by Hal Emerson
Raven nodded, thinking he would swear an oath and it would be over. But, to his surprise, Crane reached into an inner pocket of his long, dark gray robes and pulled out a small lump of something white, no bigger than a pebble.
“You must swear by this,” Crane said, holding it out to him.
Raven took the small lump of metal – for that was what it was, not stone as he’d originally thought – and examined it, turning it over in his hands.
“It is raw Valerium ore,” Crane said, watching Raven carefully.
Raven nodded to himself, having suspected as much. The metal was rare, and only found in the Kindred lands. They used it to make powerful weapons that could cut through magic constructs such as Daemons that, until Davydd Goldwyn had shown him differently, he’d assumed were all but invincible. This lump was barely as large as the last digit of his smallest finger, but it was still likely very valuable.
“What am I supposed to swear?” Raven asked, wary.
“Hold it between your hands and I will tell you,” said Crane.
Raven did as he was told, suddenly aware of the fact they were both riding horses and swaying back and forth as they traveled. He made sure to keep a tight grip on the Valerium – it would not do to drop the thing.
I’m about to declare myself one of the Exiled Kindred, aren’t I?
The thought caused something akin to nausea, mixed with a healthy dose of panic, to settle in the pit of his stomach. It slowly started to spread, vicious and stealthy, down his limbs, pooling in his extremities, making his fingers and toes feel heavy and unresponsive.
“It is very simple,” Crane said quietly. “You swear to protect the Kindred lands and the Kindred people. You swear to take no action that will bring harm to others of the Kindred. And finally … you swear to reject the Empire and the tyranny it stands for.”
Immediately, Raven felt himself bristle at the sentence, and he almost expected arrows to come flying out of nowhere, or perhaps bolts of lightning to descend from the cloudless sky, striking the man down where he stood, impaling him for his blasphemy. Surely the Empire was everywhere; surely such words could never be spoken for fear of divine reprisal.
But time passed and none of these things happened, though the hairs on the back of Raven’s neck were still standing on end. He’d seen his Mother do things that should never have been possible – he would never pretend to know what she could and could not do.
“Very well,” Raven said quickly, afraid that he would lose his nerve if they didn’t get this over with quickly.
“Repeat the oaths after me. I swear to protect the Kindred lands and the Kindred people.”
Raven paused. Seventeen years of training by the Imperial Scholars, seventeen years of life with the Children, seventeen years of demi-god status as a Child himself, rebelled against any such act.
But he had to do it. It was time.
He said the words, repeating the oath back to Crane, holding the Valerium ore. As he finished speaking the skin of his palms began to tingle, and he opened his hand to look at the brilliant white ore. It hadn’t changed … maybe the feeling was all in his head.
“And now the final step,” Crane said, pulling out a small needle, “we need a drop of your blood to bond you to the Anchor, and it to you.”
Raven pulled back as if burned.
“My blood?” He asked, shocked. Only one kind of thing – only one kind of oath – would need to be sworn and sealed in blood.
“Bloodmage,” he hissed, and moved to pull his horse away, reaching already for the sword tied to the saddle behind him. This wasn’t Elder Crane at all, but a Bloodmage imposter – one powerful enough to create a false face, one trying to make a bold attempt –
“Careful!” Crane said, grabbing the reins of Raven’s horse, holding him in place. “Please, calm yourself, let me explain!”
“You cannot fool me with Bloodmagic,” Raven said, twisting to break away, trying to figure out the best way to gain distance, his heart beating fiercely in his chest. He grabbed the hilt of his sword and made to unsheathe it.
Crane reached into his shirt and pulled out his ornamental dagger – the one that all of the Kindred Elders wore around their necks – and in one smooth motion unsheathed it and pressed it to the skin of Raven’s neck.
Images flooded into him – countless lives of Kindred men and women, growing old, becoming Elders, learning, passing that knowledge on, all of them wearing the dagger, all of them called Wise, all of them with a calm, certain demeanor, exhibiting quiet strength, all of them –
And then the images were gone.
As Raven blinked, staring dumbfounded at the man beside him, Crane calmly resheathed the dagger and stowed it beneath his tunic.
“What … what was that?”
“It was a glimpse of something that many Kindred will never see,” Crane said slowly, “but something I hope will convince you that there are other kinds of Bloodmagic, and that I am not a Bloodmage imposter.”
“It’s a Soul Catcher,” Raven said slowly. “The receptacle where Bloodmages put the souls of those they kill – the thing they sell their lives for.”
“In dark Bloodmagic yes,” Crane said, “but in the Bloodmagic practiced by the Elders, it is something else entirely. It is called a sambolin, and this one is called Callendyl. It is the dagger of the Wise Elders – the dagger each of us has worn, since the first of us was chosen, and the sambolin all will wear until the Kindred have vanished.”
