Her presence in Vasyllia was necessary. The Raven would not touch her; she was Cassían’s line, and he needed legitimacy if he was to maintain any sort of power other than the rule of the fist. She must slowly heal, slowly become an image of endurance and hope for true Vasylli. Perhaps Adonais would see her sacrifice and would re-forge the lost Covenant.

Sabíana regained full consciousness at Yadovír’s side as the smoke began to clear. Near her, the young chief priest Otar Gleb lay on the stones, bloodied, but still alive. Yadovír seemed to be protecting him, or keeping him for his own use later. Gleb nodded at her once and raised his hand, blessing her. She felt new strength rush into her.

The Gumiren had herded all the people of the city to every open square and courtyard in Vasyllia. The faces she could see seemed barely human; nearly all had succumbed to brutish terror and hatred. Only a few still had the same light in their eyes that she had ignited at the coronation.

Yadovír twitched and his face pulled into a focused expression, listening intently. Looking at Sabíana, he seemed for a moment to lose confidence, as if he noticed some change in her, some addition of power. He must have decided it was nothing, because he turned away from her and faced the crowds. He spoke not in his own voice, but in one augmented by several others, so it seemed a host declaiming from a single mouth.

“High people of Vasyllia! You have fought valiantly, but not to victory. I, the Mouth of the Raven, now declare your doom. The women and children may all live, provided every one of them gives up the worship of Adonais and spits on the Covenant. You warriors must pledge your swords to the Raven and swear to do his bidding in all things. Refuse, and the beasts whom you defeated not an hour ago will gladly feast on your unarmored bodies. Warriors! How say you? If yea, raise your right hands in solemn oath.

It took a long time, but eventually nearly every warrior did so. Sabíana’s balance tottered, and her shakes began again. Somehow, she stopped herself and forced herself to watch on.

“Warriors of Adonais you were,” said Yadovír, sneering. “Warriors of the Raven you become. But first, a test. Desecrate the Temple of Adonais, and you will live. Refuse, and your women and children will die before your eyes.”

Now everyone was frozen in indecision. Sabíana understood them. It was one thing to denounce Adonais with the lips and to secretly worship in one’s heart and home. It was another thing to raise a hand against his Temple.

Yadovír leered like an old man of millennial cunning, gesturing to the Gumiren with an arm that was made more terrible by a suggestion of a wing-shadow behind him. The Gumiren built a pyre around the Covenant Tree and lit it. Sabíana felt the terror of the blasphemy like it was a living presence next to her. The Gumiren then gathered all the women and children like cattle and pulled the babies from the arms of their mothers. They held them over the fire. Unmoved by the screams, they stood still as cold stone, ready at Yadovír’s command to hurl the shrieking children into the fire, even as they reached for their mothers in uncomprehending terror. Sabíana thought her heart would rip apart from the strain.

None of the warriors hesitated any longer. Given torches and axes by the Gumiren, they rushed through the reaches like a swarm of fire-ants and vented all their fear and frustration on the trees of the Temple. Red-barks were torn asunder, burned, hacked to pieces. The Grove of Mysteries was mutilated, and Sabíana felt the death of each tree as though a child of hers were killed before her eyes. The low wall surrounding the temple was broken stone by stone with meticulous malice. The altar table was hurled off the edge of the cliff. The lanterns were shattered, and with their undying flames the Temple burned, and the conflagration rose up to the Heights, joining the blasphemous sacrifice of the Great Tree. Sabíana closed her eyes and willed the tears to come, to unburden the heaviness of her heart, but they would not.

With an effort, she forced her eyes open again. She needed to see this horror to its end. The warriors who still refused to join the Raven were jostled toward the gates of the city. Many of them bowed before the burning Temple as they passed it, heedless of the sharp points wedged into their backs. At that small act of bravery, Sabíana’s tears came—slow and deliberate.

Many women and children followed their men, desiring no other fate than to join their loved ones in death. Most of the others who remained huddled away from them in fear. The crowd of faithful ones stopped at the open doors leading out of Vasyllia, and all turned back to Yadovír to hear the final pronouncement. His voice became impossibly loud, so that Sabíana was sure they heard every word.

“People of the Raven, denounce your allegiance to Adonais!”

Now there was no hesitation.

“We reject him!”

“Behold your queen.” He raised Sabíana roughly with a single hand, and she felt no more dignified than a sack of potatoes. Many faces blanched and lost all remaining hope when they saw her. I must look as bad as I feel, she thought.

“Behold your Black Sun!” Yadovír screeched. “May her reign be long and blessed!”

“Long live Darina Sabíana!” they all cried. Some of the women wailed and moaned.

Sabíana wanted with all her power to at least raise a hand to them, to acknowledge that she was with them in spirit, but no part of her body moved.

“Death to the traitors!” Yadovír jabbed his right forefinger toward the people at the gates. “Go, and meet your just reward!”

