“You can be useful, yes. I agree. I do not think it will be conceding too much to tell you that I have been disappointed in a line of attack I was sure would work. No matter. You provide me with a different opportunity. I am sure you will be happy to oblige. Yes, my little rat?”

The Raven extended outward in flame and fury. The eyes turned yellow with a pit of black fire; the back expanded into billows of brown smoke like jagged raven wings. A clawed arm whipped out and picked up Yadovír by the scruff—a bird of prey dangling a rat before swallowing it. A foul stench filled his nose, and he began to dry heave.

“I accept your bargain,” said the Raven.

Yadovír fainted into the stench and blood and smoke, pursued into the darkness by the face of Kalún and his surprised eyes.

When Yadovír awoke, he was in his own room back in Vasyllia, shaking in a pool of his own sweat. A rotting stink permeated the room. He tried to find the source of the smell—perhaps a mouse had died in the walls? —then realized that he was the source. The stench came from inside him.

Elder Pahomy chewed his lip; Rogdai shook his head as his eyebrows furrowed deep into his head, threatening to dig into the soft matter underneath. They both avoided looking at her, instead inspecting every possible detail of the map laid out on the table in her private chambers. Sabíana’s impatience loomed over them all like a twisting snake’s head, poised to strike at the first sign of the prey’s lapse in attention.

“Well, my lords? I ask you again? Is it as bad as I think it is?”

Finally, Elder Pahomy answered. “It is worse, my lady. We do not have the force to dislodge this siege, and our stores are already thinning. The imprisonment of the traitors, though necessary, is vastly unpopular among the people with influence in Vasyllia.”

“Not merely that,” said Rogdai, scratching the back of his head, his eyes wide. “The Gumiren have built siege towers of amazing complexity. They could use them at any moment, even in winter, but now they have stopped. There is nothing stirring their camp. Silence. Enough to drive us to madness.”

“Or they simply wait for us to destroy ourselves from within,” said Sabíana and sighed. She had come to rely a great deal on the opinions of only two men. It was a dangerous trust she placed on them. I have no choice, she reminded herself through the pain of her ever-clenched jaw.

“There is one option we have not yet considered,” said Rogdai, though he did not look confident in his own idea. “Escape.”

“Are you mad?” Elder Pahomy looked personally offended at the suggestion.

“Why not? I see two possibilities—one, a spear thrust through the enemies…”

“You would sacrifice most of our fighting force to do that,” growled Elder Pahomy, his jowls quivering with anger, “and it may not even work then. We do not know the full number of this enemy.”

“Or we may cross over the summit and flee over the back of the mountain.”

Sabíana gasped, then felt the blush creep up. There was an ancient, traditional taboo about climbing Mount Vasyllia, though now that she thought of it, she could not call to mind a single good reason for it.

“Why not?” she asked, directing her gaze at Elder Pahomy.

He sighed. “Old superstitions die hard, I suppose.”

She smiled at him. “For my part, I think crossing the summit in winter would be inviting disaster. How many of us would survive? And where would we go? For all we know, even Karila is destroyed.”

“If that is our people’s only chance of survival,” said Rogdai, “why not set out farther east, toward the Steppelands? Or West, to the deserts and beyond.”

“I do not know why,” she said, “but I have a strong feeling that Vasyllia must not be abandoned to this enemy. It is stronger than a mere sense; it is almost a compulsion.”

“I agree with you, Highness,” said Elder Pahomy, and for the first time she heard respect in his voice.

The door slammed open, and in flew a mass of silver robes billowing about a thin figure hidden somewhere in their midst. It fell at the feet of Sabíana. Rogdai lifted it, none too gently. It was Yadovír.

“Oh, my lady,” he finally said. “It’s…unspeakable. Otar Kalún’s body has been found at the gates of Vasyllia. It’s rumored that he was murdered by the Gumiren for trying to strike a deal with them to save his own skin.”

A novice came into the monastery. He knocked on the door, begging for admittance. The abbot came to the door, looked at him, and shut the door in his face. The next day, the novice was still there, begging for admittance. The abbot came to the door, looked at him, and shut the door in his face. On the third day, the same happened. And the fourth. And the fifth. On the tenth, the abbot came to the door, looked at him, and opened the door. The novice entered.

