Yadovír was so surprised by what he saw that he nearly forgot to be afraid for a few moments. Campfires surrounded them, some with no people around them, which Yadovír found strange. From all sides, he heard the sound of pounding hammers and harsh words. Logs were dragged back and forth, and he noticed a good number of the Gumiren constructing siege towers fitted with rough, wooden wheels. Yadovír was surprised that the Gumiren were intent on storming the city in winter.

Everywhere, he smelled horseflesh and feces and sour milk. Goats and sheep roamed freely among the men. He was momentarily distracted by the loud braying of a bull, and he turned to look. Immediately, he wished he had not, though he found himself fascinated in spite of himself. Five of the Gumiren lay a bull on its back and held it down as it thrashed. One of them slashed its chest and belly open so quickly, even the bull was surprised. Yadovír expected a spray of blood, but saw nothing. They held the bull until it stopped shuddering. Then they turned it over, and all the blood was collected in wooden basins lying in wait underneath.

“For sausages,” said one of the torch-bearers in a surprisingly friendly tone.

“Blood sausages?” Yadovír tried not to sound as revolted as he felt.

“Yes, very good!” said the Gumir.

Several men milked horses. Yadovír was disgusted, but then he realized that by bringing mares, the Gumiren had a nearly limitless supply of milk and cheese on the war path. Grudgingly, he admired their intelligence. He continued to look around, trying to understand these strange enemies better. There were few quarrels, to his surprise. Other than the constant barking out of orders, the predominant noise was laughter. Many sat by campfires joking in their rat-a-tat tongue. Some wrestled goodheartedly with each other as the others cheered. They did not seem like the killing force that had razed Nebesta to the ground.

Then he saw the Vasylli prisoners—all of them men. Hundreds of them, mostly tied back to back and thrown in heaps on the edge of the camp, just far enough from the fires not to freeze to death. It chilled him even as it confused him. What was the use of keeping all these prisoners? The possibilities were frightening, and ruefully he admitted that this was no common enemy. These were experts at total war. Several large mounds of earth lay beyond the prisoners, probably burial mounds for the dead Gumiren who fell when the Vasylli took back Dubían’s body. It reminded Yadovír that the Gumiren were still human, for all their prowess in war, and the thought gave him strength.

The leader stopped by the prisoners and said something to the six torchbearers. Two of them seized Yadovír and Kalún and tied them up back to back, pushing them down next to the other prisoners.

“What are you doing?” said Yadovír, heart and mind racing. “We have an arrangement!”

The leader laughed and said something in his tongue. The rest of them laughed and one kicked Yadovír. He fell over and his head landed on a rock.

Otchigen’s eyes opened, and their color was Voran’s. Sabíana shuddered, but kept quiet. He looked at Sabíana in some confusion, then recognition warmed his eyes.

“You’ve grown so beautiful, Sabíana,” he said, his voice a rasp, nothing like the booming voice that used to be. “But your beauty brings no warmth. How unlike your father you are.”

His words were not bitter, but strangely expressionless. It gave no foothold to her anger, which annoyed her.

“What happened to me?” he asked.

“I was going to ask you the same thing, Otchigen. How is it that you appear in the nether regions of the palace in the middle of a siege?”

He struggled to remember, it seemed to her. He shook his head.

“You do not remember?”

He shook his head again. “Did you say Vasyllia is besieged?”

She didn’t know what to think. Silence groped from him like heat from a fire, and Sabíana found herself entranced by his still undeniable presence.

“She disappeared,” he said, his breath ragged, his eyes glazing over. He seemed half-delirious. “On a day unmatched for brilliance and warmth, she vanished without a trace. My wife, my life-giving spring, my rock. What was I to do? I could not be without her. I left and wandered. Blank, faded years. Memories…bleaker than the wastes of the far downs…”

Sabíana was entranced, drinking in even the silences between his words. No wonder the people loved him, she thought. No wonder my father loves him.

“I never found her,” he continued. “Only rumors in lands where untamed forces twist men’s minds into shapes of horror. No, I do not want to remember.” He panted, and his face was spotted with red. “I heard that she had gone mad, that she was taken by men who would use her for her beauty. I never heard or found anything more. I was half-mad with hunger and grief. I am still mad, I think. Then, nothing. Somehow, I ended up here in your bed. Thank you, Sabíana.”

