No, he said to himself. Enough.

In his mind, a fog seemed to lift. This was another parting of the ways, similar to the waystone. There was no going back, the way forward led to certain death, and yet there was no other way.

I do this for you, Sabíana, he thought with a stab of guilt. Maybe my death will pay my debts.

He stepped forward into the air, expecting the rush of mad pleasure that accompanies a fall and precedes the terror. Tarin followed, laughing, singing.

They walked on air. As they walked, it was not they who descended, but the land underneath them that ascended, almost as if they were climbing. Before Voran’s mind registered it, the thick, wet smell of peat slapped his nostrils. He and Tarin stood in another marshy plain. Mountains sheer as glass rose to their left. Only their extreme tips were white; the rest of the slopes were a lush carpet of green. All around was brown-yellow marshland, veined over with meandering rivers of inky blue. Ahead of them was a sight that made his legs, already throbbing with exhaustion, dance with joy. Twisting hearth-fires. There was a village ahead.

Tarin fell on his knees and raised his arms up to the sky.

“Sing unto him, let your voices exclaim!

Bring unto him all your praises and glory,

Honor his name, by its power exult,

For the voice of the Lord thunders over the waters,

For the voice of the King fills with life all the forests,

For the voice of the Father lifts up the high mountains.

Rejoice in his name, all you fighters of darkness,

For his mercy and glory illumine your passes,

For his love and his power destroy all your weakness

We run with all speed to the Lord of the Realms!”

Voran turned to look back at the cliff from which they had descended, and felt the danger fading away. No swirling darkness followed them. Voran laughed, coming back to life with every twitch of his exhausted legs.

“How did we…?” Voran began.

“Sometimes, the earth itself helps us poor ones,” said Tarin in an awed whisper.

All around them, grey branches and dead stumps reached up from the muddy earth, giving the land an agonized look. In the riverbeds, glacial water trickled, carving through the land like a blade through clay.

“It’s…beautiful.” Voran was surprised to hear himself say.

Before Tarin answered, something struck Voran in the back. Sharp, throbbing pain wove through every inch of his body.

It’s like I’m milk being churned into butter, he thought.

He fell, cramped over on the grass, the pain rising in waves. He breathed in, but his chest didn’t respond. His heart raced. His mind reeled with panic. There had never been anything else but the pain. He had always suffered. He would always suffer. It would never end.

A firm hand took his clenched fingers and forced them open. The hand was warm. Tarin’s face looked like it was in a fog, but he smiled. He whispered, and in spite of the noise in Voran’s mind, he heard his master.

“Raven Son. Focus on what I am telling you.”

The agony twisted Voran as though he were a dishrag.

“Listen! Repeat in your mind, clearly, this one word. Do it, no matter what doubts creep into you head. ‘Saddaí, Saddaí.’”

Voran twisted his lips into the right shape, though even that effort racked him with pain. He repeated the word under his breath, softly. The pain receded and his mind cleared. Into the breach in his mind a thousand thoughts barreled through.

That word! What does it mean? What if it’s an evil summoning, and Tarin is no more than a creature of the Raven? What have I done? Look at him, that foul beast with his smirk and detestable face. I want to claw that face open. What a pathetic creature I am. Why could I not stand the pain on my own? Stop saying that word. Stop! There is awful power in it!

He continued to repeat it stubbornly—Saddaí, Saddaí—until all thoughts ceased. Warmth suffused his body. He stopped twitching. He noticed the sun was shining.

“Raven Son, you did not yield,” said Tarin, tears pouring down his face. “As a reward, look. You are healed.”

All Voran’s wounds had closed, leaving only purple scars.

“Tarin, what in the Heights was that word?”

Tarin lifted Voran by the hand with no apparent effort.

“Perhaps, someday, I will explain it to you. Don’t forget it, Raven Son. It may save you again, and not only once.”

He looked suddenly thoughtful and perturbed by something.

“What is it?” asked Voran.

“They overreach themselves,” he said. “I did not expect such boldness from them yet. Vasyllia must be on the very brink.”

In the year of the covenant 845, Dar Mikahil left no male heirs. His only daughter Albiana and his daughter son’s Barhuk both claimed the right of inheritance. Rather than choose between them, the Dumar decided to summon a Council of the Reaches to choose a new Dar. On the day before the announcement, Albiana commanded the warriors to imprison the entire Dumar as traitors to the Monarchia. Soon afterward, Barhuk chose a life of solitude and contemplation in a monastery, and no one challenged the rise of the first Darina in the history of Vasyllia.

From “A Child’s History of Vasyllia”

(Old Tales, Book I)

Chapter 21

Complications

“Highness,” said Sabíana’s trembling maid—she trembled constantly these days— “the representative of the Dumar has been waiting to be admitted for the last hour.”

“Let him wait,” said Sabíana, not raising her eyes from her scribbling. They all think too much of themselves, these third-reachers, she thought.

There had been nothing but complaints from the rich ever since she mandated that every citizen of Vasyllia donate their food and clothing stores to the refugees now camped in the second reach. She knew what this man would say to her. More complaints, more bitterness. More insinuations that had she been a man, things would not be so dire.

Her nib cracked under her hand. She cursed. She had no more quills. With a reluctant sigh, she looked at her maid.

“Let him in.”

To her surprise, it was not Yadovír, whom she expected. It was Elder Pahomy of the warrior seminary. She stiffened. Battle with the old warrior required tact as well as forcefulness.