“Why do you not ask him?”
“He is not?…You know…”
Tarin did not answer. The boy reached out a hand and touched Voran’s knee, then smiled, tucking his chin into his neck and leaning back. He moaned a little and began to chortle. The piercing in Voran’s heart was now a torrent of fire. With a trembling hand, he reached out to the boy and curled his fingers in, inviting him closer. The boy closed his eyes and shook his head, moaning gently, but he didn’t back away. Voran spread out both arms to the boy.
The boy cocked his head to the side, his eyes still closed, and turned sideways while shuffling forward, like a reticent crab. He tapped Voran’s knees, as if appraising them. Before Voran realized it, the boy was curled up in his arms, his head on Voran’s chest. The boy’s breathing stilled and deepened, and soon a faint snuffle rose and fell with the little shoulders. He was asleep.
Voran wept, afraid that his heaving chest would wake the boy.
“His name is Voran, by the way,” said Tarin, looking away. “And yes, he is an orphan.”
Voran did not think he could feel any guiltier in his life than he did at that moment.
When the tears were spent—though the wound in his heart still throbbed, as he hoped it would throb forever—Voran turned to Tarin. The old madman looked different now, as though the touch of a damaged little child had transformed the entire world for Voran.
“Tarin, this village. These children. What happened to them?”
“You happened to them. Vasyllia happened to them. But that is the difficult answer. The simple one is that they were in the path of the Raven’s armies. Many of them are Nebesti outliers living near the Vasyllian border. Their men were foolish enough to raise arms against the invaders.”
That was why there were so many women and so few men. Voran let the reality seep into him as it irritated his new heart-wound, like fermented potato-brew poured over infected skin.
“Tarin, I must find the Living Water. Finally, I know why I must.”
The old warrior smiled and closed his eyes. The wind shifted, bringing a strange, almost spring-like fragrance of budding snowdrops. Was it really so near the end of winter?
“That is good, Voran. It will help you in your training. As for Living Water, you are not ready yet.”
Tarin stood up and wiped the brown grass from his robes. He yawned hugely and stretched like a cat, until something popped loud enough for the entire village to hear. Tarin yelped in pain and grabbed his back.
“It is time we were off, Raven Son,” he said, straightening out with a grimace. “Don’t want to attract anything that might hurt these children. Your smell is ripe, and there are many hounds still seeking.”
Voran looked down at the boy, trying to commit every single pockmark on his face to memory. This is our son, Sabíana, our little Voran. They are all our children.
Don’t look for evil in the dark shadows. Don’t look for evil in the night. Look for it in the middle of the day. Beware the demon that wears the skin of those you love.
From “The Tale of the Raven and the Living Water”
(Old Tales, Book II)
Chapter 24
The Raven
Though it seemed like days, the Gumiren kept Yadovír and Kalún tied up for little more than several hours. When the guards came to untie them, they could hardly contain themselves for laughter. It seems this “imprisonment” was intended as little more than a practical joke. Yadovír failed to appreciate the humor.
He and Kalún were led, hands untied, to a flat space cleared of trees, various stumps poking out here and there from the frozen ground. In the center of the clearing lay a long sheet covered in a wooden board. The board was laden with foods of many different shades of brown. Wooden pitchers were filled with some white liquid. A group of Gumiren half-reclined, half-sat around the board, grabbing brown bits of food from common platters with their hands, then wiping them on their long, brown, fur-lined coats. By the designs on their hat-sashes, it seemed these were the elite. The Ghan himself, an enormous man with a rare beard and almost feral cunning hiding behind his eyes, sat at the head. His face creased into a smile, and he looked like he would explode any minute into a torrent of laughter.
The Ghan saw them and half-bowed, still sitting, indicating places on his left. For a moment, Kalún looked unwilling to debase himself at such a table, but to Yadovír’s relief he sat down, leaving the seat nearer the Ghan for Yadovír. Yadovír didn’t speak at first, thinking perhaps it would be considered rude to speak to the Ghan with no invitation. Kalún stared down at the food with a white face, and seemed intent on saying nothing at all.
“You no offend?” said the Ghan, laughing in his eyes. “Men have little jest at you.” He laughed loudly, his rounded belly bouncing up and down. “Eat! We make horse for you. Eat.”
They were given a plate of brown meat cut into small pieces. Yadovír was sure he would be ill if he ate any of this food, but the Ghan’s emphasis on the word “horse” made it clear they were being given a great honor. Yadovír took a large piece and tried to swallow it without chewing. It was not horrible, even faintly seasoned with a spice he didn’t quite recognize.
“Saffor, yes?” The Ghan frowned as one of the others corrected him. “Ah, yes. Saffron. Your people do not know this, I think.”
“It is very good, thank you,” said Yadovír, not sure what honorific to use.
“Ghan speak now, yes?” said the Ghan. “My name—Magai. Ghan Magai. You, I know. Priest Kalún and common man Yadovír. You have offer for us, yes?”
Yadovír nodded, pleased things were progressing so quickly.
“Wait,” the Ghan laid a meaty hand on Yadovír’s shoulder. The reek of body odor was the last thing Yadovír expected of the Ghan, and he blanched from it. “You no tell me yet. I guess.”
Yadovír inclined his head, hoping no one noticed his fervent desire to vomit.
“You have secret way into city, yes? No need tower and—how say? —elaborate attack? Yes?” The Ghan seemed very pleased at his extensive knowledge of the Vasyllian tongue.
“Yes, Ghan, you are right.”
The Ghan clapped once and said, “Ha!” All the other Gumiren lifted their small wooden cups in salute. It soon became clear that Yadovír and Kalún were expected to do the same. But no one drank yet, to Yadovír’s relief. He could only imagine what sort of abomination these savages drank.
“But I ask you,” said the Ghan, a little crease appearing between his eyes, “Why we go your way? Why, when we already destroy all city in this land. Why use secret way, when we can use our way?”
Yadovír took a deep breath. This was the moment. The power was within reach now.
“It would be easier for all concerned, great one. You would not have to weather this winter, a winter our wise men predict will be terrible. You will lose fewer men, and Vasyllia—a beautiful city with riches you can scarcely dream of—will be yours with little destruction. Is it not better to have a strong city as tributary, instead of burnt ruins? You have seen how tenacious the Vasylli are when pressed to the wall.”
The Ghan did not seem appreciative of that reminder. “Gumiren always destroy city if city no surrender. Always!” He frowned grotesquely, like a mask, and the whole assemblage tensed.
