Blackness. And then voices speaking from the dark. First, an old woman, her voice cracked with age.
"An orphan boy in a bone pile far, far from home," she cooed.
And then another voice, deeper and more melodious, "Methinks he wants his mother, but he left her body to burn with all the others."
"Now he pretends to be a monster with his orphan friends," giggled another, younger voice. "But they aren't monsters, are they, Sisters?"
"The strigoi-viu told all the little boys a lie," said the old woman.
"That to be a man, you must be a monster," said the second voice.
Takri felt a soft hand upon his bare shoulder.
"Not all believe his lie," whispered the younger voice in his ear.
Takri turned, trying in vain to see the source of the voice. But there was nothing but darkness.
"Leave me, my Sisters. I have wounds to tend," said the old woman.
"We shall wait for your light in the evening sky," said the second voice.
"Morning Star becomes Day Star. Day Star becomes Evening Star. So it has been and so it will be," said the third voice.
The darkness resumed its silence.
"Did you hear that?" whispered Takri.
"Nothing but you," said Jacu. "We need light. It must be later than I thought for the sun to set so quickly."
"It's too wet to light anything now," said Takri. "I'm going to try and make it to the hut. There was a fire there before."
As if on command, a light flared in the distance and then dimmed before it began bobbing towards them. This was not like any torch or lantern Takri had come across in his life. The light appeared to flow from two holes set in a sphere. As the light came closer, it changed. The two holes in the sphere became the eyes in a skull which burned with the same intensity as a torch. Under the skull, a small, hunched figure was wrapped in peasant garb the same color as the fog. She leaned heavily upon her skull-topped staff as she approached the small group of princes.
"Jacu, do you see that?" asked Takri, pointing at the ghostly figure. His friend turned pale and nodded.
"A Zorya." Jacu looked down at Lod, now lying unconscious against his friend. "Do we leave him? Lod's as good as dead either way. I say we run?"
A loud cracking noise sounded through the fog, followed by the sound of shattering ice. Followed by another, and another. As Jacu had predicted, the ice was becoming too heavy for the tree branches to hold.
"We wait," said Takri. "Where can we run? Back through the icy forest?"
Another crack of breaking wood split through the eerie silence as if to punctuate Takri's statement. The woman and her death light approached close enough now for them to hear the lullaby she softly sang to herself as she walked.
Sleep, sleep, my sweet tiny baby
Sleep, sleep, my sweet little boy
Till morning becomes day, my sweet tiny baby
Till day becomes evening, my sweet little boy
When you grow bigger
When you grow strong
When you awaken, child of the Mother
Out of the night, my sweet little boy*
Jacu was already asleep. Takri shook his head, struggling to stay awake. Deep inside an insurmountable mountain of exhaustion threatened to consume him. The mountain built of every day spent in the desert camp, every night spent in a tent with bloodthirsty strangers sleeping beside him, each moment since he had lost his family and tribe to the sword and spear of the strigoi-viu. He was tired beyond caring if he lived or died. Before he succumbed to sleep, he saw the crone leaning over Lod's inert form, one hand on his wound, and the other still wrapped around her deathly lamp.
*lyrics inspired by an old Romanian lullaby "Nani Nani." The song can be heard here: Nani Nani
Vasi followed the silk filament further up the mountain, stumbling across rocks and lichen. She emerged from the fog as the setting sun turned the clouds below her pink and orange then deep purple as night fell. Above her, the sky glittered with stars. She should have succumbed to cold long before, but the air around her was warm and soft like a spring day after a rain. She could smell the ocean in the wind as it swept down from the rocky peaks above her, ruffling her hair and swirling her red robes around her
She felt free. For the first time in a decade, she was free. Free from the servitude in the Swarm's camps as they marched across forest and desert and savannahs deep with grass. Free from the grasp of filthy men. Free from the threat of rape and death around every corner. Free from scrubbing blood from the floors and walls and bath of Mahleck.
She felt the knife in her belt. What was it the old woman had said?
...the knife that tasted the heart blood of the strigoi-viu.
What did that mean? Strigoi-viu?
It couldn't mean the Queen. The way the woman said the words "strigoi-viu", it did not refer to Queen Mila. Those words meant something vile. Vasi was sure of it. The Queen had died a hero, of that Vasi had no doubt. She herself pulled the woman's naked body from the steaming bath that night. There were no wounds other than the ones she always saw on Mahleck's prey. Cuts to the wrists and thigh slicing open veins, cuts to the neck where the arteries lay close to the surface. Never a wound to the heart. He liked to play with his victims so he could watch their life slip away into the water or his bedclothes.
She shook herself free of the memory and brought herself back to the desolate mountain top warm with ocean winds.
The moon rose in the east, bright enough to cast the shadows of both Vasi and the thread she followed on the rocks below them. Ahead of her she could see the thread glistening in the moonlight, and further along, an outcropping of jagged granite.
"Where are you, voice?" asked Vasi, as she reached the end of the thread, which seemed to lead directly into the heart of the rock.
I will lead you, little one.
Vasi looked up towards the source of the voice where a small spider dangled from a web silver with sparkling dew.
Come, I will show you Her ways.