“I told you only a part of the story. It is true that humans and Sirin can ascend all the way to the Heights of Aer through the seven baptisms of fire. The other orders of creation also have that privilege. Through every baptism, they transfigure, losing more and more of the old, and becoming gradually something new. But true transfiguration is a painful process that can take entire lifetimes.”

He stopped, then began to whisper, his eyes screwed up in concentration, as he had a silent conversation with himself. After coming to a decision—punctuated by a vigorous nodding of his head and a hard slap on his knee—he hugged himself, crossed one leg over another, and looked at a point somewhere to the right and above Voran’s head.

“Have you heard of the concept of universal harmony? No? No, I don’t suppose philosophy is much taught in the seminary these days. Pity. Anyway…” he coughed twice and breathed sharply in through the nose. “The world, as intended by the Lord of the Realms, is like music. Every voice—that is, every reasoning creature—must sing its assigned part for the song to sound well. That may sound limiting, as though the notes that determine the fate of the world have already been written, but that is not quite the truth. There is a great deal of room for improvisation, as long as harmony is maintained throughout. Thus, the low voices must not break the flow of the high, so that each moment is a beautiful chord. Do you understand so far?”

“Yes, and I think I can see where you are going with this.”

“I doubt that,” said Tarin, grinning widely before assuming his previous faraway expression. “Try to imagine that one of the voices improvised wildly, beyond the scope of the harmony. What would result?”

“The music would be jarring and ugly.”

“Precisely. Now, what if not one voice, but many would simultaneously break the harmony to seek their own melodies.”

“The noise would be horrible.”

“Perhaps. Or, if they were very talented and attuned to each other, they could make a new, strange, different music. Do you see?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, something like this happened. Transfiguration is a gift given from the Heights to those who ascend. But some creatures were weary of waiting, and tried to ascend themselves. They found ways of changing their physical form, thereby gaining some of the higher realms by stealth, not by virtue.”

“Like the changers of Nebesti lore, yes? The stone I saw turn into a wolf-man in the forest.”

“You encountered one of those and lived to tell the tale? You are strangely lucky, Voran. Yes, the changers are lower orders of such creatures. Their masters were originally High Beings who willingly combined their natures into a single being, shedding their personal existence to become an amalgamated High Being of tremendous power. This chimaera then stormed the Heights of Aer with an army of changers, intending to seize control of the Realms.”

“The Raven,” Voran whispered, his skin prickly and cold.

“Yes, that is one of its names. This abomination appeared lordly and beautiful, and many other beings were tempted to follow him. But the Heights’ retribution was swift and terrible. The changers and the Raven were stripped of their original forms, which they had shed so lightly, and they were left as beings of pure will. The now formless ones realized the agony of being formless, the agony of infinite desire, infinite will without the power of fulfilling infinite desire, of bringing that will into action.

“They wandered as their hunger increased. The Raven gathered them to himself, having found a way to allay the hunger temporarily. Whenever a creature of the lower orders—human, Sirin, Alkonist, Mujestva, Vila, Serpent, or many others—was tempted to follow the Raven and his horde, the formless ones found a way to possess their forms. But their hunger was so great that they quickly devoured every form they assumed, and still their hunger grew. That is the Raven’s power.”

“But what would possibly tempt anyone to follow such a monster?”

“His cunning is old, and he lies very well. He is a master of gathering power to himself, and he often allows his allies the fulfillment of their most cherished desires and dreams before he devours them. And he is a chimaera. He enjoys wearing the form of a creature of Light. It is his most effective weapon. He can afford to give much to his followers, even things that are initially good, because he inevitably devours all his children.”

“That is why he seeks the weeping tree, is it not?” asked Voran, the terror growing. “Living Water is a healer. He thinks it will give him a permanent form.”

“So the legends say. Permanent and immortal form, yes.”

Voran jumped up and threw the cup of tea to the earth, shattering it.

“Then why do you persist in keeping me here? If the Raven finds the Living Water, it is not merely Vasyllia that will fall, it is everything! All the Realms!”

Tarin remained immobile and calm, though his voice sharpened to a knife’s edge. “Have you not considered, dear boy, that because of your association with the hag, the Raven might be trying to use you to find the Living Water?”

All of Voran’s bluster evaporated in an instant, as cherished hope after cherished hope collapsed in a heap near the shards of earthenware at his feet.

“You have declared the kind of war that takes no prisoners,” said Tarin. “And you are not ready to fight it. If you were to be found alone by the enemy, you would not be destroyed, no. You would succumb to the Raven. You would become his creature in a heartbeat. If you do not believe me now, I fear you will soon enough. You need a guide, a master, until the moment when you can so guard your thoughts and inner movements of the heart that not even a stray intention will escape that can aid the enemy.”

“Is that why you call me Raven Son?” Voran asked, his voice hardly more than a whimper.

Tarin fell on his knees before the standing Voran and extended his arms outward—the traditional gesture of a supplicant. Amazement gripped Voran at the sight.

“Voran, my son,” he said, and his voice broke. “Do you not know that when I took you from the hag, I took upon myself your suffering, your pain? I feel everything you do. Every doubt that pains you, every wound that ails you pierces me as though it were my own. I call you Raven Son because that is what you must never become. Raven, the color deeper than black, is a color for the fallen sons, not the sons of light.”

Voran couldn’t halt his own tears. He leaned down to embrace the old warrior, feeling something he never thought he would feel again—pain and sorrow and joy like fire. He had found another father.

Tarin tensed like a bowstring at its breaking point.

“Voran, did you hear that?”

It was faint, but unmistakable. Something growled outside Tarin’s window.

Trust in the Heights with all your heart; lean not on your own understanding.

The wisdom of men is madness with the Heights; the wisdom of the divine is inscrutable to mortals.

Above all things, guard the ways to your heart and sow its pathways with divine seeds, so that the thoughts of your heart sprout the wisdom of faith.

In the vale of the dark shadows, seek the guiding star of trust in the Most High.

From “The Wisdom of Lassar the Blessed”

(The Sayings, Book I, 15:4-9)

Chapter 28

The Funeral

Sabíana was swathed in furs and warmed somewhat by the braziers in each corner of the stone gazebo. Built near the altar of the Grove of Mysteries, it was almost completely concealed from the view of the people in the Temple. She had been here, trying to contemplate in peace, for the whole night.

One of the guards hiding behind the redbarks sneezed. Elder Pahomy, standing by her side, sighed in exasperation.

So much for the secret guard, thought Sabíana with a smile.

She had been against it, fearing that any public display of protection, however secretive, would only play into the conspirators’ hands. She wanted to show her people that she feared nothing, that there was nothing to fear. But the unexpected treachery of Kalún convinced her to listen to Elder Pahomy’s suggestions. Twenty of the best seminary men, fully armed, hid among the trees.

“Elder Pahomy,” she said, turning to him. She was sick of trying to concentrate. It was useless. “Tell me. Do you think Yadovír was complicit in Kalún’s treachery?”

“Yes, I do, Highness.”

She sighed.

“You do see what a position I’m in, don’t you?”

Elder Pahomy spread his arms out in an apologetic gesture. “I do, Highness.”

She was momentarily annoyed by his prescience.