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.”
“I cannot leave Vasyllia, Pilgrim,” said Sabíana. “I cannot leave my father.”
The Pilgrim smiled, and his face brightened and he became young, his wrinkles smoothing into the face of a beautiful youth, a face that shone white. His robes were gold like the sun.
“You are indomitable, Sabíana. Perhaps I am wrong. Vasyllia may yet survive, with the Black Sun at her head.”
He was gone.
“Sabíana?” said the Dar, waking up. “Oh, thank Adonais! I was so worried for you.”
“Father, my poor father.” She had not seen him this wasted away. He looked like an old man playing the part of the Dar on one of the market-day spectacles. She wanted with all her heart to cry, to comfort and to be comforted, but she had made the choice. She must be iron and stone.
“Yes, my love.” He laughed softly and coughed. “I am at the doorstep, so to speak. I’ve always wondered if Death was a man or a woman. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough.”
“Father.” Her voice sounded harsh to her ears. “The Pilgrim has gone. He asked to be remembered to you. He leaves us with hope.”
“Did he say anything about Voran? About Mirnían?”
Sabíana shook her head.
“I suppose we must continue to hope, even when darkness falls. My dear, you must prepare yourself. Soon you will wear the crown. I do not think I will live out the week. I am so tired.”
“Sleep, my dear,” she said, feeling strangely motherly toward him. “I am ready. Sleep now. Rest.” She did not, could not cry, though it seemed a violation of her nature to prevent it.
Sabíana remained by his bedside all night. She left when the sky was still dark, but a certain tense watchfulness in the air predicted the coming of dawn. Feeling already burdened beyond what was humanly possible, she went outside, hoping against hope that today the fog would lift—though it had choked Vasyllia for weeks—and the sun would rise.
As she left the palace, she stood before the Covenant Tree. It looked cold and pitiful. To think that this had once been a symbol of Vasyllia’s dominance over the Other Lands! She recoiled from the view and turned away.
Sabíana closed her eyes and let the mist of the falls soak into her hot cheeks and burning eyelids. She saw, even through closed eyes, two red dots approaching her. She opened her eyes to see two firebirds flying toward one of the basins left especially for them to bathe in. Sabíana always loved to see them wash, rare as that sight was. They alighted on the lip of the basin, but as soon as they touched it, they disappeared in a white light, blinding Sabíana. The light didn’t abate, and Sabíana’s eyes adjusted slowly. Something many-colored fluttered and cavorted in the basin. The blur resolved, and Sabíana recognized her. She was one of the Sirin at Dubían’s bier. The one with the feathers dark as twilight.
The Sirin bathed as a bird would, splashing light around her in defiance of the surrounding murk. The effect was like looking through the window of a dark room at the rising of the sun. Sabíana felt a thin filament weaving between her and the Sirin. The Sirin looked at her with eyes like lightning, opened her mouth, and sang.
The weight of the song crushed Sabíana, as though she were pinned down by the full force of both twin waterfalls. But as it washed over her, it lightened her. The heaviness of her father’s sickness, the doubt over Vasyllia’s fate, the fear about her own place as future Darina, the pain of losing Voran—all of it fell away from her. She felt re-forged from within, the impurities burned away by the force of the song. The Sirin stopped, and Sabíana felt light enough to fly to the Heights. Barely evident inside her chest was a soft patter, like another heart, and the faint sense of warmth, like a candle flame.
“My name is Feína, my swan. We are now joined until the Undoing.”
Sabíana remained silent for utter wonder.
“Sabíana, you chose a difficult path, but I will bear it with you. May it be a lessening of the burden on your heart.”
“Feína,” she whispered, feeling no bigger than a child. “It is going to be terrible, is it not?”
The Sirin spread out her wings and looked to the horizon. At that moment, the sun came up for the first time in weeks.
Sabíana rushed to the first reach. It had been walled off for quarantine, its only entrance a black iron gate manned by several armed guards. Sabíana stopped for a moment, wondering if what she planned to do was as mad as her rational mind insisted. But reason had no place here, she told herself, and swallowed her revulsion.
“Open the gates,” she said.
The guards at the gate hesitated. For a moment, Sabíana was sure they would challenge her. She was in the middle of preparing a withering response when they simply turned, opened the gates, and bowed to her. Sabíana walked in. Immediately, the stench beat her back.
The people were teeming, like rats in a gutter. Dogs and children lay together on the road, covered in sores. Mothers rocked babies that cried for milk from withered breasts. Eyes with no hope looked at her, then looked away again. Flies swarmed. Burial mounds poked up everywhere, like cysts on dry skin. Garbage lay interspersed with the half-rotting carcasses of horses and goats. Some children played near the dead animals, apparently unsupervised.
Many, especially the aged, fell at Sabíana’s feet and kissed the hem of her robe. They chattered at her in their own dialect, words interrupted by sobs.
Sabíana’s tears gushed, and it took a good deal of self-control to prevent the sobs from shaking her visibly.
