“Yet if they endure the war that never ends, they shall have peace in a place of sanctuary beyond the endless ages.”
“O Adonais,” whispered Sabíana, trembling. “How foolish have we been.”
Around the text, smaller icons of great kings of old were rendered in astonishing detail, barely tarnished with age. It struck her that if the figures came out from the walls and spoke to her, she would not be surprised. For the first time in her life, the Covenant, Adonais, and all of the old stories were no longer fairy tales, but had become painful reality.
“You feel it too, do you not, Rogdai? The terrible abyss of time in those words, especially when read aloud. We forget so easily…” A thought struck her. “We must read this aloud at my coronation. We must pledge, as a people, to renew our commitment to the Covenant. We must seek for the last help we have left.”
And then she knew what she must do, and she began to weep.
The warrior came to the edge of the forest. There, in a clearing, he saw the hut standing on chicken feet. “Hut, hut! Turn with your back to the forest, with your front to me.” It turned. He stepped forward, but stopped in fear. A river of fire appeared between him and the hut. The hag stood at the doorway, leering at him. “I can give you what you want!” she cackled. “But you’ll have to brave the baptism of fire.”
The warrior jumped in…
“The Tale of Alienna the Wise and the Deathless One”
(Old Tales, Book II)
Chapter 29
The River of Fire
The stars were snuffed out like candles. The field was shrouded in black. The other shacks were simply not there. Outside Tarin’s window, it was so dark that it looked as though someone had painted the windows black. The growling continued—regular, insistent, ravenous. Voran’s hands shook.
“How?” whispered Tarin. “They could not have found this place. It is protected. It is beyond their knowledge.”
Voran knew how. Tarin had said it: “You must so guard your thoughts and inner movements of the heart that not even a stray intention will escape that can aid the enemy.” Apparently, even considering the drowned girl’s offer was enough to open a chink in the ancient protection.
“I did it,” Voran said. “The drowned girl, the Alkonist, she offered me a way out of the Lows.” Tarin’s eyes grew wide. “I did not accept it, but neither did I curse her out of my hearing. I may have even considered the possibility.”
Tarin breathed out heavily. “Perhaps. But she is an insignificant power, a thing the other Alkonist endure only because they must. She could not have done this…unless…” Something dawned on him, and he seemed even more afraid, if that were possible. “Oh, my dear Voran, I hope not…”
“What, my lord? Tell me, please.”
“There are powers of the earth…strange, shadowy powers with ever-shifting allegiances. They have no love for men. They have long remained dormant, but if they have awoken, it could only mean…”
Tarin took Voran’s forearms in his hands—an ancient gesture of kinship in war—and his eyes were frightening. They were the eyes of a man ready to die.
“Listen to me, Voran. The only way that the Raven’s horde could have found me is if the boundaries between worlds are tottering. That could only happen if Vasyllia is on the verge of falling to the Raven.” Voran must have looked more confused than usual, because Tarin smiled in spite of his fear. “Yes, my boy, Vasyllia is far more important than you realize. It hides a secret that may determine the fate of all the Realms, not just this one. Promise me, my boy. No matter what happens, you must not let Vasyllia perish. Even if it has already fallen, you must win it back. At whatever cost!”
His eyes were on fire now, and Voran was truly afraid for the first time in his life. His restlessness, his desire to quest, his wish to make a name in the world—all that vanished. He knew, with the conviction of someone on the doorstep of death, that he was not ready to face the Raven and his darkness.
“I promise, my lord.”
“I am no longer your lord, Voran. You are a free man. Though you are so unprepared, so unprepared.”
Once again, Tarin had a mumbled conversation with himself. Something knocked at the door, a soft knock, not threatening at all. It chilled Voran to the marrow. Tarin’s eyes were full of tears.
“I have been cruel to you, Voran, but it was done with a pure intention, I hope you realize. And it has not been enough. I am throwing you to the Powers, and I do not know if you will survive. But if you do not, we will all die.”
He fell on his knees and began scrabbling at the hard earth of the shack. For a moment, Voran wondered if madness had finally struck Tarin, but the old man looked up after his fingers had grabbed something, and he smiled his usual, impish grin. He scratched out a wooden trap door, pulled on it, and the trap screeched open.
“This place is protected, as I said. The line of sentinel spruces is a line of power, and the rest of my land is encircled by a river of fire—both are a deep magic from the days of Founding. If the Raven’s horde has truly passed it or avoided it somehow, then there is no hope. More likely, they are casting illusion at us from the other side. In any case, you must chance it. At the end of this passage, you will come out on the banks of the river of fire. You must not hesitate even a moment—jump in. It will be excruciating, yes. You may be consumed by it. But we have no more time to prepare. The battle has come to us.”
Before Voran could say anything, Tarin pushed a sheathed sword, bundled in fresh black fabric and tied with a new belt of black leather, into his hands and nearly threw him into the passage.
“Go, before it is too late.”
The knock on the door repeated, still soft and not remotely threatening.
“That is good,” said Tarin, smiling. “It suggests they are not actually here yet. You may have time. Run!”
The darkness in the passage was so thick that Voran was sure it would simply eat him before he could pass through. The silence was so complete that it thundered in his ears. His heart did its best to try to jump through his chest. He exhaled until there was no breath left, then inhaled a long, pure breath, and began to repeat the word in his mind.
“Saddaí. Saddaí.”
There was no change in light, but suddenly he realized that his hearing was enough to tell him exactly where to go, how long the passage was, and how fast he could run without falling or crashing into anything. This must be how a bat sees, he thought. He wrapped himself in the black fabric—which turned out to be a full cassock with fine bone clasps all the way down the front—strapped on his sword underneath it, and ran forward, the loose edges of the garment flapping behind him.
It seemed a long time, but the air eventually changed, becoming cold and fresh. The passage sloped sharply up, and before he knew it, he stood outside on the banks of a small river that flowed contentedly as though it were the middle of summer. It took him a moment to realize that this must be what Tarin had called the river of fire, but it looked merely river-ish.
“It took you long enough, my sweet,” said the drowned girl from above him. She landed on him like a cat, and her claws were just as sharp. Her arms and her hair engulfed him. He tried to push her off, but she was inhumanly strong. As he thrashed, he tripped on something and was on the ground. They rolled back and forth violently, and Voran felt her nails tickling him. They were cold as iron.
At first he laughed, it was so absurd. But it soon grew unpleasant. She laughed and laughed and continued to tickle until the nails dug into his skin, and the pain was searing. He found it harder and harder to breathe. The stars danced before his eyes for a moment, and he felt himself go under, but then she sprang off him.
“That was a foretaste,” she said in her girlish voice, dusting off her arms with her fingers, again parodying a typical gesture of a courtly woman. “I can kill you quickly, or I can do it slowly. It depends on my mood. Now you know.”
Voran reached for his sword, but it was not there. She held it, still sheathed on its belt, though it seemed to disgust her, like an old cheese gone green.
