Voran leaned back, shocked and struck dumb. Then he realized Tarin was not speaking to him.

“I am your faithful, loving slave.” Tarin’s voice was stoic, lacking any hint of self-pity. “Why did you wait so long to send deliverance in my hour of need?”

The silence that followed was immense and terrible. But then, the voice. The ineffable voice.

“I was waiting, Tarin, by your side. I wished to see your greater victory, to grant you the greater reward.”

Tarin laughed and wept at the same time.

“Tarin,” whispered Voran. “Was that…Adonais?”

The look in Tarin’s eyes was strange. Voran didn’t understand it. He had never seen it before.

“No, Voran. Not Adonais.” He began to cough, and could say no more. The voice spoke again, soft and yet terrifying.

“Come to me, Tarin. I have need of your counsel.”

Tarin burst into flame—a bluish, warm flame that consumed his frail body. But it left behind something greater, an ageless warrior with sad eyes and dark hair. Completely alight, the transfigured Tarin stood up and bowed to Voran.

“Voran,” said Tarin in a high tenor, without the grating heaviness of his usual intonation. “There is much you must still learn. I fear that when you learn the truth about Vasyllia, about the Raven, and about Adonais, you will find no more strength to go on. In that moment, remember me. I have lived my life in the shadows, never thanked by anyone for what I do. And yet, we Warriors of the Word have buttressed the walls that hold up the worlds.”

Voran said nothing. Pain pressed his heart, and his mind refused to think.

“One gift I leave you,” said Tarin. “There is a path behind the third shack that leads out into the plains. Follow it. When you reach the end, an old friend will be there. Till we meet again, my friend. Oh, and congratulations on your first three baptisms of fire.”

He smiled, and Voran was alone.

The staff was covered in small pink blossoms that smelled of orange. Voran laughed, but his joy was a shard of metal in his heart.

It was as Tarin had said. The path—curiously untouched by snow—was a purple shadow between snowbanks gilded by the early morning. It sloped upward toward a rise, atop which tall grass waved awkwardly, encumbered by the snow at its feet. During his time with Tarin, Voran had never so much as left the enclosure with the three huts, much less ventured to see the view from atop the rise.

It was finally his, as he had dreamed of for so many weeks—freedom. He could go anywhere, do anything—a strangely frightening thought.

He looked around, unwilling to go anywhere. Not yet. For all of the drabness of the huts, this was a beautiful place. In the distance, the mountains peeked out above the line of sentinel trees. All around him, the land rolled up and down like gentle waves, mostly clad in white, but with occasional flashes of color—red berries hanging on for dear life, a sprig of purple heather anticipating spring, the pink flowers of the staff-tree.

I could stay here, he thought. I could weather the storm here. No one would seek to find me.

It was a comforting thought, so unusual for a life filled with ranging, training, weeks on the march. Tarin was right. If Vasyllia was to fall, what could he possibly do to stop it, much less bring some dreamy vision of old Vasyllia back to life?

His conscious mind offered him the traditional riposte—will you stand by while the world burns? Yes, he said. If I learned anything from my master, it is that one man’s efforts may avail much, but not everything. It is too late to seek the Living Water, too late to seek pardon from my exile.

But what about Lebía? His stomach lurched in warning, and his heart tugged in rebuke. He had not thought of Lebía in so long. What had happened to her? To the pilgrims? Were they safe?

Then a picture flashed on his mind. Otchigen, with his familiar, thick braid and tightly curling black beard. He lay by the hearth in the sleeping embrace of three hunter-borzoi. Lebía, a newborn child, lay cradled on his thick forearm, her own arms extended at impossible angles, like an archer nocking an arrow, her mouth open, a wheezing half-snore rising up and down with the roll of Otchigen’s great body. Aglaia stood in the doorway, wrapped up against the cold, stopping for a moment before going out to pick the last of the rowan berries before winter. Her eyes were filled with tears, in spite of her laughing eyes. He remembered the immensity of the peace, the contentment of the scene, and some of its old grace still remained in his heart.

He ran into his shack to gather the barest of necessities. Somehow, he knew that the journey would not be a long one. Last of all, he took Tarin’s old travel cloak and wrapped himself in it. Perhaps, he thought, someday I can find respite in the life of a Pilgrim? He chuckled.

“Not likely,” he said aloud, his thumb tracing the comforting outline of his sword-hilt.

Voran reached the top of the rise. The view was a continuation of the same landscape surrounding the three shacks, save for a clear path, which led directly to a trellised doorway covered in green ivy. Voran laughed. Even for the Lows of Aer, this doorway was comically obvious. Maybe this was Tarin’s final joke? It was as though his old master were saying, “I know, Raven Son, you are quite the idiot, but I have made it easy for you.”

Voran ran forward, not even slowing to pass through the doorway. The already-familiar sensation of displacement and temporary confusion quickly faded. He stood on a wide plain, the thinness of the air indicating high elevation, and just ahead of him was the waystone, and not a stone’s throw beyond it—the giant head, still snoring as the flocks of starlings flew up and down, as regular as heartbeats.

Voran was thrown to the ground by something huge. A huge dark thing was atop him, its snout wet against his face. It licked him.

“I’m happy to see you too, Leshaya,” spluttered Voran as he labored to find enough space to breathe.

She growled. “You are such an idiot, Voran.” Her body quivered with mixed excitement, anger, and joy. He understood her completely.

“Tarin had said I would find a friend. I hoped it would be you.”

“That old goat. Do you know how long I waited for the two of you? Where is he?”

It was strange. In the excitement of seeing Leshaya again, he had momentarily forgotten everything. Now the world came crashing through the walls he had put up around himself, and all of a sudden breathing the very air seemed dangerous.

“They found him, Leshaya. He’s gone. Transfigured.”

Leshaya’s ears went back in pure animal fear, and she bared her fangs.

“It is time, then,” she growled. “There is something you must know about our friend, the giant head of Buyan. He is the father of a race of giants who wield immense earth-power. They’ve been asleep for a long time. But they have returned.”

Voran nodded, remembering Tarin’s warning.

“He wants to make a deal. He says he knows where the weeping tree is, and he is willing to show us the way.”

“For a price, naturally.”

“I imagine so. Come.”

The head was awake, its stillness more unnerving that the bluster it showed the last time they met. It raised its eyebrows ponderously, and Voran took it as the only sign of greeting the land-bound giant could still express.

“Well met, son of Otchigen. It is unfortunate that you did not inform me of your exalted bloodline the last time we met. I may have arranged things a little differently for you.”

“We don’t have time to play riddles this time, Buyan,” said Voran. “To be frank, I have no desire to treat with you. I would much rather seek my own path.”

“Are you sure about that, my boy?” asked the giant head, almost growling. “Have you looked at the waystone?”

Voran did. The writing was different.

If left you go, there death awaits

If right you go, there death awaits

If straight you go, there death awaits

If back you go, there death awaits

Voran became aware of a brooding sense of menace bearing down on him from all sides. He had a strong desire to turn around, but his heart told him that if he did, he would be dead in seconds.