Lebía blushed a little, like a white rose tipped with red.

Mirnían gently took the trunk near the base, and to his amazement the roots disentangled themselves from the ground and wrapped themselves around his hand.

“The blessing of the Heights is on you, Dar Mirnían,” said Otar Svetlomír, his eyes brilliant in the white light.

They planted the tree in the center of the village. The roots took the earth by themselves, just as they had taken Mirnían’s hand.

Lebía hesitantly touched the quivering branches of the white sapling. They thrummed with life, and she gasped in pleasure, like a child might when touching something unexpectedly cold. Suddenly, the tree grew before their eyes. Within seconds, it was a full tree, adorned with golden leaves still half-folded. The white light rose until it was hard to look at the tree directly.

“Look!” said a girl in the crowd, pointing upward.

The sky above them shimmered with red gold. Hundreds of firebirds circled the tree. A single pin-prick opened in the sky above the firebirds, and a light descended on the tree, until it seemed to burn with fire. Then Lebía realized it was no illusion. The white aspen was on fire.

Mirnían embraced Lebía. She nestled under his chin, that most comfortable of places, where she fit perfectly.

“I have so many questions, my love,” she said. “But one will suffice for now. How is Voran?”

Mirnían pulled away from her and put his hands on her shoulders to look intently into her eyes.

“How did you know?” he asked.

She smiled. “We have always been bound unlike other people. I feel him like he is part of me.”

Mirnían nodded, understanding. “He is well, as well as can be expected.” He huffed, at a loss for words. “I do not even know where to begin.”

“Where is he now?”

“He is going to Vasyllia. Sabíana waits for him, you know.”

Lebía smiled. “Did he find what he sought?”

“No. He seeks still. I think he will seek always. If things were dangerous before, now they are far worse. Thank the Heights, this place is safe. No other place in the world is safe anymore.”

On the next morning, before the sun rose, Lebía came one last time to the shores of the Great Sea, to take leave of that part of her life—the long wait for Mirnían—forever. She was surprised to see Aglaia standing there as well, looking out over the water.

“Mother? You are up early.”

“Wolves don’t sleep as humans do. They need much less.” She grinned. Lebía gasped.

“You were the wolf that brought Mirnían? You brought me my happiness. That was you!”

“Yes, my swanling. And now, I must leave you again.”

Lebía started to protest, but Aglaia silenced her with a glance, as though no time had passed at all since Lebía was a five-year-old girl. Lebía even giggled nervously.

“My poor boy needs someone,” said Aglaia. “Voran has taken the healing of many on himself. But he is still so young, so inexperienced.”

“Dear mother,” Lebía smiled wryly. “What can an old woman do to help the greatest warrior of our age?”

“Ha!” The grin on Aglaia’s face was uncomfortably wolfish. “He is nothing without me.” She winked, and suddenly a wolf the size of a bear stood next to Lebía. Lebía laughed in her shock and clapped her hands like a little girl.

“Voran thinks I am a helpless old woman. He will learn to value his mother more in the future.”

She leapt into the water without a backward glance. Lebía stood there, watching her turn into a black dot. In an instant that seemed to stop time itself, the rays of the sun streamed out between two distant peaks. Everything the sun touched danced with life. Lebía realized with a start that Antomír would be awake already, and poor Mirnían would have no idea what to do with a screaming baby. She turned around, hiked her skirts up, and ran back to Ghavan.

<<<<>>>>

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Flip to the next page to read the first chapter of book 2 of the Raven Son series, The Curse of the Raven.

Llun the Smith gazed into the fire. The bellows blew, and the sparks exploded before him like a shower of fireflies. He breathed in. The smell—soot, sweat, dross melting from pure metal. It was as near paradise as anyone could get in Vasyllia. Especially after Vasyllia fell.

“Smith Llun! How much longer?”

It was the fifth time Garmun had asked the same question in the last half hour. The old fool. Llun was continually amazed that the fat man was the most sought-after master builder in Vasyllia. All he ever seemed to do was sit in Llun’s smithy, covering most of it with his belly.

“It’s coming, it’s coming,” growled Llun. He didn’t mind Garmun sitting around while he worked. But no one…no one was allowed to break the hallowed moments when the fire and the metal fused to become something new, something sacred.

“By the Great Father, Llun, I only asked for nails, not works of art.”

Llun twitched at the name. Great Father, my muscular left bicep. Why is the Raven renaming himself now, of all times? Does he imagine we’ve forgotten how he took everything from us?

“What is it about you master builders? What ails you? Too many children?”

Garmun turned purple, opened his mouth to speak, then choked on himself. He had no wife, but his illegitimate progeny filled half of Vasyllia’s first reach. Crude people snickered that being so fat was normal after so many pregnancies.

“Peace, Brother Garmun,” said Llun. “They’re all but done. And I promise you they’ll be the hardiest, longest-lasting nails you’ll find in all Vasyllia.”

And the only ones with a raven etched on the nail’s head. May his memory be forever cursed, and may every hammer stroke hasten the time of his demise…

“You mean the most exquisite nails in Vasyllia, no doubt,” the fat man complained. “I’ve never seen anyone so taken with his own talent. Don’t you know that your little frills and personal touches make no difference? Competence! Competence! That’s what the market wants.”

“The market, with all its frippery and cheap wares, can burn in the fires of the land of the dead for all I care.” It slipped out. Llun hoped the hammer would be distraction enough. But he had never been blessed by fortune.

“Your talk smacks of the Outer Lands, you fool. Be careful no one in the Great Father’s good graces overhears you.”