“Really, Voran, you are so morbid. Not everything in the world is out to kill you or eat you, you know. I can’t help it if I am desirable to such as you.”

He guffawed, though his stomach still churned from the thoughts he was trying to beat back from his conscious mind—images of white flesh and red lips.

“What do you want?” He spat in her direction. The spittle froze before it reached the ground.

“I want what you want. The right thing to happen. I want you to go on your quest, to find the weeping tree, to heal Vasyllia, and to live happily ever after.”

“No, you do not. You want something else.”

“Why do you men always think every woman desires them? Could I not want something simply because it is the right thing to do?”

She sounded sincere enough, but the moon did not provide enough light to test the truth of her eyes.

“What are you suggesting?” he asked.

“I am a bearer through the levels, like the white stag. I can take you to the weeping tree in a heartbeat.”

“How?”

“Well,” she looked away like a demure maid, and he thought she blushed, “I am not a beast you can simply ride. I am a creature of love and passion. You would have to bed me, properly. That is my only way of passage.”

Voran laughed. “I knew there would be a fee.”

She slapped the branch like a petulant three-year-old. “It’s not my fault. I’m a rusalka. It’s what I am. I merely give you a choice to fulfill your vocation.”

“You offer me a way back to my love by taking it from me?”

She tossed her hair back in a parody of an elegant lady’s gesture. “I am basically a goddess, anyway, Voran. Your princess can’t hold it against you if you are bedded by a goddess.”

He shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. He didn’t like to admit it, but it was a tempting offer.

“Go away,” he said. “If I need you, I will call for you.”

“That is really all I wanted from you, dear little thing. Was that so hard?”

She was gone, and the place where she had been was nothing more than an oddly shaped branch illumined by the moon into the semblance of human shape. Had he dreamed it all? He returned to bed and was asleep again in moments, this time dreamless.

“Up, up, you ass!”

The daily wakeup call was more joyful this morning, to Voran’s surprise. Gold dust was suspended above his head, caught by the sun’s ray, turning softly as if dancing to an unheard tune.

“Come, Raven Son. Look what you’ve done!”

Normally, Voran would have cringed at his words, expecting a fresh round of pointless work. But the joy in them—a child’s undiluted outpouring—was obvious. Voran heard thumping outside. It seemed Tarin was dancing in the snow.

Then Voran saw the reason for Tarin’s excitement, and all tiredness fell from him like molting skin. The field—despite the snow, despite the cold, despite the stones—was covered in strong, green shoots reaching up to Tarin’s knees. Turnips. Voran laughed, and Tarin laughed with him.

For the first time since they arrived almost a month ago, Voran had a day of rest. Tarin himself harvested the black turnips—each as big as a melon—and stored them in the third shack. He sang and screeched a litany of birdcalls and growls and whines and whistles, as if practicing his varied knowledge of animal languages.

Then he fell silent for hours, a silence almost impossible to bear. Not that it was empty. On the contrary, there was too much uncomfortable presence in the silence, as though Tarin was bracing for something wonderful or terrible that would happen very soon. Voran hoped that meant they would be leaving soon. He had no desire to force the issue with Tarin, especially since his only way of leaving the Lows seemed to be a half-crazy drowned girl with improper designs on him.

That evening, the smoke rising from Tarin’s small roof-hole was scented with pine. Voran’s heart gamboled like a child. They were having tea again. Perhaps this was a sign of important conversations to come. The invitation came as soon as the sun went down.

Tarin’s table was laden with two old radishes and a black turnip, still steaming from the boil—a veritable feast. The same two earthenware bowls were already filled with resin-thick black tea. Voran’s mouth watered.

“A good day today, Raven Son. An occasion. And we have been working hard. A bit of a chat will do us both some good. Don’t let the bow get too stretched, you know? It might crack, and then what good would all the arrows be?”

Voran chuckled. It was exactly the kind of thing Dar Antomír used to say in the old days.

“But I can answer your first question even before you ask it. No, it is not yet time for us to seek the weeping tree.”

Voran’s heart sank, along with all the pleasant sensations of the previous moments. The turnip turned hard; the radish was peppery; the tea faded to ash in his mouth. A storm threatened somewhere in the back of his head, but it was still distant enough for him to remain calm. For now.

“There was something that made me wonder,” said Voran. “The Alkonist. They are higher beings than both humans and Sirin, yes? But they seem just as susceptible to vice. If they are higher, should they not be also… more virtuous?”

Tarin’s expression soured, as though his tea was too tart. “That is a very simple way of imaging the world, Raven Son. It sounds like you see the hierarchy of the world’s levels as a great ladder, the earth on the bottom and the Heights of Aer on top, with Adonais’s throne somewhere in the clouds.”

Voran wisely kept silent, though the invitation to comment was there. Tarin looked pleased.

“The world is not like that, Voran. It is difficult to find a good analogy, but I imagine it is something like this. When you peel an onion, eventually you reach the smallest layer and the golden middle, yes? Well, imagine that instead of getting smaller, the onion gets bigger every time you peal a layer.”

“The middle would be infinitely great,” said Voran, unable to contain his eagerness. Tarin looked as though he were considering boxing his ears.

“Yes, precisely. The earth is the outer layer of the onion, and only to the external appearance is it the largest layer. Every deeper layer is more complex and greater. But it does not end there. Each layer is not whole, but porous, like a good cheese, and the layers of reality in those places fold in on each other.”

“That is why there are doorways to the other levels, such as the Lows, yes?”

Tarin nodded. “As for the Alkonist and the Lows of Aer, although technically speaking the Lows are higher up, that only means that there are fewer places for evil to hide. Earth is a realm of shadow. Evil hides better here than in the Lows, but that does not mean there is less evil in the Lows. Does that answer your question?”

Voran nodded. “But inspires new ones, of course.” He smiled sheepishly, and Tarin laughed, giving Voran enough encouragement to ask again.

“When I walked with the Pilgrim, I was able to cover great distances of space and, I think, time, by crossing the boundary between the earth and the Lows on the white stag. Is it possible to cross the boundary when the bearer is on the same side as you are?”

“Crossing the layers on a bearer is extremely dangerous, Voran. Effectively, you are ripping a new hole in the barrier between the worlds. Every time you do that, you give access to the evil things that seek the shelter of earth’s shadows. Even the most powerful use such means only sparingly. And no, bearing only works if the two are on opposite sides of reality. I do not know why. I think it is a natural defense mechanism, something to discourage easy passage to and fro.”

Voran was amazed at his master’s volubility. He hurried to press his advantage. Who knew when he would be so chatty again?

“The Raven,” said Voran. “I want to know what his power is. Why is he so dangerous?”

Tarin harrumphed with a rueful smile. “If only more would ask that question, Voran. Things would be much better in the world. Recall the story of the bear cub that I told the children. The hunger for killing that seemed to possess it, turning it into a monster? That is an effective illustration of the Raven’s power. He is endless, ravenous hunger—for self-ness, for acquisition of power over others, for pleasures. He eats everything in his path. If there were nothing left in the world, he would end up eating himself.

“Do you remember when I mentioned transfiguration?”

Voran nodded.