Prologue
The city lay swept by the cold February wind, yet at its heart dozens of bonfires burned, casting warmth and light across the streets. Berd-Kaputin came alive, and a festive spirit embraced everyone—from the poor who warmed themselves by the fire to the noble townsfolk who left their homes to join the celebration. As evening fell, the square before the temple filled with people. The elders lit the great bonfire, built in a pyramid shape. Flames leapt upward, driving away darkness and misfortune. From it, hundreds of other fires were kindled: in courtyards, in squares, and even beyond the city walls. Around the blaze, people held hands and danced in a circle. They spun to the songs, while laughter and joyful cries mingled with the crackling of burning logs and brushwood. In the streets, musicians played duduks[1] and zurnas[2], calling people to dance. On that February evening, Berd-Kaputin glowed with the fires of Terendez[3].
[1] Duduk — a traditional Armenian woodwind instrument made of apricot wood, known for its warm, melancholic sound.
[2] Zurna — a traditional double-reed wind instrument common in Armenia and across the Middle East, known for its loud, piercing, and celebratory tone.
[3] Terendez — a festival celebrating the Presentation of the Lord; its roots trace back to ancient pagan traditions.
The royal palace was preparing for the feast. The inner courtyard was adorned with bright fabrics and garlands of dried fruits and herbs, their fragrance filling the cool air. In the center of the courtyard, a bonfire burned. Guests were already emerging from the side gallery.
“Do you think this year will be a successful one?” one of the commanders asked his companion. “If we manage to hold the borders.” The other shrugged. “They say the caliph is gathering an army. Even if he is not preparing for war against us, sooner or later the Arabs will come to our lands all the same.”
On a raised platform away from the fire stood the royal throne, carved with grapevines. Upon it sat King Artashes. Time had marked his face: his hair and thick beard were streaked with gray, and deep wrinkles lined his forehead. Yet despite his age, his dark eyes still burned with fire. The crowd’s murmur quieted when Princess Tsovinar entered the courtyard. She moved lightly, almost gliding across the marble floor; her long dress shimmered in the torchlight, and her hair was crowned with a golden diadem. The guests stepped aside, bowing their heads in respect. Tsovinar acknowledged them with a gentle smile and a nod.
“Good evening, Lord Samvel,” she said to a man in a rich garment. “I hope you are enjoying the feast.” “Of course, Princess.” Samvel bowed with a smile. “It is an honor to be here.”
Tsovinar returned his smile and moved on, pausing beside one of the noble ladies.
“How is your son, Lady Goar?” “He is growing, Princess. He dreams of becoming a warrior and serving the king.”
At last, she approached the platform where her father was seated. Artashes turned his gaze to her and, for the first time that evening, smiled.
“Father,” said Tsovinar, ascending the steps. “You are late.” “I wished to greet the guests.” Artashes nodded, sipping wine from his goblet. “The people love you.” Tsovinar smiled, and, looking at the bonfire, replied, “They love the feast—and the banquet to follow. And besides, half the guests would like to marry me just to sit upon the throne.” “You are wise, daughter. As always, you see to the heart of things.” The princess smiled in return, watching as the flames of the bonfire blazed ever brighter.
Joining the celebration was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a short dark beard—Toros, the sparapet[4], known throughout the kingdom.
“Let us see whether I have lost my agility,” he said with a smirk.
He stepped back a few paces, then rushed forward. His body soared above the bonfire, beyond the reach of the flames. Applause rang out in approval. Toros bowed with a smile, then his eyes met Tsovinar’s. The princess, seated beside the king, allowed herself a slight smile. Watching Toros’s leap was Vardan, the treasurer’s son. He made his way through the crowd and, speaking loudly so all could hear, declared:
“Was that truly a leap? Add more wood!” He turned to the servants. “Let the flames rise higher!”
The servants exchanged surprised glances but obeyed. The crackling grew louder, and soon the fire blazed with renewed strength. “Is he trying to burn himself?” one of the guests muttered.
With a run, Vardan launched himself into the air. In an instant he was above the flames. He landed awkwardly, nearly losing his balance, and the edge of his cloak burst into flame. Vardan quickly tore it from his shoulders and cast it into the fire. Straightening proudly, he smiled as though nothing had happened. Passing through the crowd, he approached the platform where the king and princess were seated. Stopping before them, he bowed respectfully.
“Your Majesty,” he said, then turned his gaze to Tsovinar. "Princess, tonight the light of your beauty outshines even the flames of Terendez.” “Thank you, Vardan.” Her voice was courteous yet cold. Vardan extended his hand to her. “Princess, may I have the honor of accompanying you in the circle dance?” “Thank you for your kind offer, but tonight I must stay by my father’s side.” Vardan bowed once more and withdrew.
When he disappeared into the crowd, Tsovinar spoke to her father: “He has clearly set his eyes on me.” “And you do not care for him?” “Not at all.”
[4] Sparapet — the commander-in-chief of the army in ancient Armenia.
The bonfire burned down to smoldering embers. The air was filled with the scent of smoke, mingled with the aromas of roasted meat and wine. Toros stood by the fire, watching the princess. When their eyes met, he smiled, and she gave him a faint smile in return.
“Did you see that?” one of the nobles said. “The sparapet is clearly to the princess’s liking.” “Oh, if the king decides to marry her to Toros, not everyone will be pleased,” remarked a guest, glancing sideways toward where Vardan stood.
The king rose from his throne.
“The celebration is not yet over. But the fire has gone out, which means it is time to move into the inner hall and continue the feast.”
The royal guards opened the doors leading into the palace. Guests began to stream inside. Toros did not hurry to leave; lost in thought, he gazed at the smoldering embers. Vardan, however, strode into the hall without looking back. Winter still held the city in its cold embrace, but the air already carried a breath of spring.
