She nodded, her eyes half-lidded, assessing him as she spoke. “Among our sisterhood there is one who is apart from us. She is named Gamayun, the Black Sirin. She alone has never felt the fire of soul-bond, for she is set apart, an oracle. Gamayun sings all possible futures, and Gamayun sings invariably of one thing concerning your future. You will meet Voran again, and soon.”
“I can’t trust myself not to kill him.”
“That is why you still have the leprosy on you, though it slumbers, and that is why you alone prevent Ghavan from becoming the hope of Vasyllia.”
He knew it, had known it for a long time, but hearing it from a Sirin gave it the kind of finality that a man condemned to death is sure to feel in the long agony of the blade’s descent to his exposed neck.
“Mirnían, your father is dead.”
He heard the words, and his body involuntarily tensed in anticipation of the inevitable shock, but nothing came.
“Vasyllia?” He asked, his voice hoarse, his throat bone-dry from the cold.
“She still stands, but is besieged. Her fate is no longer yours. At least not for now.”
No. His fate was rooted here, in the fertile earth of Ghavan. The remnant of Vasyllia must flourish. He must find a way to forget Voran. Forgive him? He could not.
“Aína, there is some measure of protection against the Raven here, on this island, is there not?”
She half-nodded. He sighed, relieved of tension he hadn’t realized was there.
“However,” she said, looking back over the town. “You, Mirnían, are outside that protection while you are marked.”
Marked. Would he never be free of some kind of mark? Dar’s son, Sabíana’s brother, heir to Cassían’s throne, beloved of the people…it was tiring. When would he ever be able to be merely Mirnían, to do with himself as he pleased?
“What can I do, Aína?” he asked.
But she was no longer there, if she had been there at all.
“Why do the innocent suffer?” asked Dar Cassían. “Why do the guilty prosper?”
A voice thundered from the heavens.
“When you have given your life to the suffering innocents, then you may ask. Not before.”
From “Dar Cassían and His Daughter”
(Old Tales: Book IV)
Chapter 23
Training
A thin brushstroke of gold painted the tips of the pines on the horizon, but the marshes were already the deep purple of twilight. Achingly close were the wood-smells, the fire-lights, the meal-sounds of the village ahead of them, and yet Tarin remained in maddening stillness on his knees, head bowed, leaning on his old sword. His stained mantle wrapped around him, he blended into the darkness like a boulder or a barrow. Only the sibilance of his repeated whisper marked him as living.
The change was uncanny—the lunatic had become an old warrior again, a kind of warrior Voran had never encountered. Tarin continued to repeat the word, or words, under his breath. Voran could not catch the meaning, but whatever it was, it seemed to diffuse a vibrant calm, as though Tarin were a pebble dropped into a pond, and his calm presence rippled outward. Voran found himself sharing the stillness, entering into it bodily. It reminded him of singing in a choir, in the way that seasoned chanters seem to be absorbed into each other’s sound, unconsciously wringing their voices into a single, multifaceted music.
They had spent the day on the threshold of the village, just near enough for Voran to imagine the villagers hosting a feast in their honor on trestle tables in the village square. He knew it was mad to expect anything of the sort, but it was so long—how many days? Three?—since his last proper meal. Instead, he had to content himself with hearing the sounds of the evening meal, which echoed in the clear air of the marsh-valley.
“YEEEAAAAAAOOOOOOUUUUUUUUUU!!!!”
Voran managed not to jump, but he was sure three grey hairs had sprouted on his head instantaneously from that cry. Tarin crouched to the ground, arms akimbo, neck stretched out. He yowled like a wounded animal. Then he retracted his head into his neck like a rooster, and proceeded to cluck as he waddled back and forth in a figure-eight.
All over the village, storm-shutters slapped back, making the houses look like they opened their eyes. The doors swung open, and the houses yawned. The village stirred from sleep, a wild noise rising toward Voran. The strangeness of it disoriented him. Only when he saw them did he realize what it was—a crowd of children, followed by disapproving parents, many of whom ran after their bare-headed charges, armed with hats.
“Tarin! Tarin!” They all cheered wildly, expectant joy in every face, even in the faces of the disapproving parents.
He clucked and clucked and let himself be enfolded in their mittened hands and arms, until he could no longer contain his own joy. His laugh was so natural, so unforced, that Voran thought he was a completely different man. Despite all Tarin’s strange behaviors, this reaction to the children was one Voran never expected.
The wave of children had crested and was about to pull Tarin back into the depths of the village. Voran followed, already tasting meat and mead, his mouth filling with saliva. They had all surged to the edge of the village when Tarin turned, so suddenly that Voran nearly ran into him.
“Ah, Raven Son! I had forgotten about you. You may not enter the village. There is a task I need you to perform. Here.”
He pointed to the second pack on Voran’s back, the one that felt like it was filled with stones. Voran opened it. The pack was filled with stones.
“These are stones imbued with power,” Tarin said in his sing-song storyteller voice, more to the children than to Voran. They all approved, tittering. “Raven Son, you must arrange a perfect cairn here, where you stand. Then wait for me. I will come out to you and give you leave to enter the village.”
“You cannot be serious,” Voran said, before realizing that silence was probably a better strategy.
Tarin stiffened and fixed Voran with a gaze that promised repeated retribution.
“Children,” Tarin said in a voice that brooked no opposition, “go on home. I will come to you soon.”
Only after the houses had once again fallen asleep did Tarin release Voran from his gaze.
“Have you forgotten your word?” he whispered through gritted teeth. “You are my slave. My commands are not to be questioned, especially by a well-known lunatic such as you.”
Voran breathed deeply, trying not let the sparks come tumbling out of his eyes.
