She swooped over him, nicking his arm with her tail. The wound bubbled and burned. Tarin grabbed him and pushed him forward with a cry. Voran grasped the old sword and ran at the diving serpent. She evaded his slash and battered him with iron-clawed wings. Again and again he faced her. Again and again she eluded him, punishing him for every miss with another slash of her tail. Soon the ground was black with his blood.
But with every new wound, his old strength, his old freedom clawed its way back, even as his vision began to swim and his arms sagged with fatigue.
The serpent landed as Voran tottered. She slithered toward him, one of her heads reaching forward ahead of the other, eager to deliver the death-stroke. But the other head would not be outdone. It opened its jaw and buried its fangs in the other head, just as it was about to lunge at Voran. The bitten head jerked and thrashed, beating the ground spasmodically. The other head then lunged at Voran, but now he was prepared. With a quick feint, he lured the head forward, leaning back at the last moment. He hacked once, and the head lolled, still half-attached. He kicked the neck aside and hacked again. The head fell away, spraying turbid blood. The bitten head writhed, then stopped.
Tarin laughed until tears poured down his cheeks. He embraced Voran—heedless of all the blood—and danced around him, holding Voran all the while. He kissed his cheeks three times. The Alkonist were nowhere to be seen.
“Well, the first step is taken, Raven Son. How many more until your chains come clanging off? We shall see, we shall see. Come along now.”
“Tarin, how long have I been here?”
“Over a month, my Voran. It’s deep winter in Vasyllia. Spring is not far coming.”
Voran collapsed into Tarin’s arms, his legs giving way under him. His hands trembled, and he could not control them. Tarin held him fast as he carried him to the bank of the river. He washed his wounds tenderly. Barely conscious, Voran felt relief as pleasant as a day-long thirst quenched. His eyelids drooped. As they closed, he saw the kestrel on Tarin’s shoulder chattering insistently. Tarin smiled.
“Silly bird. He wants you to know that Sabíana misses you. She told you to hurry back.”
The story begins from the grey, from the brown, from the chestnut-colored horse. On the sea, on the ocean, on the island of Varian—a baked bull stands with a pounded onion. In the side of the bull, there’s a sharpened knife. Now, pull out the knife. It’s time to eat! This is still not the story, but only the pre-story. If anyone listens to my story, he will receive a sable and a marten coat, a beautiful wife, one hundred gold coins for his wedding, and fifty silvers more for the party!
From the traditional pre-story of all tales
(Old Tales, Book I)
Chapter 18
The Sore
Mirnían took his place among the villagers for the first time on the day after his healing, standing among them as their equal in the central square. Otar Svetlomír was the first to embrace him with tears in his eyes, then every other member of the village followed suit. Soft snowflakes fell throughout this almost ritual greeting, steaming on his new skin.
“With the blessing of Otar Svetlomír,” said Mirnían, raising his voice for all to hear. “I hereby announce my intention to marry the Lady Lebía, daughter of Otchigen of Vasyllia.”
All the old women raised their hands to their mouths and laughed, shedding their years in their joy. The children danced around the couple, chanting their names to the rhythm of their feet.
“Ladies!” cried Otar Svetlomír. “Are you waiting for my invitation? Get on with it!”
Mirnían felt his eyes grow wider as every single woman in the crowd surrounded him and pushed him away from Lebía. The younger ones did it while laughing hysterically. The old women—some without a single tooth in their head—sang:
“Away, away! Avert your eyes,
The sacred distance don’t despise
For now’s the time the bride must die
To all her past. Cry, nightingale, cry!”
They turned him until his head spun and he fell. At that, they chittered like birds and gave him his space. Then they descended on Lebía like a swarm of bees.
“Cry, nightingale, cry!” They sang. “Cry, nightingale, cry!”
Lebía tossed off her heavy fur. Underneath, she wore a white dress. In the light of the winter sun, she was blinding.
Mirnían had to turn away.
“Oh, my single braid, my single braid!” someone sang with a voice like the last songbird in winter. Mirnían sighed involuntarily. It was Lebía. Where did she learn to sing like that?
“Is it time for my braid to be split?” Lebía keened, almost wailing. “Is it time to part from my father’s house?”
At that, she tottered and stopped. She looked ready to fall over. Mirnían’s heart plunged. Of course. Lebía had not had a father in years.
All the young ladies encircled her, their arms entwined. They picked up her song, and Lebía came back to life.
“It is not time yet, nightingale.
Your braid is single still…”
Two young men picked Mirnían up and hoisted him on their shoulders.
At that, the children cheered.
“Wash, wash!” they called. “Wash away the old life, bring to life the new!”
Two more men picked up Lebía and brought her near to Mirnían.
“Now is the time for the last word,” said Otar Svetlomir, chanting. “You will no longer speak until the fateful day. Choose wisely.”
“The lady first,” said Mirnían, remembering the words of the rite.
Lebía looked at him for a long time. She did not even blink. Her presence grew inside him until it was too large to fit in his heart, and his heart seemed to grow. Then it was too large for his chest. He was sure he would burst.
