“All that I lack now,” said Lebía, “is Voran, to make my joy full.”

Mirnían’s heart froze at the words. At that moment, seemingly for the first time, he remembered that Lebía was Voran’s sister, and hatred for him threatened to drown out every other emotion. Something stabbed him under his left arm, like a pinprick.

“My love?” Lebía’s shoulders tensed, as though she had read his thoughts. What was wrong with him? Why did he have to kill his own happiness the moment it was born? He forced Voran out of his mind, though a sliver of hatred still pulsed deep within.

“Burn away the old life, my love. You and I will be everything to each other.”

She sighed, but seemed content.

“Wash, wash!” cried the children. “Wash away the old life, bright to life the new!”

At that, Mirnían and Lebía were carried to the opposite sides of the village for their ritual bath.

The village feasted deep into the night on trestles set up in the center of the village under a sky plowed with stars. Mirnían and Lebía sat at the high table that was built on top of a mound of earth, but Otar Svetlomír sat between them. He made sure they hardly had a chance to look at each other.

The food was never-ending. As soon as all the fresh trout was devoured, platefuls of boar magically found their way to the tables, followed by venison. Ale flowed more plentifully than mountain springs.

Mirnían had never seen Lebía so happy.

As the village’s smith blew the midnight oxhorn, everyone fell silent.

“Behold, the beauty of the bride!” someone called.

The women all keened—a wild, unfettered sound. It sent pleasant chills down Mirnían’s back. Something walked up the road toward the square, something huge. It bobbed up and down like a drunk man.

“What in all the Heights?” Mirnían heard himself say.

It was an effigy of a young woman with a long braid, carried on a stick by a boy with red cheeks. It was the size of a house. Ribbons flew from every conceivable place on the effigy, in all colors ever seen by man. Or so it seemed.

“The beauty! The beauty!” All the women keened again.

“What shall we do with the beauty?” asked Otar Svetlomír from his seat.

“Burn away the old! Make way for the new!” cried the women.

The effigy was now in the midst of the feasting crowd, facing Mirnían.

“Who will burn away the old?” Otar Svetlomír stood from his seat. “Who will make way for the new?”

Mirnían looked around, expecting one of the girls to answer. But no one did. Then he realized, with a sinking feeling, that everyone was looking at him.

Oh no, he thought. These village rites are all quaint enough, but they can’t make me actually take part. Can they?

Everyone looked at him. No one moved.

Finally, Mirnían turned to look at Lebía. There it was again—that new look. It commanded.

Mirnían sighed and stood up. The crowd erupted into cheers.

A girl ran up to Mirnían, holding a candle. She gave it to him with hands shaking from excitement and cold. He skirted the table and approached the effigy. He shook his head, and smiled.

“I will burn away the old!” he cried, trying to sound enthusiastic. “I will make way for the new!”

He stayed as long as he could at the table after the effigy had burned away. He wanted to feel everyone’s joy, but something pricked like a thin dagger under his arm. At first it throbbed, then jabbed. By the time the sun began to come back up, his skin prickled with the same heat that he had while still leprous.

Excusing himself to Lebía and Otar Svetlomír, he slipped into Lebía’s house and examined himself in the polished metal hanging on her wall. Facing him were nothing but eyes, deep gouges in a bony face that challenged him angrily. Were those his eyes? They looked more like Voran’s half-mad falcon eyes. He shivered, disgusted that he had allowed himself to descend to such a state. He shrugged off his shirt and probed under his left arm. There it was. He turned to see his side in the metal, and his heart plunged.

There was no mistaking it. It was a sore.

And behold, I will show you wonders in that final day. There shall be a black sun, and the moon shall turn to blood. A column of fire will stand in the midst of the congregation of peoples, and the temple of the abomination will fall, stone by stone. And yet not one of them will know it for the work of the Most High. Such is the work of the prince of lies, the great deluder of human hearts.

From “The Prophecy of Llun”

(The Sayings, Book XXIII, 2:4-7)

Chapter 19

Sabíana's Test

Sabíana stood rooted to the ground before Dubían’s empty bier, unable to muster the strength of will to move.

The Sirin were real.

Everything was now different, and all possibilities must be considered—the Covenant first among them. If the Sirin were real, the Raven might be real, and they would need the help of the Heights against such an enemy. But how does one go about re-forging forgotten covenants? What did Voran say? We must begin by caring for the downtrodden of the Outer Lands.

Freed by this thought, she hurried out of the room. She must make arrangements to care for the refugees. Now that the Dumar was disbanded, she must convince her father to open the first reach and to lift the quarantine, no matter what the risk.

The door to the Dar’s chamber was shut, but she barged in as she always did, heedless of the proper form. She shut the door behind her. It thudded.

The Pilgrim faced her from the other side of her father’s bed. His eyes were softer than she remembered. He showed no sign of the wounds on his body suffered in the Temple. He looked into her eyes, and she felt like there was someone behind her, so completely did his glance spear through her.

“Sabíana, you have come. That is good.” His voice sounded like it came from a great distance, or even out of the deep past. “Your father sleeps, but he will wake soon. He will not see me again. You must tell him I am well, and that I have gone. He will be worried, as he always is.”

Sabíana found it difficult to think, much less speak, in his presence. It was like trying to breathe under a waterfall.

“Sabíana, I know you saw the Sirin take Dubían away. I know that you desire to re-forge the Covenant. But it is too late. The Raven is at the gates.”

“But why is it too late?” she whispered, the tears gathering in spite of herself. “Surely Adonais can forgive.”

The Pilgrim’s face dimmed at the mention of Adonais. “There are so few Vasylli left. The fate of Vasyllia now lies on the edge of a knife. I do not know what will happen, though I fear the worst. It is given to me to offer you a choice. Vasyllia’s trials do not have to be your burden if you do not wish it. If you come with me, I will take you to a place called Ghavan. There, the Covenant may be re-forged with the remnant of the faithful.”

“Pilgrim, I am afraid.”

“Yes, Sabíana. I fear as well. Vasyllia is a place far more important than you can ever imagine. If it falls, much that is good and beautiful in the world will wither. Possibly until the Great Undoing.”