A week of traveling the marshes satisfied even Voran’s appreciation for their beauties. He and Tarin now seemed to be beyond the knowledge of any people whatsoever. The only inhabitants of these lands were the many animals—rabbits, foxes, wolves, deer, and elk with antlers like young trees. None of these paid Voran any attention, but every one of them met Tarin personally, a friend returned from long travels. The wolves in particular greeted him with high-pitched yelps, no more than friendly dogs to all appearances, though if Voran was foolish enough to extend a hand too close to any of them, the fangs were quick to flash. Tarin enjoyed them immensely, loping on all fours with them, his tongue lolling out absurdly.
They still walked day and night, but Voran grew accustomed to gathering enough strength during their short morning rests to last him the whole day. Despite the poverty of the village, Tarin didn’t refuse their gifts of food. It was enough to feed an army. Voran understood: refusing such gifts, given freely, would have been worse than stealing from starving children. Such was the hospitality of Vasyllia as it used to be.
How far have we fallen, thought Voran with a pang.
Though Voran now bore four packs instead of two—two were filled with rocks as punishment for his insubordination—Tarin allowed him to carry the sword, and leaning on it provided some support. Secretly, Voran was grateful to Tarin. The hag’s ravages had left Voran rail-thin and weak, and though he was not gaining much flesh, his muscles grew wiry like a horse’s.
It was a sword like its master—not much to look at, old, tarnished, but impossible to break. Unlike every sword made in Vasyllian smithies these days, it had no fanciful decorations, no etchings on the blade, no jewels on the hilt. Only one strange sign—something between a flame and a feather, or maybe some amalgamation of both—was stamped in the place where the thumb gripped, as though it were a reminder of something.
“Lord Tarin,” said Voran as they made an unusual stop in the early evening. “This mark on the hilt. Does it mean anything?”
At first Voran was sure Tarin would answer as the lunatic, but it seemed Tarin had a last-minute change of heart. “Have you heard of the Warriors of the Word?” he asked in a voice remarkable only for its normality.
Something warm and pleasant stirred in Voran’s memory. The piney smell of morning fog. The thrill of hiding all night in the burial grounds. The sting of young nettles on hands and ankles, and the white spots on the skin that burned and burned. Morning sprints through dewey fields, the wet rising up the leg with every step.
“Of course,” said Voran, smiling in spite of himself. “Every boy pretends to be a Warrior of the Word in childhood. The games are quite elaborate, and the stories are always the most colorful and strange.”
“They are not stories,” said Tarin.
“You are a Warrior of the Word?” Voran laughed, thinking Tarin was again playing the madman, but Tarin remained still and serious, until Voran’s laugh subsided awkwardly. “You can’t be. They’re legendary, like the sleeping-woods and the…” Voran felt himself turning red.
Tarin smiled, and it was warm, like a father’s. “Yes, it does take some time to come to terms with the legendary, I’ll grant you that. There are few of us left. None in Vasyllia. We were established by Lassar at the very beginning, you know, but always have we been consigned to the shadows. Those youths who show enough spirit are whisked away for the training at night, and though their parents know, everyone else is told stories of sudden illness and early death. You would be surprised at how many graves in old Vasyllia are empty.”
“Why the secrecy?”
“Because of the nature of evil, Voran.”
Tarin busied himself about making a fire, and Voran knew now was not the time to continue speaking, though he buzzed with excitement at having a childhood dream come true. He hurried to be useful, gathering dry moss and twigs for the kindling, but Tarin immediately threw out most of it as unsuitable.
“Get me some dry birch-bark,” Tarin said as he pulled out an old flint and a char-cloth from a tinderbox of wrought iron, garishly decorated in a flowing script that Voran couldn’t read.
After the fire had caught, Tarin began to dig in one of the packs. He pulled out two chipped earthenware bowls and placed them on the ground. Reaching into a pouch on his belt, he pulled out a brown rag, much-used, unrolled it, and took some dried leaves with his thumb and forefingers, rubbing under his nose. Even from across the fire, Voran could smell the earthy smokiness. Tea.
Voran never had a better cup of tea, not for the rest of his life.
“I suppose, since you’ve gotten me to say so much, you may as well try your luck with more questions, Raven Son.” Tarin’s eyes smiled, though his face remained serious. He cupped the bowl in dirty hands, resting his elbows on his knees, seeming to absorb the tea’s warmth with his whole body. Voran hastened to do the same. It seeped lazy comfort into his aching body.
“You said that the nature of the Warriors of the Word has something to do with the nature of evil.”
“Yes.” Tarin looked annoyed. “Is that a question?”
“The sign on the sword. What does it mean?” asked Voran, strangely afraid of speaking it aloud.
“Have you heard of transfiguration, Raven Son?”
Voran must have had a remarkably stupid expression, because Tarin winced. “Perhaps that is not a good place to start. We should start with the least important, and work our way inward, like a cockle shell.”
Voran had not the faintest idea of what a cockle was, but he knew it would be counterproductive to ask.
“Let me start by asking you a question, Raven Son. Why do you think that you were attacked in the marshes after we crossed from the Lows, while nothing happened to me?”
“You obviously have power, Tarin. I do not.”
Tarin nodded and chuckled. “Well, that is part of it, yes. But my kind of power never frightened the Raven and his beasts very much. No, you were attacked because you are still stained. What you did with the hag bound you to her. Yes, some of the chains loosened when you killed her, but you are not free of her curse.”
“But it felt like every link of that chain burst apart when I spoke that word you gave me.” A sudden insight flashed on him, and he felt foolish. “Is that the word that your kind is named for?”
“Well, not quite, but if we don’t get into the details, yes. When you were attacked in the marshlands, you called a great power to your aid by the invocation of the name. A power even greater than…well, perhaps now’s not the time to talk about that.”
“Greater than what? The Sirin?”
Tarin had a pained expression, the kind a parent has when their child no longer believes in childish fancies.
“Yes, certainly greater than the Sirin. It was a taste of the power with which the Warriors of the Word are invested. But if you were to neglect yourself, if another ruse of the darkness—like the red-head in the village—were to ensnare you, you would be in great danger. They know your weak point, and now you should expect to see buxom young women throwing themselves at you in every village. I doubt you’ll be able to keep chaste for long.”
Voran felt disappointed, for he had hoped that his deliverance from the hag had been immediate and complete. Now it seemed it would take a deal of labor to wean himself from her continued influence. He should have known.
“Never mind,” said Tarin, eyes closed as he smelled the tea. “I will help you with that. If you are willing to suffer through my training, anything is possible. The power to which we submit is an old power, a wild power, one that makes and harmonizes out of nothing in perpetuity. Not the soft, gentle divinity you Vasylli are used to worshipping in the Temple.”
“You speak as the Sirin do—” Voran stopped in mid-thought. “Of course! The Sirin. They also thrive in a similar power, one equally destructive and loving. Do we even know Adonais, whom we claim to worship? Have we become so comfortable with a loving, endearing father figure that we stopped considering his unbridled power?” With chagrin, he realized by Tarin’s rapt expression that he had spoken these thoughts aloud. “But what am I saying? What do I know about all this?”
To Voran’s increased embarrassment, Tarin laughed out loud, making no effort to conceal his enjoyment.
“Oh, Raven Son. How close you come to wisdom, without even realizing what you are saying. If only you could see the whole truth!”
“Why not tell me?”
“Because you wouldn’t believe me. You may even want to do something drastic. You may even want to kill me.”
