearly understanding Voran’s implication, but he said nothing.

“Voran, tell me. What sort of a man was Otchigen?” asked Dubían. “I would be honored to hear it from you. All the seminary rumors smacked of jealousy. He was a great man, and great men are not often liked.”

The unexpected kindness of the big man touched Voran.

“Everyone seems to think that my father was the Dar’s enforcer, a man who thought better with his axe than with his head. But they never saw him tell stories. Every evening he would gather us around the hearth. Some evenings it was something from the old tales, sometimes he told us of his youth. I loved it when he spoke of his first meeting with my mother. He had a particular way of speaking. It was almost in song.”

Like the Sirin. The thought struck him with unexpected revelation. He had always known it, but in some deep recess of the mind. Truly, there was something otherworldly about Otchigen when he told stories, leaning on one of the carved columns in their hearth-hall, always the same column. He would shed his years as he spoke, and every time he recalled his early days courting Aglaia, she would sit on her bench, rocking herself gently as she sewed something, pretending not to look at him. Her eyes looked different in those moments: they shone with intense color, revealing a wealth of shared remembrance, pride, and something deep, strong, poignant. The memory made Voran think of Sabíana.

Dubían put a hand as big as a cauldron on Voran’s shoulder in what he intended as a gentle caress. It nearly bowled Voran over.

“You must miss them very much,” whispered Dubían. There were tears in the big man’s eyes.

“Yes.” The tightness in his chest lessened for a moment, but as it did, the old yearning for Lyna flared up. He missed Lyna even more than he missed his parents, even more than he missed Sabíana. I’m so confused, he thought. Bonding with her was supposed to make the wistful itch disappear. She was supposed to order my inner world. Instead, I’m more lost than I ever was.

The morning was no wiser than the evening. At first light, Voran followed the trail of the pilgrims into the woods. As soon as he stepped into the trees, the trail vanished. But there was something else. Something crackling behind his ears, like a lightning bolt beyond his peripheral vision. Something wrong with the wood. It was not quite there.

Mirnían noticed it as soon as he joined Voran, a few minutes later.

“Did you feel that?” he asked. “What is wrong here?”

Dubían was more enlightening in his reaction. “There was a doorway here,” he said, with quiet certainty, “into the Lows of Aer.”

Voran nodded, while Mirnían shook his head and rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean was?” asked Mirnían. “Can these doorways move?”

Dubían smiled, clearly pleased at knowing something Mirnían did not.

“I thought everyone knew. Once entered, a doorway into the Lows shuts forever. Then you are forced to wander in that perilous realm, filled with all manner of strange beasts and people, until either you find another doorway, or you are forcibly taken out of it.”

“Do you not hear how ridiculous you sound?” Mirnían turned back to the camp.

“Wait,” said Voran. Something stirred inside him. They needed to go forward.

The wood rose ahead of them for a short stretch up a hilltop. At the top of it, the trees ended like a bald patch. The downslope on the other side was a sheer wall of ragged slate. Voran climbed down, finding plenty of footholds to bear him. A few feet away from the ground, he jumped onto ground covered in dead leaves, but his foot slipped, and he realized that what he thought was flat ground was another slope, though not as steep. He fell in a cloud of brown and landed hard, his breath knocked out of him. When the stars stopped dancing in pairs with the dead leaves, he realized that he lay in front of a large cave. Something beckoned to him from inside.

“I’ve found something,” he called to his companions, who were still standing on the hill above him.

It was a natural cavern in the rocky hill, probably a shelter for wolves. Shards of yellow and brown bones seemed to confirm this. To Dubían’s great delight, there was dry wood strewn about aplenty. He set about to build a fire, and soon a weak flame sputtered to life.

For the first time in what seemed ages, their stiff hands prickled with warmth.

“Well, this is much better,” said Mirnían, flexing his finger over the flames. “The stories have got it all wrong. There is nothing glorious about questing. The only glory I want is a bath-house, a roaring hearth, and a piglet dripping on a spit.”

“You’re right,” said Voran, warming on the inside. “What would our exploits be called? The aimless wandering of three soaked froglings?”

Dubían threw his head back, opened his cavernous mouth—several teeth were broken or missing—and exploded in a torrent of laughter. It was so unexpected, and yet so natural, that both Voran and Mirnían laughed together with him until the tears flowed.

But they were far away from home in a distant part of Vasyllia, and they were at an impasse. It quickly sapped their mirth. Soon they were silent and tense again. Voran felt the inner stirring again, more intently this time, as if someone were looking at him. He turned around, but there was nothing there. Something was different, though. Was that rock on that ledge before? Voran couldn’t remember.

“I wonder how the Pilgrim is doing,” said Voran. “He was a big man, but that was quite a mob that attacked him.”

“Well, serves him right. What sort of a fool lectures a mob after a failed summoning? What was he thinking?” Mirnían chuckled.

“How can you be so callous? He is a Pilgrim. And he was our guest. Nothing can excuse that kind of violence. And in the Temple!”

“Oh, Voran. Always such a purist.”

“And what about you, prince? Always so presentable in public, so careful about your people’s needs. But as soon as anyone turns around, you laugh and scoff and throw them all to the ravens. Should you not actually care for your people if you are to make an even passable Dar?”

“How dare you!” Mirnían’s face contorted with rage. “You, a traitor’s son, a spineless leech who depends on my father for everything. You have the gall to pass judgment on me? I should slit your throat right here.”

“Careful, Prince Mirnían,” growled Dubían, his hands hovering over his knife-hilt. “You go too far.”

“And you!” An angry vein throbbed in Mirnían’s temple. “Are you so blind that you take Voran’s side in everything? You think Voran saw the Sirin? You actually believe in some forgotten Covenant? Voran made all of it up himself. Apparently, the attention of the Dar’s own daughter is not enough.”

Voran’s hands trembled. He grabbed his knees until his knuckles turned white.

“Men like you pollute the earth, Voran. You sit on rocks and ponder questions with no answers, while Vasyllia crumbles around you. What have you ever accomplished? Everything you touch is blighted, and now even Sabíana withers under your caresses.”

Voran struck Mirnían with the back of his hand, then pounced on him and pinned him to the ground. He felt the point of Mirnían’s dagger tickling the skin under his right ear. Mirnían’s smile was feral. The feel of the metal thrilled and enraged Voran, and he reached for his sword.

Something rustled behind them. A shrieking, frenzied fear crushed Voran to the mud next to Mirnían, face-first. Every muscle froze, but tore at itself in a wild desire to flee. His heart pulsed hysteria with the blood through his body. His mind demanded that he fly from the unknown horror behind them, but his body was locked in place. He could not even speak. Damp with sweat, Voran willed with all the strength he could muster to turn his head out of the muck.