“It’s … it’s unlike anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve touched a Soul Catcher before – it was full of pain, and emptiness. Blood and terror – created with death.”
“The Bloodmagic the Kindred use is different,” Crane said repeated, more forcefully. “When one of us dies, or chooses to resign our post, the dagger is passed on to the next Elder, who takes a single drop of his blood and puts it onto the sambolin. When he or she dies, their life, and all that they have learned, is taken by the enchantment and stored inside the blade, where it can be used by future generations and anyone who is chosen Elder. The knowledge is given, not taken.”
The idea was so simple that it left Raven stunned. Why hadn’t anyone ever thought of this before? This was a much more efficient use of the power of Bloodmagic, much simpler. He started thinking about the other Elders – the Artful Elder, the Healing Elder, all of their daggers must be the same, filled with the knowledge of generations, filled with hundreds of years of teachings.
“A different kind of Bloodmagic?”
The Elder nodded to him solemnly.
“The magic of the Kindred takes energy from the user, not from others. The Anchor links itself to you and let’s you pierce the final layer of protection between the Kindred and the Empire – the only thing that has kept us safe all of these years.”
“The illusions,” Raven said, nodding. “I’ve experienced them – both on my way to Vale and on my way north again to Roarke.”
“And you’ll experience them once again going back to Vale unfortunately,” said Crane with a sympathetic smile. “The Anchor does not take effect immediately. It will, eventually, allow you to cross through the enchantments that guard our land, but until then – ”
“Until then my mind will be un-Anchored and I’ll be bouncing through images of every location I’ve ever seen in my life,” Raven grumbled.
Crane chuckled, and then held up the small bit of Valerium once again, and Raven looked at it for a long time.
This is why Crane isn’t concerned about me breaking my bonds, Raven thought. If I swear by my blood, there is no way to reveal anything about the Kindred that can be directly harming to them. It’s a very clever thing to do … and probably what’s kept them safe all of this time.
If he did it, he’d be one of the Kindred, irrevocably. But if he didn’t, all he’d have was a meaningless half-life, relegated to the margins of not just one but two societies.
“All right,” Raven said finally. “I’ll do it.”
&nb
sp; Crane held out the small pin and the Valerium ore. Raven held out his hand – and the Elder pricked his palm. The pain was sharp but momentary, and it quickly passed as a single, bright drop of blood welled up. Crane dropped the Valerium into Raven’s hand, and closed his fingers over it, making it into a fist.
Something changed. Something in Raven’s chest felt heavier, more solid.
“Hold it tight,” Crane protested, holding up a warning hand. “The enchantment is already placed in the stone – the oaths you swore over it activated it, but it needs time for the process to complete. Keep it in close contact with your hand and that pinprick of blood.”
“For how long?”
“The rest of the day preferably, but at least until the blood dries and is absorbed. The ore will be white again when that happens.”
“How long do I have to wait for it to work?”
“You have to wait until it forms into an Anchor.”
“When will that be?” Raven asked. “It isn’t one already?”
“Not quite yet,” the Elder responded, “but it’s working on it right now. You’ll feel the change – it may take months, sometimes years. The Valerium reacts differently to each person. Just make sure you don’t lose it – keep it somewhere safe. You know, probably better than anyone, that your blood can be a powerful weapon in the hands of an enemy.”
Raven nodded, then looked up and realized they’d actually make a significant amount of progress through the mountains. They were nearly on the other side in fact – there was only a single, long stone curtain between them and the lands of the Exiled Kindred.
“So tell me the information you promised,” Raven prompted. He felt strange asking a question so candidly, but Crane seemed to operate with near perfect – if flowery – honesty, and it seemed the best approach to just meet him on common ground.
“Yes, the information about the Talismans,” Crane said slowly, looking at him with his blue-gray gaze, suddenly piercing. For a brief moment Raven felt a flash of fear and uncertainty – was the man about the renege on their deal? He should have gotten a better promise before swearing. Now he was bound to the Kindred, completely in their power, and they didn’t have to hold up their side of the bargain, how could he be so stupid as to trust Exiles –
“The Talismans were not always as they are today,” Crane began softly, now appearing to be looking not at Raven but through him, at something far distant. Maybe a memory, maybe a dream.
“The earliest records, the earliest Elder who lives in this dagger I carry, still lived a hundred or so years after the Great War with the Empress.”
“When the Empire invaded south,” Raven said slowly, nodding.
“Yes,” Crane said, “the first time at least. It was at the beginning of her reign – nearly a thousand years ago now.”
Raven nodded, but kept silent.
“She wore the Talismans during the war,” Crane continued. “She had them all, except for one. At least that’s the way the legend goes.”
“This is the dogma of the Seekers,” Raven confirmed. “From Her all Talisman’s came and through Her all Talismans have their power.”