At the unexpected thanks, she felt herself redden. She turned away, eager to be freed of his enticing influence. This was not the playful Otchigen who used to wrestle with her and Mirnían in the tall grass, to the shock of their prim chaperones. This man had suffered, so much was clear, but he was too self-possessed for someone who had descended into madness. There was something indescribably alluring about him. It made Sabíana long to give up her self-control. This man could be an incredible Dar, she thought, then wondered why she had thought it.

She felt nauseous at the thought. He says nothing about the Karila embassy, she reminded herself, forcing herself to be calm. She failed and rushed out of the room in a confusion of scattered thoughts and emotions.

I will come, I will come

I will come to the Dar’s City

I will beat down, I will beat down,

With my spears the city’s wall!

I will roll out, I will roll out

The barrels from the treasury.

I will gift, I will gift

Them to my father-in-law.

Be kind to me, my father-in-law,,

As is my own dear father…

Vasylli wedding song

Chapter 22

The Wedding

Nearly two months after the rescue of the pilgrims, the eve of the wedding arrived.

Three aspens stood in the center of the village, alight with lanterns. A life-sized Sirin carved from birchwood adorned the top of the center tree. All of Ghavan Town assembled in a circle around the trees, and steamed breath rose up in tendrils entwining with the smoke from the candles in their hands. The women sang, their joy enough to banish the cold to the outer fringes of the village. But Mirnían shook from miserable cold, and he was ready to fall asleep on his feet from exhaustion.

They had been standing vigil for four hours already, Otar Svetlomír doing his best to keep everyone awake with his dynamic voice and inspired manner of serving. The vigil would last for at least another three hours. Mirnían felt guilty, in spite of all his rational objections to this ancient rite. Every person he looked at was on fire from within. Even the children were still awake, their cheeks pink and their eyes sparkling. As for him, he could barely prevent the snores before they erupted from his throat. He berated himself. Why can you not stay awake, even for a service performed for the sake of you and your beloved?

So he stood, and gradually the inner grumbling stilled. Yet he remained apart from the rest, especially Lebía.

Otar Svetlomír approached Lebía and took her by the hand. To the accompaniment of a rhythmical chant in the women’s voices, he led her around the trees three times. The children, who had been waiting for this moment for hours, began to ring small handbells handed out before the service. The sound was chaotic and wonderful. Lebía smiled, but tears ran down her cheeks.

Mirnían remained cold, both in body and in heart. He wished with all his strength to include himself in the joy of the village, to foretaste the pleasure of tomorrow’s wedding, but his emotions were dull, like a bell cracked from excessive use. The sore under his left arm flared, as though mocking him. Whoever said that all mystical experiences are wishful thinking should be publicly flogged, he thought.

The men erupted into a joyful chant, almost a shout. Lebía returned to her place next to him, and Svetlomír took Mirnían’s hand and led him around the trees as well. The bells clanged twice as frantically. One little boy in particular was so red-faced with the exertion of wringing every possible ounce of sound from his bell that Mirnían was afraid he would faint.

Their joy was palpable, obvious. Mirnían could almost smell it, it was so intense. Still it remained outside his reach. He tried to stop himself, but he blamed Voran, as he so often did these days. Surely the hag’s curse was still on him in some way, even after Lebía’s incredible healing.

“Bless them as you blessed Cassían and Cassiana,” intoned Otar Svetlomír, nearly dancing in his ecstasy. “Bless them as you blessed Lassar and Dagana. May their union be a fruitful joining of Heights and earth. May their children bring healing to our land.”

“So be it!” exclaimed the women, all of whom were trying to keep a reverently serious expression on their faces, but failing miserably.

“Honor their petitions, Adonais. Hear their requests!”

Lebía gathered her furs and placed them carefully before her, then knelt on them gingerly, trying to avoid the snow with her clothing. She closed her eyes, her mouth moving in quick whispers, her eyebrows trembling. He did not deserve this perfect creature. Mirnían fell on his face before the tree.