“Is this another riddle?” Voran challenged Buyan, his hand on his sword.

The giant head laughed. The sound ripped several shrubs in the vicinity out of the ground with their roots still intact.

“I am quite sick of lying here in the ground, tied by the Powers. It is time for me to come out. My sons are awakening. Zmei is already abroad.”

The sun hid behind clouds over Voran’s head. He looked up, and it was not a cloud, but a giant in full armor, a spear in his right hand, his teardrop shield taller than the walls of Vasyllia. He inclined his head at Voran, but his face was backlit by the light of the sun surrounding his head like a parody of a halo. It called to mind the omen of the darkened sun.

“Why would I ever want to help you, Buyan? Do you not come from the same fallen line as the Raven?”

“Do not insult us,” bellowed the other giant, Zmei. “Our power is not his borrowed power. We are the power of the earth. Ancient, eternal, self-sufficient. We owe allegiance to no one but ourselves.”

“Our power is mighty,” continued Buyan’s head. “But it has been chained, contained for too long. You will restore that power, and in payment, we will give you Vasyllia, for you to refashion in whatever way you see fit.”

For a moment, Voran saw the vision of the Pilgrim, the Vasyllia of old where every person was animated by a burning soul-bond. Could they truly have the power to give him Vasyllia? He could restore its ancient splendor. He was sure he could. But at what cost?

“I am but a humble warrior,” said Voran. “I don’t seek to play a role in the games of the Powers. I only want to find my family. Leave me be.”

Buyan raised an eyebrow. “Your family? We can arrange that.” He smiled, and his old, rotting teeth stank.

Like a bolt of lightning, Zmei’s spear flew over Voran’s head. Voran ducked. It hit with a sickening thud, and not into the ground. Voran trembled, not wanting to look at what he knew he would see, but forced his eyes to look at Leshaya.

She was pinned to the ground, so completely that she had no leverage even to push herself up, like a butterfly pinned to a piece of parchment. Something about her began to change, shift, like ripples on water. Her wolf form lessened, faded, turned in on itself, lost its color. Voran became ill and vomited violently. She was not Leshaya. She was his mother.

“You did not know?” said Buyan, all innocence and good humor. “Yes, Aglaia was transformed by my power all those years ago. It was a mercy. She was on the verge of death, were you not, my dear?”

“Why do you do this?!” Voran pulled out his sword and tensed, ready to fling himself at both giants.

“To make a point, you fool,” said Zmei, moving just enough to let Voran see his face—beautiful, yet cold as chiseled stone. “We have no love for the Raven, and the Raven fears us. It is time for us to reclaim ownership of the earth. Your supposed master, the Power you call Adonais, has abandoned you. The Covenant, such as it was, is broken. We offer you everything that he gave you, and more. All we need is Living Water.”

“You need Living Water as well, little man,” said Buyan, looking significantly at Aglaia. “Better hurry, or you won’t be able to heal her.”

Voran looked at Aglaia. Her hair was whiter than he remembered, but otherwise no different than his memory of her, except for the paleness of her face and the look of absolute terror in her eyes. They rolled into the back of her head, and she fainted, though she did not fall, stuck as she was by the spear through her chest. Voran’s terror swallowed him, and his hands shook uncontrollably.

But something in his mind nagged him. It was something that he should have noticed a long time ago. The Raven had great power; these ancient giants claimed to have even greater power. But the Raven had not even seemed to make the attempt to seek out Living Water, going straight to Vasyllia, as if that were his only goal. And Buyan claimed to know the location of the weeping tree. So why did the giants not take it for themselves? There were reports of at least one person being healed by the tree. Unless….

“You cannot find the weeping tree without me.”

Buyan’s face darkened visibly. “It is the nature of our power. A bargain, sealed ages ago with the Powers. We would rule the earth, but we abandoned our right to travel the other realms.”

“But you know of a doorway?”

“Yes,” said Zmei.

It explained much. People could cross over into the other realms. Some, a few, obviously had, and they were healed by the Living Water. But the giants could not.

Voran looked at Aglaia’s limp body, at the blood choking her clothing, and he went on his knees to touch her face. It was still warm.

“I will come back for you, Mother,” he whispered.

An icy breeze pushed Voran’s hair across his face, coming from the right. Not a bowshot away, Voran saw a hole in the fabric of reality, a shimmering gap. On the other side, mountains stood tall, and atop one of them was a tree, made black by the setting sun behind it. Before stopping to even think, Voran ran to it and jumped through.

O tombs, you tombs,

Our eternal homes!

Long may we live,

But your doors we must face.

Our bodies belong

In our mother, the earth.

To be given to the soil,

To be eaten by worms.

But our souls will wander

Each to his own place…

Old Nebesti funeral dirge

Chapter 33

The Raven's Choice

Horrible cries surrounded Sabíana, exploding into her confused consciousness and fading to nothing in strange waves. Dimly she glimpsed blasts of flame and smoke belching from rents in the earth. Not yet fully recovered from her fit, she saw everything with varying focus, through a fog. She couldn’t form her thoughts into complete patterns; the words gathered together only to hit an obstruction like a wall inside her head, and she gave up, exhausted from the effort. But through it all, she heard the sound of wind whistling through reeds. Sabíana felt the nearness of Feína, the terror receded a little, and her mind began to clear. But her limbs were still stone-dead.

Feína sang quietly. All the noises of war, the screams, the madness faded away, replaced by the blossoming rose-fire of the Sirin of flame. Sabíana’s thoughts gathered in her mind like raindrops falling into each other down a windowpane. The pain was still there, but now it was bearable.

“My Sabíana,” said Feína. “I cannot bear to see you like this.”

The voice was in Sabíana’s mind, as was the vision of the Sirin of fire. In her mind, Sabíana found it possible to answer.

“Feína, I do not know if I can bear my burden much longer. Please, lighten it for me.”

“I cannot, my swan. It is beyond my power.”

“Dear Feína, I think I could bear it if I understood what is happening. Why do I not just die and leave this pain behind? Why do I linger?”

“If that is what you wish, Sabíana, you can lay down your life right now. You are given that choice. But if you die, the last spark of light in Vasyllia dies with you. The Raven’s victory will be complete.”

“So I must remain and suffer on? How can that possibly benefit anyone?”

“Your suffering is not without purpose, my bright swan. Your remaining in Vasyllia is a challenge to the Raven that cannot fail to bear fruit. Ever the Sons of the Swan will be a thorn in his side. And perhaps, if things go as Lyna hopes, you will be the source of his downfall.”

Sabíana understood the reference to Voran. He was alive, and he still strove on his quest. His image warmed her heart, and the song of the Sirin rang out, stoking her inner fire until it blazed. She understood.