“He said, ‘It will, but only if the falcon sheds its skin, the swan spreads its wings, the bear forsakes its hunger.’”

At these last words, the fire within Dar Antomír simmered and began to fade.

“Father, not yet, please!”

“Do not grieve for me, my child. Do you not understand?”

“No, father, I do not,” her voice subsided to a hoarse whisper.

“The falcon is Voran’s blazon, the bear Mirnían’s. They are alive. And the swan is you, my love. It is your time now.”

His eyes wandered beyond Sabíana, smiling at something he saw there. She looked up to see a dark-haired Sirin, her face wet with tears. Sabíana found her strength returning.

“Taryna,” said the dying Dar. “I am ready. Take me with you.”

Sabíana walked out of the chamber, hardly conscious of anything except her grief and the need to hold it in, to not give it any quarter. Rogdai stood at the door. One look at her face, and he fell on one knee and took her right hand in his own shaking hands and kissed it. His face was hot to the touch. He looked up at her through his own veil of tears, and said, “Praise be to Darina Sabíana. May your reign be long, and may the holy gaze of Adonais shine upon you.”

Kalún had waited in the palace cherry grove for what seemed like hours. He was growing extremely displeased with Yadovír. He had had such high hopes for the young man. But all Yadovír seemed to do was run around, very busy and very solicitous on behalf of the Dar, though with little to show for the work of their conspiracy. With every passing day, the pestilence reached its pox-ridden hand closer to the third reach.

Something rustled in the trees. Yadovír squeezed himself between two trunks and nearly poked his eyes out on the groping branches.

“You do seem flustered, Sudar Yadovír, if I may be allowed the observation.”

Yadovír sighed in obvious exasperation.

“Otar, I know you expected me to arrange matters with greater alacrity. But I do have good news. All is in readiness for a meeting with the Ghan himself.”

“This Ghan travels with his own army?” Kalún was hardly a strategist, but it seemed a foolish way to conquer future tribute states. Unless the Ghan never intended to return to his capital city of Gumir-atlan.

“So it would seem, yes.” Yadovír did not seem perturbed by it. “At great personal danger to myself, I arranged an exchange of information with their camp. They made it clear that they would welcome us tomorrow night.”

“How are we supposed to do that? Walk out of the city and stride over to the enemy side? That should go over very well with the door wardens.”

Yadovír ignored the sarcasm. “The Raven’s escape, Otar Kalún. You know the old story, yes? Well, it seems at least part of it is true. There is a way out of the palace through the dungeons. An old passage into the forest below the city. Not many know of it, and those that do, think that it’s been blocked for centuries. But I was curious, so I checked. It is mostly blocked, but after some careful manipulation of the fallen rock, I found that one or two people will be able to squeeze through with a little difficulty.”

“How convenient. Can you guarantee our safety?”

Yadovír smiled, and there was a kind of madness in his eyes. “Oh, Otar Kalún, I think we have gone too far to think about safety.”

Gamayun, the Dayseer, sits in an ivory tower in the sea of times. Does she sing the future into being, or does she only speak of what she sees? No one knows.

From “The Tale of the Black Sirin”

(Old Tales, Book VII)

Chapter 20

A Narrow Escape

Tall warriors, robed in grey, faces confined behind black iron helms with no eye-slits, held screaming children over vast fire-pits. The mothers, shrieking in despair, all turned to Voran, asking him that most horrible of questions: “Why?” Tortured forms that once were men—now misshapen freaks with empty eye sockets and bald, bloodied pates where their hair was torn off—huddled around him, reaching for him with blackened nails. The ones without eyes saw him the best.

Tarin laughed, and Voran awoke. Voran’s upper lip twitched. He snarled and barked at Tarin. His hands groped for a rock with which to beat the old man to the ground. With a start, Voran awoke again.

They were still in the hag’s village, though some distance from the carcass of the dead serpent-hag. Voran’s wounds throbbed. The skin around them was yellow and gummy. He tried not to look, afraid he would be sick or faint. Tarin sat by the river, arms hugging his knees, looking at nothing. His lips moved noiselessly, repeating something. He turned at Voran and made a face.

“You should wash,” he said. “You’re quite filthy, you know. A bath of fire would really be best.”

“A bath of…what?”

Tarin turned away and began to mumble to himself again.

“Why?” asked Voran. Tarin’s expression was unreadable. “Why did you come to save me from her? What am I to you?”

Tarin huffed. “I knew your father well.”

Voran fell silent. It was not what he expected, and he was not sure how he felt about it. For so long he had grown used to avoiding thoughts about Otchigen, or when that failed, to hate him until his heart grew numb like an overused muscle. Now, to think of his father in any positive light was uncomfortable.

“It’s a strange thing about words, Raven Son,” said Tarin. “We talk and talk and talk and never seem to get anywhere. While if you really meant the word, you could make a tree flower.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Tarin chuckled and continued mumbling to himself happily, patting his head with his hand. His kestrel flew down from a branch above. Tarin made a show of falling to the ground in fear as the kestrel landed on his head, as though it were a dragon with talons bared. Then he turned over and laughed at himself.

What a strange man, thought Voran.

“That dream you just had,” said Tarin, “the warriors holding babies over bonfires. It was not a dream, you know.”

Voran’s heart tripped and started again.

“Vasyllia has fallen?”

“Not quite. I didn’t say it was the present time that you saw. Just one of possible futures. It seems Gamayun whispered to you in your sleep. She really can be the most pestilent annoyance.”

Gamayun? Who in the Heights was Gamayun? Voran was becoming infuriated with the man’s lack of useful answers.

“You come here and rescue me,” said Voran. “You helped me kill the hag. Now what?”

“Who said she was dead?” Tarin had an impish smile. “The hag is an intimate of the dead lands. Don’t count her out yet.”

“Will you help me?” Voran felt like punching the crazy old man.

“Will you help yourself?”

Turning to a stone on his left, Tarin kissed it and blessed it with a strange sign. Then he crouched with his ear to the ground, listening intently, until his eyes closed and he began to snore.

“Tarin!”