Bayan's Last Song

On the morning of the coronation, Rogdai was turned aside from his already mounting responsibilities by a very annoying boy. At first, he could not for the life of him recognize who the boy was and what his position in the household was intended to be. The boy was not particularly illuminating, waiting to be told to speak before offering any useful information on his own.

“Go on, boy,” Rogdai said, exasperated, rushing through the halls of the palace as everyone else seemed to be going the other way. “Tell me your charge.”

“It is my master. He begs a word with the Lady. He says it is very urgent.”

Rogdai almost growled at him. “Who is your master, boy?”

The boy’s eyes were as big as trenchers. “Bbbb…” he stammered.

“Well?”

“Bayan. The bard.”

Oh, by all that is holy in the Heights, he thought. What horrid timing.

“He will have to see me, I’m afraid,” Rogdai said. “The Lady has been in the Temple since midnight, preparing for her coronation.”

The boy nodded and rushed forward, almost as though he were escaping Rogdai, not leading him. For that speed, Rogdai disliked the boy a little less.

The old bard was dying. It was the smell that made it most obvious—something like stale bread and rotten fruit mixed with sweat. He knew that smell well enough from seeing both his parents die.

“Vohin Rogdai,” Bayan croaked, his white eyes uncannily fastened to Rogdai’s face. “The Darina will not see me?”

“She is at her coronation, my lord,” said Rogdai, his voice soft in spite of his irritation. Bayan commanded respect, even in the worst of times.

“You will have to tell it to her, then. I was visited by a song this morning. It has not happened in decades.”

Rogdai understood. Writing a song was one thing, but being visited by one was another. This was an oracle. He bent to his knees and leaned on the deathbed, so the old man did not have to strain.

“I will not play it for you, for my fingers are stiffer than old roots. But I will sing the words.”

Rogdai’s heart leaped to hear the clarity of the old man’s bass, so unexpected after hearing his croaking speech. It was almost as though someone else sang through Bayan’s body, using it as an instrument. But as the words sank into his conscious mind, his heart did an about face and plunged into his heels for sheer terror. Bayan sang a prophecy of defeat.

The smoke! It blinds and frightens.

The shouts! They’re all around.

The flaming stones are falling,

But the shouts don’t lose their sound.

The Lords—impotent, silent—

Lie crumbled in the smoke.

The shouts increase their fury

At Dark’s death-dealing stroke.

You cannot see their faces,

For darkest is that hour

When skies light up in fury

At chaos’ gath’ring power.

While Raven in his glory

Declines to show his face,

The wise hear in the shouting

His rotting, fallen grace.

The time for words is over

For Light hangs by a thread.

Will no one stop the shouting?

Will no one stir the dead?

Rogdai walked like a dead man back to the walls of Vasyllia. Bayan’s words thundered through Rogdai’s consciousness as he joined the throngs headed for the Temple, feeling like a corpse carried by a swift tide. He could not tell Sabíana this prophecy. Not in her hour of glory.

Sabíana closed her eyes and reveled, for the last time, in being merely Sabíana, daughter of the Dar, intended of Voran, sister to Mirnían, Black Swan of her people. She opened her eyes, and now and forever she would be the Black Sun, the Darina of the dark time of Vasyllia. Swathed in a brown fur, Sabíana walked out from her gazebo slowly, with bowed head, not daring to look up yet. She stopped before the throne and turned to the assembled crowds, so full that some were even standing on the lowest boughs of the redbarks. Falling to her knees, she touched her forehead to the bare ground and raised herself up again. She repeated her obeisance three times before turning to the Grove of Mysteries.

The new chief priest, Otar Gleb, stood in front of the grove by the ceremonial throne—an unadorned chair intended to remind the future Darina of the need for humility in the wielding of power. He was a surprisingly young man with a joyful face, if somewhat ugly. His hair was blond and curling at the ends that rested on his shoulders. His eyes were deep and kind, so different from Kalún’s wells of contempt. He placed his right hand on Sabíana’s forehead as he half-chanted, half-cried in a sharp, high tenor, “Woman! Why do you approach the sacred grove?”

“To abase myself before the mercy of Adonais and to confirm his will in the choice of a new Darina.” Her voice sounded weak to her own ears, young and scared.

“Why do you, a humble slave, dare to take this duty upon yourself?”

“By the right of blood…” She paused, hoping she had memorized the words correctly. “…and by the humble desire of my people do I approach. I, a worthless thrall, do myself neither desire nor deserve such honor, such a dreadful duty.”

“How do the people answer this claim?” His voice rang out regally, and she was jealous of it. “Are they in one mind and one mouth of accord?”

“Yea!” echoed through the Temple, truly as if it were one, many-faceted voice.

The priest indicated that Sabíana should kneel.

“I confirm, as mouth and warden of the will of Adonais, your claim, slave Sabíana, daughter of Antomír, to the Monarchia of Vasyllia. Forget not that you are a servant of your people, the slave of a higher Dar. Rule in remembrance of the ancient Covenant that our forefathers made with Adonais.”

How empty that sounds, she thought. It reminded her of how difficult it would be to awaken in the people any understanding that the Covenant needed to be upheld as a reality, not merely as a beautiful idea.