Sabíana watched as the condemned walked out of the city, showing not the slightest sign of fear. At first quietly, then with greater intensity, they all began to sing. Even in the high turret of the palace in the third reach, Sabíana heard them clearly.

O Adonais, hear us,

Defend us, as we cry:

“Annihilate this Darkness,

And give us strength to die.”

Lord, give them strength to die, Sabíana thought.

No sooner had all of them left the city than a white light washed over them. A radiant Sirin appeared over each person—a lamentation of thousands of Sirin in flight and full-throated song—bemoaning the fall of Vasyllia with voices that cut Sabíana with their agonizing beauty. Taking each of the faithful by the arms, including the many wounded still lying on the field of battle, the Sirin flew up into the light of the sun. Their song faded, but the song in Sabíana’s heart rose to a great fury. She tested her limbs, and to her exhilaration, the smallest finger of her right hand twitched. The iron of her courage poured back into her heart. She could do this. She would be their hope.

Have you seen the hands of a healer?

Are they rough?

No.

Are they dirty?

No.

What are they like?

Like the sun reflected in water…

Karila nursery chant

Chapter 34

Healer

Voran stood at the top of the world. He had crossed more than a single boundary. This was not the Lows of Aer; this was something deeper. Clouds were scattered below him, as though he were set here by a Power of Aer to herd them. Most of the clouds sat barely higher than a great moon-shaped tarn far below his feet, nestled among the crags that divided Vasyllia from Nebesta. The tarn was lined at one end with bunched conifers that looked like bristles on a hair-brush from this distance. Where he stood, there was hardly any vegetation, except for a few pines gnarled by the constant wind. The rest was grey-brown stone and snow, though there was strangely little white for this depth of winter.

Then there was the black hawthorn.

The young hawthorn, frothing with white flowers, stood on the tip of a conical rock, its roots trailing downward along the stone until their tips dug into great cracks. Its thorns were like iron nails, but each dripped opalescent water onto the rock. The drops rolled individually down the stone, slowly, carefully, as though they were looking for the right path down, until they followed the roots through the cracks into the earth. There were no clouds above them, Voran checked. The tree wept.

Though Voran’s panic and fear beat at his heart like hammers, he froze in wonder at the sight. The hawthorn sang. It was nothing like the song of the Sirin; it was far more ancient and alien, and it revealed to Voran a depth of natural power that he never could have imagined. He had no doubt this tree was capable of healing the sick, and much more than that.

Something thwacked in the thin air and whistled. Voran’s left shoulder jerked back at a violent angle, and when he looked down, it had sprouted an arrow. He tried to move, but the pain was like his shoulder ripping apart. He was pinned to a tree.

Voran turned his head, trying to gather his thoughts in the maelstrom of pain and panic. Mirnían came out of a shelter of a crag, a set expression on his face. Mirnían pulled the bowstring back to his cheek and waited. His hands trembled slightly, and his face had gone white. He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment, then tensed and loosed. The arrow grazed Voran’s left arm, tearing the flesh. Its whistle lingered in the sparse air.

Voran caught Mirnían’s eye and nodded, then dropped his head. He waited for the next arrow, sure that this time a marksman as good as Mirnían would not miss. He couldn’t help but feel intense sadness that it had come to this, but to his surprise, he didn’t blame Mirnían. He breathed out and was strangely calm.

Mirnían’s breathing was loud enough for Voran to hear. “No,” whispered Mirnían, his breathing turning ragged, “No, it can’t be.”

Voran looked up to see Mirnían ripping off his tunic with hands shaking so violently that he remained fully clothed despite all his efforts to disrobe. Finally, he managed to pull part of a sleeve off. His chest was leprous, and it stank, even at this distance. Mirnían’s eyes were wild. He raised his hands, and they were riddled with sores. He showed them to Voran like a frightened child.

“They are back,” he said, his eyes nearly all whites. “They are back.”

He ran toward the hawthorn and scrabbled up the rock, but it was slick with the tree’s tears, and he kept falling down. Finally, he reached the lowest thorns with one hand as he clung to the stone face with the other. He grabbed and screamed with pain, let go, and fell head over heels to the ground, where he lay, twitching spasmodically and sobbing. His hands were torn where he had grabbed at the weeping thorns. The hawthorn had not healed him.

Voran could no longer bear it. Gritting his teeth, he pulled the arrow out of his shoulder and nearly passed out from the pain. He forced his mind to ignore it, even as his head began to spin and his limbs wanted desperately to give up the fight. Somehow, he made it to Mirnían’s side, and dropped to his knees next to him.

Mirnían no longer struggled; he merely sobbed, looking like a wounded animal more than a human being. He raised both hands to his face in a half-hearted gesture of protection. Voran put his good arm under Mirnían’s neck and hugged him close to his body. He wept again—he was weeping far too much lately.