One of the clerics held a gilded malachite box. The chief priest opened it carefully, pulling out a silver crown of ancient make. It was wrought in the shape of a flowering wreath, rising to a single peak above the forehead, like Mount Vasyllia. In the midst of the silver peak shone an emblazoned red-gold sun. Sabíana stood up, kissed the sun, then sat on the throne, still facing the Grove of Mysteries. He placed it on her head.

“Adonais, with your glory crown her…”

“So be it!” cried the priests.

“…with your invincible grasp wield her scepter…”

“So be it!” cried the clerics and the royal court.

“…with your omniscient providence guide her judgment.”

“So be it! So be it! So be it!” cried all the people.

Four of the priests lifted the throne with Sabíana on it to face the people. She felt the emotions they had all held back suddenly overwhelm her. Instead of cringing, her heart held firm, and she took the energy of their worry, their tiredness, their pain, and forged it inside herself into pure joy that streamed out of her to the tips of her fingers. She felt afire, re-forged, new. She smiled.

Everyone prostrated in the snow. Many faces were white with awe, even terror. She raised her hands to bless them, when frightened cries and gasps rose among the people.

“The crown! It flowers!”

Unprompted, many voices began to chant, “So be it! So be it!”

Sabíana threw off her fur, and her cream and gold underdress shone like lightning. Under the fur, she was girt with a sword. She unsheathed it and raised it high.

“Words? What use are they now?” Her voice rang even louder than the priest’s, and her heart rang with it. “Hope? What hope can you expect, my people?”

Her eyes teared up from the icy air, but she held her body firm. The steam floated from her body like an aureole. She felt the fire of the flowering crown on her head. She was half-mad with exhilaration.

“Death awaits the sleeping, death spares not the upright. It is death’s time, my people.”

The fear was everywhere, in every pair of eyes now, but still they hung on her words, hungry for more.

“Come, death, I say! Come, so we can spit on you. We are not your slaves. We serve life, and we defy you! Sword-fisted, helm-crested, we take life and we impose it on you!”

All through the crowd, swords were unsheathed and held aloft. They scattered the feeble light of the sun hidden in fog and the fires of the lanterns.

“We are a high people. We are the hammer of Adonais, the axe of the Heights. We are the wardens of the Three Cities. Arise with me, raise your swords and your hearts, set them alight, blaze forth the anger of the righteous!”

The sea of people seethed. Old men, boys, warriors, even priests raised weapons. Their eyes were alit with the war-wind.

“But dare I say the righteous?” She moderated her voice, allowing it to soften, as though she doubted her own words. “Are we not perhaps become fallen, diminished by long laziness and selfishness? Do we dare to take up arms in the name of Adonais if we have broken Covenant with him?”

Not a single voice, not even a whisper disturbed the silence of the frosty air.

“Hark now to the word of your Darina! I have found proof of the Covenant’s existence. I have read words carved by our fathers into the face of the mountain, words that cannot be unsaid. Hearken to the words of Adonais, my people!”

It looked like a wave struck the people’s backs, so quickly did they fall down on their faces. All the armed men thrust their swords into the ground before abasing themselves. Sabíana did the same, but she only knelt, her gaze intent on the people she hoped to move to an act of insane heroism.

The herald read out the words that Sabíana had first read only a day before. Even now, after copying it for herself and hearing it reread many times, the words pierced with their power. It was not incantation or magic. The words had the power of making. These kinds of words were spoken by the deity that created them all. Sabíana was either committing terrible blasphemy, or she was re-forging a lost Covenant. She did not know which it was, but she had cast the stones, and it was too late.

After the herald finished, murmurs rose like the first rustling of wind that promised rain. Here and there she heard expressions of agreement. She searched for any sign of defiance, but all she saw was the adoration.

“Now is the time, my people. Now we must renew the Covenant with Adonais. But I cannot do it for you. We must all agree to it; we must all renew the Covenant within our hearts. Vasylli! Pledge yourselves to the will of your Darina, the will of Adonais!”

“So be it! So be it!”

The cries were reluctant at first, hesitant, but the sound rose like a fire. Soon the mountain shook with the repeated cries. Still, even now she saw that some held back. The fire of the flowering crown dimmed, and by the lessened light in the eyes of the people, Sabíana knew that the sign had faded. It left her aching and empty. She gathered the reserves of her strength.

“So be it! We will be his people again, and may he guide our death-stroke against the foul enemy outside the walls!”

The terrible understanding dawned in the eyes of many. They understood.

“Sing with me, my children!” She stood up. “We go to war.”

The warriors surrounding her bellowed the opening chords of the ancient call to war, and the women and children in the Temple joined them. Even the clerics sang, tuning into the single harmony like a bag-pipe warming up. Over their combined voices, Sabíana unfettered her own, and it flew above the choir like a hawk catching a warm gust.

The Heights resound with thunder;

The mountains sing aloud.

Our people burn with anger

At the enemies’ gathering cloud.

We gird our arms with iron;

We bind our tongues with prayer.

Our children and our loved ones

We leave to Sirin’s care.

O Adonais, hear us,

Defend us as we cry:

“Annihilate this Darkness,

And give us strength to die.”

Lord! Give us strength to die!

The fog outside the city glowed yellow, swirling with loathing, challenging any who would come. Arrayed like rows of candles ready to be lit, Rogdai’s men tensed for the charge behind the great doors. A moment before, the gates throbbed with the violence of the drums; now the air echoed with silence. Rogdai held his breath, trying to calm the thump of his heart. Any moment now the call to charge would sound. As mad as he knew it was, and probably fatal, he was infected with war-wind, and his finger itched to feel the cramp of a sword-hand after hours of battle.

All around him, the men stood with jaws set and swords out, so still they could have been statues. His heart burst with pride at their form. Only the banner-bearers betrayed any of their eagerness, but they were all boys still in the seminary. Rogdai recognized Tolnían, the young scout who had started everything with his report about the tree that wept Living Water. He impressed Rogdai more than the other boys. There was no bravado in his manner, only calm determination that belied his tender years.

“Ho there, boy!” called Rogdai at Tolnían. “I believe I see your nanny over there. Hide, or she’ll uncover your secret. What are you, ten?”