“Oh, yes. Happily living with a certain red-haired farmer’s daughter in the wilds. She was very fetching, if I say so myself.”

Sabíana saw it. Voran entwined in lust with another woman. Hatred rose up from her depths with the sudden ferocity of a winter blizzard. She looked at Otchigen and spots danced before her eyes. She nearly fainted.

There was bestial hunger in the face of Otchigen.

“Why, Sabíana, you look upset. You did not set your hopes on Voran, did you?”

All pretense had been dropped. This was not Otchigen, but some thing wearing him like a winter coat. And yet, that frightened her less than the visions of pain and blood that danced in her head—all of them variations on the theme of killing Voran.

“Oh, you could kill Voran easily, Sabíana. I know you would like that. For me, it would be a simple thing to arrange. I could do that for you.”

Her vision swam; her thoughts moved like stale molasses. Everything about this seemed dream-like in its simultaneous vividness and indistinctness. Small details took on ridiculous clarity—the ashes fell by the hearth in a floral pattern, the blood pumped through Otchigen’s temple like a wriggling worm, she had a speck of dirt under her third left fingernail. The room looked like it was underwater.

“All you have to do is desire it with all the force of your will. I will make it happen. Go ahead.”

Sabíana tried to look away, but couldn’t. Voran lay on the flagstones at her feet. His eyes were closed; he seemed to be in great pain, his skin pasty and splotched with red in several places; his shirt was open just enough to allow for a quick knife-thrust to the heart.

“Imagine that you are plunging that knife you hold in your hand into Voran’s heart.”

She gasped, sure that he couldn’t possibly have seen the concealed knife.

“How did you know?” she began, her voice sounding groggy, half-drunk to her own ears.

“That you were ready to use that thing on me? You are not as subtle as you imagine, Sabíana.”

Though her mind recoiled from it, the desire to plunge the knife into Voran’s exposed chest uncoiled itself like an adder inside her chest, an adder that had slept her whole life, waiting for this moment. She knew Voran was not actually there, that this was some kind of phantasm conjured by her imagination or by the power that possessed Otchigen’s body. But it no longer mattered. She wanted to kill Voran, and the desire was warm and sweet like too much wine.

“Just do it,” he whispered. “I offer you your heart’s desire. Go ahead. Take the knife, stab him, plunge the knife in.”

An ever-shrinking part of her still felt intense revulsion, but it was too late. Her hand moved up of its own accord, the knife coming out of its concealment like unfolding fangs. Voran’s chest moved up and down steadily with his breath. She thought she could see the thumping of his heart through his ribcage.

“Just a little stab. So little effort, but the pleasure is great, I promise you. Go on.”

“NO!” She screamed and hurled the blade into the hearth. Immediately, Voran dissolved, and the light in the room went dark. Only a glimmer remained among the smoldering logs. Sabíana faced the savage fear weighing on her and willed herself to stare at Otchigen, though she knew he was Otchigen no longer.

The creature was shadowy and black, all darkness and chaos spread out like huge wings, and its eyes burned darker than the darkest black. It did not speak so much as groan like falling boulders. She did not need anyone to tell her that this was the Raven.

“Too late, Sabíana. You’ve let me in.”

The Raven embraced her with wings of shadow and death, and Sabíana choked under their weight and the pressure of the malice bearing down on her.

The door flew open with a crash, and a winged fury of dark blue feathers and ice-grey eyes flew into the room. Faintly Sabíana heard the music of wind whistling through reeds. Time ceased for Sabíana. All that remained was the song—wailing, keening, bursting with ancient power. Feína sang, and each note was a barrage of fire-arrows, a forest of spears, a field of slashing blades. Her wings were a rushing wind of fire, hurtling the song at the Raven. He shrieked in agony and hatred and released Sabíana. It felt like the snapping of twine, and Sabíana fell back.

But Feína was only one Sirin. Despite her song, despite his pain, his wings moved ever closer, choking her. Feína battled on with voice and talon, trying to gouge out the eyes of black flame, but he repulsed her. Her song faltered, faded, and stopped. Her fire turned into shadow. The Raven growled over his two fallen adversaries. Sabíana closed her eyes, ready for death.

A light brighter than the sun shattered the gloom of the Raven, forcing Sabíana’s eyes open. Its edges were red and white flame, curling and twisting like living creatures. The Raven burned from within, and his agony shone out of his eyes like a beacon on a foggy night. A magnificent rose of light and fire swelled and blossomed from inside him, until he was completely engulfed in a writhing pyre that smelled of crushed rose petals. The Raven screamed and dissipated into a foul, swarming mist burned up in the rising fire of the hearth. Soon all that remained was the rose of fire.

