As they approached, a wrought iron gate seemed to form itself out of the tendrils of mist. It was decorated in shapes of strange animals and plants, none of whom Voran had ever seen or even read about in the stories.

“Is this the doorway out of the Lows?” asked Voran.

“Let’s find out,” said Mirnían and pushed it open. It opened with little resistance. Nothing changed. The downslope remained ahead of them, leading to another valley where trees of changing colors surrounded a village of thatch houses settled along a snaking river, brown with the recent rains. The village looked empty.

They walked through the entire village without meeting another creature, except for the wild rabbits that fled from them in panic.

“Is that…music?” said Mirnían.

Voran heard the unmistakable strumming of a hand-held harp. Then the smells struck him like a fist across the nose—pork, cherries, apple, bacon. Had he gone mad?

Whether real or not, the source of the sound and the smell seemed to be a wooden hut, crookedly constructed, as though it were stuck in an eternal shrug. From this vantage point, the two dark windows only intensified the house’s puzzled look.

The front door was open. The music stopped, but the smells were even more intense. A head popped out of the doorway, belonging to a young girl, buxom, red curls messy on her shoulders. Voran felt an uncomfortable lurch in his stomach. She was very beautiful.

“Come in, my lords! Oh, what joy! I hoped to have company this day. Dinner is almost ready.”

It was a meal fit for a king. There was soup of a soft, red fish, unexpectedly tangy and salty from an excess of chopped pickled cucumbers. The first course was a white river-fish garnished with mushrooms that burst with juice at every bite. Lightly steamed vegetables— salty with a smoky aftertaste—followed. Finally, the boar—succulent, tender at the first bite. With it came a purple hash of some semi-sweet root, dripping with juice dark as blood. The ale was sweet, tinged with cinnamon and nuts.

Voran ate with relish. Mirnían waited before eating, staring at Voran as though he expected him to transform into yet another legendary creature. When nothing happened, he ate—tentatively at first, then as ravenously as Leshaya, whose slurping could be heard outside the hut, though she sat some ways off, feasting on the boar’s entrails.

They remained silent through the entire meal.

Afterward, Voran and Mirnían walked to the brook to wash their hands and faces. The water had a faint smell of old cheese. Leshaya lay asleep near the door, snoring.

“Voran, I can’t rest easy,” said Mirnían, unexpectedly friendly. “There’s something happening here that I do not understand. Something is very wrong.”

Voran said nothing, but plunged his entire head into the brown water. It was unpleasantly warm.

“Is it not all a bit convenient?” continued Mirnían. “An entire village abandoned except for one hut with a girl making dinner especially for us? How does she live in this village? How does she support herself?”

Voran laughed. Such mundane details seemed irrelevant in the Lows of Aer.

“And I can see how you stare at her, Voran.” There was a hint of a growl in Mirnían’s voice. “Do not forget you are promised to another.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Voran, lying through his teeth. The girl was beautiful, too beautiful in a way, as though some poet had imagined her into existence. Yet he desired her; lust for her pulsed through his body. He was again on the cusp of that madness when nothing matters, when reason falters. He had to have her.

“You are tired, Mirnían. Sleep with your sword by your side. I will take the first watch. If there is even a hint of something untoward, I will call for you.”

Voran stood by the river, deep in thought. Heavy clouds roiled in the sky, churned by warm gusts, pregnant with rain. The river gurgled like an over-full stomach. The trees twitched with each gust as though awakened into a bewitched half-life, only to fall back to uneasy sleep. As each gust heaved and died, the air seemed to bloat, giving off the same acrid odor as spoiled milk. Voran sweated under his cloak, but neither the river nor the wind relieved him.

“It’s quite full with storm tonight,” said the redhead, somehow appearing next to him. She wrapped herself in a thin shawl, her arms crossed over her belly. Her linen shift was unbuttoned at her throat, just enough to reveal the swell of the breast underneath. Voran looked away quickly.

“Strange for this time of year,” he said, lamely. His teeth chattered, but not with cold.

“It is that.” She sighed and closed her eyes in contentment. Her lips were unnaturally red. Her hand barely grazed his. It was the touch of white-hot iron.