“Indeed,” Crane said, watching him, “but there is something else. More information – something that all of the Elders, through all the ages, have kept secret. On anyone but Aemon’s Heir the information would be wasted, dangerous even. I always thought it something of a joke, really. I never thought any of the Children would ever be defeated in battle. I never thought the Talismans would be close enough to us to be of any use whatsoever. Come to think of it, I never thought anyone would come to pick up Aemon’s Blade … but you did. And it seems you have good reason to know about the Talismans. I wonder if, all those years ago, a Seer looked into the future and saw you … saw this conversation. An interesting idea, yes?”
Raven didn’t think so. In fact it made him feel queasy. He knew such things were possible on a smaller scale – it was the power his brother Geofred claimed as the bearer of the Eagle Talisman. But over a thousand years … no, such a thing couldn’t be.
“So tell me,” Raven prompted again, doing his best to keep his voice civil, though it was difficult. This man knew something that might help him avoid the Empire. Not only that, if he knew enough about the Talismans, he might be able to help Tomaz as well – the Empire would be after him now too. The information would be important to both of them.
“I cannot,” Crane said reluctantly. “Only Elder Iliad can reveal the knowledge – only he has a full record of Kindred history and can speak on this.”
Raven just stopped himself from cursing. Of course Crane didn’t have the information – of course there was another hoop to jump through, another bar of bureaucratic nonsense.
Wait … there are twelve Elders, and none of them are named Iliad.
“There is another Elder,” Raven said slowly.
Crane nodded, eyes distant again.
“Elder Iliad cannot leave his house. He is … for lack of a better term, bedridden. He functions fine on a physical level – in fact Elder Keri informs me the last time she checked on him he was so healthy he’s likely to outlive the rest of us.”
“Of what is he the Elder?”
“He is the Elder of the Past. The Elder of History. The Story Elder. All of our history, all of the personal experiences, everything, truly, is stored in his mind.”
“Memories,” Raven breathed.
“Yes,” Crane confirmed. “From what I’m told, it is not unlike what you experience when you take a life. But, unlike what happens to you … the memories do not fade for him. For as long as he wears the sambolin, he bears the thoughts, feelings, and memories of the hundreds of men and women who lived before him and gave their lives to the sambolin. It is an honor to be asked to take the position, and only the best of our historians are ever offered it. Many have had encyclopedic knowledge of the past … but that has only compounded the problem. He lives, Iliad, but he cannot live. His mind is broken. It is as simple as that.”
“Broken?” Raven asked, mouth suddenly dry.
“That is the best way to describe it,” Crane said, eyes full of regret. “But the dagger, the sambolin, holds him together. It has … a buffer of some kind. It keeps him alive, keeps him healthy, and allows him to perform the single function of his office – it allows him to answer questions.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that if you ask him a question, he will answer it,” Crane said, raising an eyebrow at the obvious nature of the question. He continued before Raven could respond: “He answers questions with first hand knowledge, first hand experience, and often with the words and voice of the man or woman who first learned of it. He has read every book and memorized every word, knows all of our prophecies and who spoke them … he is a living compendium of all the knowledge we have ever been able to gather. And part of that knowledge, hidden away in the back of his mind somewhere, is what each of the Elders has kept secret, in the hopes that the Empire would forget we knew the truth.”
“What truth?”
“I cannot speak of it,” Crane said, shaking his head. “Even now, dancing around it with words, I cannot come any closer to touching on it. I can feel it, like a furnace radiating heat in a closed off corner of my mind, but I cannot tell it to you, I cannot reveal it to you. It is part of the oath we take upon becoming Elders. Only Iliad has no such restriction – only he can speak of it.”
“Then I will speak to Iliad when we arrive in Vale,” Raven said simply.
“Good,” Crane replied.
The Elder spurred his horse forward, just enough so that he began to distance himself from Raven. But before he was out of earshot, he turned and looked over his shoulder once more.
“Welcome to the Exiled Kindred,” he said.
And then he pulled away completely, leaving Raven alone in the center of the marching Kindred column. The pocket of courteous space that had opened up around the Elder as they talked quickly dissolved now
that he was gone, and Raven found himself once more mixed in with the rank and file of the Kindred army.
They turned the last bend in the road and he found himself staring out at the Kindred lands, a vast horizon of grassy plains that led to deep forests. Straight ahead and farther south beyond the horizon was Vale – the Kindred capital. It was there that they were headed, and there as well that he would learn more about the curse he wore around his neck.
He looked down at the Valerium ore still clutched in his hand and carefully unfurled his fist, unsure what might happen.
The white ore was now stained with red, making the whole thing look a strange pinkish color – a color uncomfortably close to what Raven knew, unfortunately, to be the color of viscera.
He looked up again at the road to Vale.