“None of that, Voran. Last chance. Take my offer, bed me properly, and I will take you to the weeping tree.”
“You lie, as I should have known. You are in the Lows of Aer with me. Of that, I have no doubt.” He felt the soreness under his arms. His hand came away bloody, and it disgusted him more than the sight of blood ever had before. “You cannot bear me over the barrier unless you are on the other side.”
“How clever you are.” She looked disappointed. “Never mind. I can still get my pleasure by force.” She lunged at him with the speed of a lynx, but he had no desire to stay and fight. He merely stepped a few paces back and fell into the water. The girl recoiled from the splash with a shriek. Voran, not stopping to think, splashed her as hard as he could before she could get away. The water caught fire on her hair, and in a moment, she was a blazing inferno, running away into the darkness. Her wail cut into him almost as painfully as her nails had.
Voran was in pure, clear water, but somehow it was also fire, though nothing like the usual red-orange flame. Each little eddy was also a translucent tongue of fire, and he was covered in them. At first, the flames were dew-like—soft and cooling and thicker than water. Then the pain seeped in as the flames reached through his clothes into his skin. He threw off the new cassock—it somehow remained untouched by the fire—and hurled it to the shore. It landed next to his sword.
He fought down the rush of panic, held his breath, and forced himself to submerge completely. It was excruciating, as Tarin had said. As he washed, he burned. As he took off the thick layers of mud and sweat, layers of skin sloughed off as well. Soon the pain was a scream in his ears, but he forced himself not to come up. He continued washing himself, continued mouthing the word—Saddaí, Saddaí—until even the scars from the serpent-hag came off in purplish clumps.
He stood up, bracing for the cold air, and waded out of the river. The water should have frozen on his skin the moment he broke, but the flames continued to dance over his body, though they no longer hurt very much. With a flash of embarrassed fear, he touched his head and chin. No, his shoulder-length hair was still there, only smoother and silkier, as was his still young beard. He sighed in relief.
He wrapped himself in the new cassock. It was clean. He had last been clean months ago. That moment, a short moment of exhilarated pleasure, was one of the longest of his life, one he would remember again and again for many long years. The fabric was thick and well-woven, excellent for cold weather, though he wished he had his old travel gear from Vasyllia to go atop it. As it was, his training with Tarin had hardened his body against cold in a way he did not think possible. All Vasylli prided themselves on their ability to bear cold, but his capacity to endure it now was far greater than the hardiest Vasylli.
There was something else that was different as well. As he realized what it was, he almost wept for the sheer joy of it—the soft palpitation in his chest, as of another heart.
Lyna had come back, and with her came the dawn. She sat on a low bough of a bent-over oak, its bark green with moss. Behind her head, the sun rose between two distant hills, giving Lyna a halo of gold. At first, he couldn’t see her face. When his eyes got accustomed to the light, he saw she was smiling.
“Lyna, how I longed to see you.”
“Oh, my falcon. My poor falcon. You cannot imagine the pain I felt when you broke our bond. It can be remade, if you wish it. But it will be painful as nothing else.”
Voran laughed dourly. “Today, that seems appropriate.”
“First, you must hurry. Tarin has crossed the line of sentinel trees to distract the Raven’s creatures, so that you could escape. I do not know how long he has left.”
As soon as Voran passed the line of spruces, the swirling darkness was on him, and invisible bonds stronger than steel pinned him in place. His senses sharpened, so that every movement of his pinioned arms was a cacophony of pain. At first, he saw nothing but murk, but the shadows resolved like fading smoke around a prostrate figure on his knees, bloodied hands clasping a hoary head, face planted firmly into his thighs. Voran refused to believe this was Tarin. Over him towered a hideous monster—a leonyn over seven feet tall, his head and face a horrible amalgam of feline and human, with only the worst qualities of both. He bared brown fangs and roared as he beat Tarin with a monstrous leather whip, edged with many tails.
Voran could not move. His frustration reached a boil, and he screamed out his defiance at the mass of formless creatures swirling in the darkness around the leonyn and Tarin. The lion-thing turned to look at Voran—its eyes were black shards of the void swirling around them—and smiled.
“Ah. The hag’s lover.” The leonyn’s voice was incongruously gentle. “Well met at last. How typical of your kind to hide in the stinking marshes. Quite a warrior you are.”
Tarin looked up. His face was battered, but his eyes still had the old fire. He assessed Voran for a heartbeat and seemed content with what he saw. With a groan, he got up. The leonyn stepped back in surprise.
“The old goat has some strength left,” the creature said and hissed, skin stretched back over his gums, revealing all of his fangs in challenge.
Tarin paid him no attention. He assumed the stance of the storyteller and cried out, as if in challenge, “How do you feel, young man?” The leonyn beat him again, but Tarin only flinched at it, as if it hurt no more than a mosquito’s bite.
Voran remembered the ordeal with the hag, when Tarin told the story of the healing of the crippled young man by the Sirin. To his amazement, Voran did feel an increase of strength, as though the river of fire had newly forged him.
“I feel the strength of ten men within me,” Voran said, echoing the words of the young man in the story.
Tarin laughed with tears in his eyes, and the leonyn stepped back in fear. Into the blackness flew Lyna, her eyes glowing golden fire. She fluttered overhead like a falcon readying to dive. Voran shrugged off the power holding him pinioned as if it were string. He unsheathed his sword. His heart beat like a hammer on new steel, and his sword responded. It turned red with heat, then lightning-white, as if it were itself furious at the attack of the Raven’s creatures.
From a deep recess of his heart, something flowed out like fresh wine bursting out of its cask. He began to sing, and to his heart’s leaping joy, Lyna sang in harmony with him—a hymn he did not know, yet it flowed unimpeded from his lips.
I arise today
Through the love of the Heights.
Light of sun, radiance of moon,
Splendor of fire, speed of lightning,
Swiftness of wind, depth of sea,
Strength of earth, firmness of rock.
I arise today
Through his strength to protect me
From snares of the darkness,
From tempting of pleasures,
From everyone who wishes me ill,
Both far and near, alone, among many.
I summon today
All these Powers to keep me
Against every cruel and malevolent power,
Against every thought that kills body and soul,