“Do not fear, my own Sabíana. Look up.”

Sabíana recognized Feína’s voice, but it was different. What she saw was impossible. Feína was still a Sirin, but a Sirin of flame that filled the entire room with her warmth and soft fragrance. Her every fraction cascaded with kaleidoscopic light, her eyes so effulgent that Sabíana couldn’t look at them directly for more than a few seconds. But somehow Feína seemed more truly a Sirin than ever before.

“Dear Feína, you saved my life! What happened to you?”

“I…Oh, by the Heights! How wonderful!” Her voice was as bracing as the sound of morning trumpets on a cold, clear day of winter. “Sabíana. You saved me. I can see…so much. My Lord, how wrong have we all been!”

“What is the matter? What do you see?”

Feína’s eyes bored into Sabíana. The flame that she had ignited in Sabíana’s heart fluttered and flared. Sabíana wanted to embrace Feína for a mad second, before she remembered Feína was fire. She laughed.

“I cannot put it in words yet, my Sabíana. But know this. What you did by resisting the Raven may have changed the fate of Vasyllia. It may have been a pebble. But sometimes, sometimes pebbles start avalanches.”

There is still hope for Vasyllia. Sabíana nearly collapsed into tears before bracing herself again. I am stone. I am steel.

“I will come to you again soon. Soon.”

A great wheel of fire began to spin about Feína, faster and faster until Sabíana had to look away. Even with her eyes shut, the wheel danced purple and green before her. When she opened her eyes, she was again alone in her warm room, but the sweetness of Feína’s fragrance still wafted in the air, cleansing any vestige of the Raven’s presence. It was only then that she noticed the body of Otchigen near the hearth. He was wasted and drawn, nearly a skeleton, but his dead face was once again his own, and it was finally peaceful.

The Ghan was tense, rubbing his hands together, and Yadovír noticed with disgust that they were nearly black with grease. He also noticed that of all the people at the table, the Ghan alone used a knife to cut his own meat. It lay on a plate next to Yadovír, its handle slippery with the grease from the Ghan’s hand.

Yadovír grabbed the knife. Falling on Kalún, he plunged the knife right into the cleric’s neck, through the silky hairs of his beard. The expression on the priest’s face was one of complete surprise. A horrible gurgle seeped from his throat, and he fell over, dead. His eyes were still wide from astonishment. Yadovír crumpled over to the ground and vomited.

All of the Gumiren stood, hands on the defensive, shoulders tense and ready for attack. Only the Ghan remained seated, not having moved an inch. He took Yadovír by the shoulders, and pulled him back to the table. His eyes were cold and inscrutable.

“You no common man, Yadovír. You make good Gumir. Is sad for me.”

“Sad?” wheezed Yadovír. His face was still warm with the priest’s blood, making him want to retch again and again. “Why sad? I have done a terrible thing for you. I have killed the chief priest of Adonais. Do you not understand what that means?”

“Ghan no fool, Yadovír. I know.”

“Ghan Magai.” Yadovír collected whatever little was left of his self-control and forced his shuddering body to stay still. “Will you agree to my proposal? Do we have a deal?”

“Yes, Ghan agree.”

The emphasis on his title was unmistakable and significant, but Yadovír decided to ignore it.

He sighed, and his whole body sagged with relief. He even began to laugh a little, not yet fully aware of what he had done, though that knowledge stood off in the shadows like a silent predator. The Ghan, however, continued to stare at him with hollow eyes. This was not how Yadovír expected them to seal a bargain.

“Should we not drink to our bargain?” Yadovír smiled, but the utter lack of response from any of the Gumiren chilled him. Then he noticed that the Ghan no longer looked at him, but a little behind him. Confused, he turned around.

It was a feathery, shriveled creature that would have been pitiful, if not for the eyes. They were black, but somehow they glowed with fire—not orange-red, but utterly dark. At that moment, Yadovír understood and despaired. With the desperation came a cold kind of acceptance that stopped the hammering of his heart and began to slow the blood flowing through him. So, this was why the Gumiren seemed to know everything in advance, he thought.

“You are the Raven,” said Yadovír, his voice husky and not his own.

“Ah, a clever one.” The voice was a bestial cackle, something between the wheeze of a sick child and the bark of a dog. “Well, you must have something you wish to tell me if you have gone through all this trouble.” The Raven looked with disgust at the corpse of the priest. “But do hurry. You cannot imagine how hungry I am.”

The words nearly stopped Yadovír’s heart cold, but he forced himself to clear his throat. “I can be useful to you, Raven. I know the ins and outs of the city, and I am well studied in Vasyllian lore. I am an indefatigable worker, and…” As his mind blanked, he felt himself reeling from panic.