In the morning, Voran and Mirnían started the climb. Leshaya was not with them, and Voran assumed she was out hunting again. As they rose, they waded through small waterfalls, not a dry stone to be seen. They snaked the tortuous way up the hill, which became more and more shrouded in rain and mist. By midday, Voran thought they had entered another doorway into a different level of the world, until they stumbled onto two cairns lining the road. The summit-marks.
At that moment, the clouds parted, and the sun warmed their wet backs. Voran turned to look back. The dale stretching behind them was a pure emerald green, sparkling everywhere as the rivulets and waterfalls seemed to be showing off to the sun. It was a stark, gorgeous landscape. For a moment, it seemed that he and Mirnían were the only beings in existence on the earth. Had Adonais himself descended on a horse of fire from the Heights at that moment, Voran would not have been surprised. In such a place, Vasyllia and her trials were somehow absent. Or rather, Vasyllia did not belong in this world at all; this was a different place, a different time.
“Why do so few of the priests ever talk about Adonais in the right way, Mirnían?”
Mirnían seemed to forget his days-long silence. “What do you mean?”
“Do you not see? The curve of that mountain. The thunder of that waterfall.”
“Yes, I do.” Mirnían smiled for the first time in weeks. “It’s almost as if Adonais is here, present in these natural beauties.”
“If the chief priest knew him as he claimed to,” said Voran, thinking of Kalún’s mumbling of the prayers, “he would spend his days singing the wonders of his craft with the best poetry. Not try to call down fire from heaven by his will alone. You know, it’s all written down in the Old Tales. The priests in those stories were poets who sang from the tops of hills as the snow pelted their faces.”
The fire burned brightly in Voran’s chest. He felt Lyna’s nearness, but he had no idea how to call her to himself. It was maddening.
Then the sun swaddled itself in fog, and the cold and wet became all too real again.
“Look at this,” said Leshaya, barely visible in the fog down the road.
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.
