Voran remembered the ordeal with the hag, when Tarin told the story of the healing of the crippled young man by the Sirin. To his amazement, Voran did feel an increase of strength, as though the river of fire had newly forged him.

“I feel the strength of ten men within me,” Voran said, echoing the words of the young man in the story.

Tarin laughed with tears in his eyes, and the leonyn stepped back in fear. Into the blackness flew Lyna, her eyes glowing golden fire. She fluttered overhead like a falcon readying to dive. Voran shrugged off the power holding him pinioned as if it were string. He unsheathed his sword. His heart beat like a hammer on new steel, and his sword responded. It turned red with heat, then lightning-white, as if it were itself furious at the attack of the Raven’s creatures.

From a deep recess of his heart, something flowed out like fresh wine bursting out of its cask. He began to sing, and to his heart’s leaping joy, Lyna sang in harmony with him—a hymn he did not know, yet it flowed unimpeded from his lips.

I arise today

Through the love of the Heights.

Light of sun, radiance of moon,

Splendor of fire, speed of lightning,

Swiftness of wind, depth of sea,

Strength of earth, firmness of rock.

I arise today

Through his strength to protect me

From snares of the darkness,

From tempting of pleasures,

From everyone who wishes me ill,

Both far and near, alone, among many.

I summon today

All these Powers to keep me

Against every cruel and malevolent power,

Against every thought that kills body and soul,

Against poison and burning,

Against drowning and wounding.

I arise today

Through a mighty strength—

The power of the unspeakable word.

May the grace of the Heights

Sustain us forever.

He rushed sword-first in a wild attack, completely careless of life and pain. The leonyn unfurled like a banner into ash and black smoke, though his black eyes still burned in the storm of the formless ones. Voran flew at the seething wall, and his white brand cleaved a furrow in it. The sun’s light streamed in like water, and the slit expanded outward, pressing in on the host of creatures until Voran, Tarin, and Lyna stood in the sunny marshland, and before them spun a column of blackness swirling in rage, reaching higher than the clouds.

A flash like a thousand bolts of lightning struck the mass of the Darkness. Voran fell on his face from the force of it, barely able to look up. Something mountainous looked down on him and spoke in a voice like a thousand trumpets in unison.

“I come as summoned, Son of Otchigen.”

It was a giant in the form of a man of light and fire. His eyes were suns, his teeth were moons. Six tapered wings of gold, lapis, emerald, ruby, silver, and topaz flickered in constant movement about his body. He had four faces turned in each direction—a man of searing beauty, an eagle, a lion, and a Sirin. As monstrous as such a creature should be, Voran could hardly keep from worshipping him right there on the field of battle, so beautiful he was. In his outstretched right hand, he held a sword of fire that was at once the sharpest metal and the hottest flame. In his left was a war hammer the size of a small mountain.

The giant attacked the column of darkness, and everywhere he walked, the earth opened and fire burst forth. Fissures in the ground yawned open, and winds swirled from every direction, visible winds like molten gold and silver. Voran realized they were not winds at all, but living creatures. They pushed the mass of the Raven’s creatures inexorably down into the earth. The formless ones wailed and burned and cursed, but they could not withstand the attack. Voran’s entire body shook from fear and exhilaration, and he fell into a stupor.

Voran came to himself as silence once more reigned on the marshlands. He feared to look up, feared the Power he had summoned. He wished he could just crawl under a rock and wait until everything went back to normal again.

“Voran,” said Lyna next to him. “It is time.”

Groaning within, Voran stood up and faced the giant, who towered over the place where the Raven’s horde had been. The great rents in the earth were healed, and the marshes looked as though nothing strange had happened at all.

“I am Athíel of the Palymi,” said the Power in a voice that could rip stone apart. “I have heard much of you from my brother. He has hopes for you.”

“Brother?” Voran’s voice sounded like the squeak of an insect.

Athíel smiled, and it was like lightning. “Yes, the Harbinger. Do you wish to have your bond with Lyna restored?”

“I do,” said Voran, with slightly more power in his voice.

“Know this. The Palymi come as summoned by the great hymn of the Powers, but I can help you no more. You have gained much strength from your time with Tarin, but you must never forget that such strength is nothing against the Raven. You can only prevail as the true Vasylli have ever prevailed. Nurture the flame in your heart, cultivate your bond with Lyna. That bond is the lifeblood of good in this world. And take heart, dear one. Your path will be dark, and in the Heart of the World you will face the crumbling of everything you ever believed in. In that time, listen to the song in your heart.”

Athíel raised his sword of flame and pierced Voran through the chest. Voran fell, his mind shrieking with the pain. It was as though his body had been unmade completely, then put together again, piece by piece. When his eyes could see again, he saw a foul green-brown vapor seeping out of the wound in his chest. It hissed in the crisp air until it ran out. The wound closed on itself, leaving a hairline scar down the length of his chest bone.

Athíel was gone. The song of the Sirin was inside him again in thunderous harmony, and his inner fire blazed. Lyna flew above him, hovering on her jewel-wings, crying tears that landed on his face and steamed.

“When will I see you again, my Lyna?”

“I do not know, my falcon. Gamayun can see no further than this moment. I fear for you and for Vasyllia. I do not know how this will end.”

“I will seek you after I find the weeping tree. Much will be determined there, I think. Will you come to me then?”

“I am with you always,” she said, and was gone.

The palace of Vasyllia has seven towers. The tallest of them is closed off to all, locked away, the key in the keeping of a select few. For that is the home of the treasure of Vasyllia, the bard of the Dar. Every Dar has had his own chosen bard. The last, and most brilliant of all, was blind Bayan, who outlived two Dars and died on the eve of the great battle for Vasyllia.

“A Child’s History of Vasyllia,” chapter 21

Chapter 30