The Throne of the Gods

Chapter 2

2

Sabíana sat by a river of fire, transfixed by something no other human being had ever seen. From the blazing ripples rose a cone of rock crowned with three cherry trees, all of them aflame without being consumed. Behind them, a distant mountain range provided a hazy frame that made the entire spectacle more like dream than reality. She felt the shadow of the towering red-barks in the forest behind her, though she couldn’t see them.

The light of the trees in the Heart of the World flickered. Two of the trees had shed their petals completely now, and they stood bare and insignificant by the flaming river. The central tree clung to its petals, which still burned brightly, though not nearly as bright as the throbbing single fruit hanging from the lowest branch. It looked full to bursting.

Sabíana stared intently at the fruit. She tried to understand how the seeds of this fruit, when harvesting the flaming waters, could transform that river into the lifeblood of the Realms, the source of all life itself. She failed miserably.

By her side, a greatly diminished Lyna sat, her wings folded over her eagle chest in a way that was decidedly human, not birdlike. To Sabíana’s left, the Harbinger stood, leaning on a staff, looking for all the worlds like an old man bent by age, not one of the greatest Powers of all the Realms, capable of cutting down the power even of the Raven himself.

“I should feel wonder at this,” Sabíana said, more to herself than to anyone else. “No one has ever seen this before, not in all man’s history.”

Instead, the deadness in her slithered out from her heart, crawling with icy fingers over the rest of her body. What did it matter that she was about to see a miracle? What was the point of miracles when the world itself had no meaning?

The fruit throbbed like a heart, then flashed in bright vermilion.

No one answered Sabíana, not even the Harbinger. At that moment, Sabíana missed Khaidu so much it ached inside her. The Gumira’s sharp humor would have been a healing balm in this moment, more desired even than the physical healing Voran had given her body. But Khaidu had gone with Aglaia through one of the Palymi’s doors, to the parting of the ways. They were intent on braving the Realm of the Dead, mad as that idea was.

But who is more mad? They who brave the dead lands, or we who wait for the lands of the living to wither and die?

It seemed an uncounted age that they sat there, the fruit slowly growing brighter and brighter. Then, in a flash that was as much music as it was light, the fruit burst open. Seeds like living sparks flew out over the waters. Every time they hit the water, a chord of light-music played in the still air. The animals of this place—squirrels, foxes, badgers—came to sit at the edge of the waters and stare in mute wonder, completely unafraid of their human companions. Their eyes reflected the sparks. Sabíana thought they looked wiser and more content than any human being could be.

“What now?” asked Lyna.

The Harbinger sighed and shook his head. “I do not know.”

Sabíana turned her head sharply at the figure robed in grey, with grey beard and grey eyes—a figure so solid he seemed carved from marble.

“If you do not know, who does?”

“The normal life cycle of the trees presupposes many fruits, not one. The lifeblood of the Realms must be seeded regularly. Now, all the Realms hold their breath to see if another fruit will even grow.”

He stopped. Sabíana jumped up, the anger needle-sharp inside her.

“What? Will the Realms start dying? What does that mean for all living things? What does it mean for Vasyllia? You suggested to Voran that we should hope! What hope do we have, if the Realms themselves begin to collapse?”

“The only hope anyone can have,” said Lyna in a half-chant, looking blankly out over the waters. “The hope that the Heights intervene in time.”

“That is no hope at all!” Sabíana paced along the bank, her hands twitching at her sides. “To sit and wait, and hope for deliverance? That is not the way!”

“No,” said the Harbinger. “It is not. And I have not lied to you, Sabíana. You can choose where to go. Wherever you go, your healing will inspire others. Even before, when you were a child, you commanded the loyalty of men. Now, having come through a living death and back again, you can do wonders.”

“You’re suggesting I take the road to Raven’s Bane, aren’t you?” Sabíana faced the Harbinger, feeling an irrational desire to kick aside his staff.

“Yes.”

“And what if I choose Vasyllia instead? What if I refuse to accept her demise?”

“That would be . . . far more dangerous.”

“Ha! Who was it that urged me to take the difficult way, Harbinger? Who?”

The Harbinger bowed, and he had the decency, Sabíana thought, to look abashed.

“You must understand, my swan. Everything that occurred up to the moment when you came to the Heart of the World was foreseen, to some degree. The Powers have been straining to move events, in their limited ability to intervene, toward this moment. But there is no certainty from this moment on. I can prophesy no longer. No one can.”

“And so, we are left to our own devices,” Sabíana mumbled. Her mouth was sour with disgust.

“No,” said Lyna. “You will have the Sirin.” Her eyes were alight with some nonhuman emotion. “I will take the road to Raven’s Bane, Sabíana. But I will not stop there. I will go to the habitations of my sisters. I will raise them for the cause of Sabíana, Darina of Vasyllia. For the Heart of the World, that it may rise again as a beacon for those who choose to live not for themselves, but for the impossible love of human souls. Wait for me in Vasyllia, my queen. I will come to you. And I will bring the final fruit from the Heart of the World, to be replanted in its proper place.”

Sabíana’s breath faltered as the light of Lyna’s feathers caught the dancing spark-light of the seeds. Lyna sang, and the sparks danced in harmony. The animals cavorted in pure joy. To Sabíana’s shock, she saw a mountain leopard dancing with a horned sheep as though they were family, not predator and prey. Lyna flew into the spinning veil of water leading to Raven’s Bane. The door flashed as she passed and winked out.

Sabíana felt her cheeks with her fingers. They were wet. The deadness inside her cowered and began a slow retreat.

“I go to Vasyllia,” she said to the Harbinger. “I go to save my city before it destroys itself.”

He bowed before her, becoming even older and more frail than before. His staff outstretched, he pointed the way to the final door.