“You are not lonely here, all by yourself?” he asked.

She lowered her eyes. Even in the dark, he could see a flush creep up her cheek. Her lower lip trembled ever so slightly.

“Oh, I am, my lord.” She turned away, the picture of demure modesty.

“I hope we have leavened your solitude a little,” said Voran, awkwardly fumbling over the words.

She did not answer, instead walking away to an old willow weeping over the river. She sat down on a bed of moss between two outspread roots. She looked up at Voran and smiled, then leaned back against the trunk of the tree and beckoned to him.

He could never afterward recall exactly how it happened. Rather, the memories remained very clear, but as if belonging to someone else. Before he knew what he was doing, he had lain with the girl. After it was done, as the slow realization slithered into him, he lay between the outspread roots embracing her, caressing her. A drowsy slumber enticed him, and he fell asleep.

He dreamed that he saw the girl standing before him, but her face was unrecognizable through a mask of savage hatred. At her feet lay the carcass of some dead animal; a dagger was clenched in her fist. Blood dripped from its tip with insistent regularity. The animal was majestic, its fur spotted with bloody dirt. Its head, twisted grotesquely to the side, sported a pair of antlers still half-luminescent with gold. The white stag.

A wave of nausea throttled him awake. It was still early morning, and his mind felt muddled as if with wine, his limbs like cold fish. A scream of anguish. Mirnían.

Voran sprang to life and reached for his sword. It wasn’t there. He ran.

In front of the crooked hut, Mirnían stood on his knees, his face in his hands. He wailed in pain. His arms, hands, neck, everything was flaky-white, gouged with deep sores. Another wave of nausea checked Voran’s run. He knew the signs. Leprosy.

Standing over Mirnían, facing Voran, was something that had once been the beautiful red-head, now twisted and gnarled and wrapped in a hairy black cloak. Her curls were gone, replaced with rare wisps of grey. Her eyes were sunken and red, and a toothless leer replaced the former beauty. She leaned on a stone club that bore a sickening resemblance to a pestle, and she cackled, unable to restrain herself, hopping in place.

Voran tried to approach Mirnían, but found he was rooted to the ground. To his left, Leshaya— hackles raised and teeth bared—seemed also unable to move. The hag leered at Voran, as though challenging him to defy her, though he felt no more than a thing in her misshapen hands, to be thrown around and played with before being devoured.

“Oh, how delicious,” she cackled. “The sons of Vasyllia are no more than worms writhing in the mud.” She twitched her head side-to-side like a deranged crow.

“Voran,” Mirnían sounded like an old man. “Whatever you do, do not tell her anything. She tried to seduce me last night, thinking I would be amenable to talk. Keeps asking about our quest. I spurned her. Disgusting hag!” He spit on her. She danced around him, then struck him with the pestle across his face. He fell on the ground, his legs twisted underneath him, but did not cry out.

“Le-per! Le-per! So much for words, princeling.”

“You have no power over me, hag,” said Mirnían, blood flowing from his mouth as he tried to roll over. “Though you curse me with this leprosy, you will not stop us from completing our journey.”

“Well, well. There you are very wrong, princeling. My darling Voran is staying with me, probably for a long time. You see, Voran gave me the power over you all. Gave it willingly, too, the great-hearted warrior. He did not spurn me.”

Voran vomited. The hag turned to him, crouching, her head cocked sideways.

“You thought you could take your pleasure from my body,” she said, “and it would cost you nothing? You do have a high opinion of yourself, Voran, son of Otchigen.”

Mirnían’s face creased into disgust and fear.

“Voran? Is this true?”

Voran could not meet his eyes, but nodded once, curtly. Sabíana filled his mind, and the regret was like ten swords plunged one after another into his chest.

“What has Sabíana ever done to deserve you as her champion?” Mirnían scraped himself off the ground and crawled to Leshaya. She crouched to the ground and helped him up to her back with her jaws, as though he were no more than a cub. She trembled in fury. Voran could no longer contain himself.

“Yes, I am guilty!” he screamed. “I despise myself for it. Yet I am friend to the Sirin. Lyna loves me, and will intercede for me. She will not forsake you, Mirnían. Do not give up now!”