From “The Paterikon of the Great Coenobium”

(The Sayings, Book III, 4:8-11)

Chapter 25

The Warrior of the Word

A week of traveling the marshes satisfied even Voran’s appreciation for their beauties. He and Tarin now seemed to be beyond the knowledge of any people whatsoever. The only inhabitants of these lands were the many animals—rabbits, foxes, wolves, deer, and elk with antlers like young trees. None of these paid Voran any attention, but every one of them met Tarin personally, a friend returned from long travels. The wolves in particular greeted him with high-pitched yelps, no more than friendly dogs to all appearances, though if Voran was foolish enough to extend a hand too close to any of them, the fangs were quick to flash. Tarin enjoyed them immensely, loping on all fours with them, his tongue lolling out absurdly.

They still walked day and night, but Voran grew accustomed to gathering enough strength during their short morning rests to last him the whole day. Despite the poverty of the village, Tarin didn’t refuse their gifts of food. It was enough to feed an army. Voran understood: refusing such gifts, given freely, would have been worse than stealing from starving children. Such was the hospitality of Vasyllia as it used to be.

How far have we fallen, thought Voran with a pang.

Though Voran now bore four packs instead of two—two were filled with rocks as punishment for his insubordination—Tarin allowed him to carry the sword, and leaning on it provided some support. Secretly, Voran was grateful to Tarin. The hag’s ravages had left Voran rail-thin and weak, and though he was not gaining much flesh, his muscles grew wiry like a horse’s.

It was a sword like its master—not much to look at, old, tarnished, but impossible to break. Unlike every sword made in Vasyllian smithies these days, it had no fanciful decorations, no etchings on the blade, no jewels on the hilt. Only one strange sign—something between a flame and a feather, or maybe some amalgamation of both—was stamped in the place where the thumb gripped, as though it were a reminder of something.

“Lord Tarin,” said Voran as they made an unusual stop in the early evening. “This mark on the hilt. Does it mean anything?”

At first Voran was sure Tarin would answer as the lunatic, but it seemed Tarin had a last-minute change of heart. “Have you heard of the Warriors of the Word?” he asked in a voice remarkable only for its normality.

Something warm and pleasant stirred in Voran’s memory. The piney smell of morning fog. The thrill of hiding all night in the burial grounds. The sting of young nettles on hands and ankles, and the white spots on the skin that burned and burned. Morning sprints through dewey fields, the wet rising up the leg with every step.

“Of course,” said Voran, smiling in spite of himself. “Every boy pretends to be a Warrior of the Word in childhood. The games are quite elaborate, and the stories are always the most colorful and strange.”

“They are not stories,” said Tarin.

“You are a Warrior of the Word?” Voran laughed, thinking Tarin was again playing the madman, but Tarin remained still and serious, until Voran’s laugh subsided awkwardly. “You can’t be. They’re legendary, like the sleeping-woods and the…” Voran felt himself turning red.

Tarin smiled, and it was warm, like a father’s. “Yes, it does take some time to come to terms with the legendary, I’ll grant you that. There are few of us left. None in Vasyllia. We were established by Lassar at the very beginning, you know, but always have we been consigned to the shadows. Those youths who show enough spirit are whisked away for the training at night, and though their parents know, everyone else is told stories of sudden illness and early death. You would be surprised at how many graves in old Vasyllia are empty.”

“Why the secrecy?”

“Because of the nature of evil, Voran.”

Tarin busied himself about making a fire, and Voran knew now was not the time to continue speaking, though he buzzed with excitement at having a childhood dream come true. He hurried to be useful, gathering dry moss and twigs for the kindling, but Tarin immediately threw out most of it as unsuitable.

“Get me some dry birch-bark,” Tarin said as he pulled out an old flint and a char-cloth from a tinderbox of wrought iron, garishly decorated in a flowing script that Voran couldn’t read.

After the fire had caught, Tarin began to dig in one of the packs. He pulled out two chipped earthenware bowls and placed them on the ground. Reaching into a pouch on his belt, he pulled out a brown rag, much-used, unrolled it, and took some dried leaves with his thumb and forefingers, rubbing under his nose. Even from across the fire, Voran could smell the earthy smokiness. Tea.

Voran never had a better cup of tea, not for the rest of his life.

“I suppose, since you’ve gotten me to say so much, you may as well try your luck with more questions, Raven Son.” Tarin’s eyes smiled, though his face remained serious. He cupped the bowl in dirty hands, resting his elbows on his knees, seeming to absorb the tea’s warmth with his whole body. Voran hastened to do the same. It seeped lazy comfort into his aching body.

“You said that the nature of the Warriors of the Word has something to do with the nature of evil.”