by Hal Emerson
He turned, pulled off his sheathed sword, and slammed it to the floor beside Goldwyn’s body. It shook them all, and Raven felt his breathing become ragged.
Autmaran spun back to them, walking the entire stage, filling the Odeon.
“I spoke of the Children, thrown back on their heels, forced to combat their own mortality! Now, after five hundred years of invincibility, one of them is dead, and we have taken his Talisman!”
He whirled and pointed to Goldwyn, and Raven saw tears in his eyes.
“I spoke of the General who could lead us!”
This was almost a sob, the words coming out in a rush of sound that bit off as he tried to hold his composure.
“I spoke of a man, the likes of which we will not see again in a thousand years. A man of both compassion and strength! A man who was more a father to me, and to the Kindred, than most other men are to their own flesh and blood!”
The tears that had gathered in his eyes began to roll down the man’s dark cheeks, and his body shook with anger.
“He was taken from us, because we didn’t act!”
His voice was so harsh it seemed to tear free of his throat like a spear thrown at each of them, a lethal shout of accusation.
“He was taken because we sat back and told ourselves that we could never change our lives. He was taken because we feared what would happen if we acted! He was taken because of us!”
Autmaran was shaking, only barely in control of himself. But as they watched, he took a deep, solemn breath, and everyone in the gathered audience breathed with him.
“And so I stand here before you again,” he finished, piercing them all with a defiant stare, “to call for a Prince of the Veil.”
Silence greeted his words – none of the Kindred dared to speak.
He turned and motioned violently to the Elders. Crane, his face impassive but his eyes full of sorrow, looked to the others, and one by one they nodded.
“We will meet tomorrow to vote,” Crane announced.
Autmaran moved forward in anger, but Crane stood up to his full height, and light and power blazed from his eyes.
“This is a day and a night of mourning,” said the Wise Elder, “and we will spend it honoring the memory of William Goldwyn.”
Autmaran stood there as if ready to challenge the man, but the moment passed and the tension left him. He bowed his head.
“Tonight we mourn,” he agreed.
The Kindred let out a collectively held breath and the Forum was ended. Raven found himself being led away from the Odeon by Tomaz, who seemed to know that now was not the time to talk. He led him out of the city, back to his cabin, where Raven fell onto his bed and slept for most of the day. Tomaz returned that night to wake and feed him, and they went together to the Odeon and watched as Goldwyn’s corpse was burned on the pyre.
“Why are you burning him?” Raven asked Tomaz. “I thought it was Kindred custom to bury their dead.”
“It is,” Tomaz said. “But the Elders are burned. Their bodies are connected to the sambolin, and it is only when they go through fire that the spell is broken. I wanted them to wait for Leah … but we have to cut the connection. We don’t know what Tiffenal can do with it.”
Raven nodded and was silent.
Most of the officers who had served with the Elder were gathered around the pyre. When the flame died down they stood and went to it, and each said their final words. Davydd Goldwyn was there, and he wept openly. He left as soon as he had spoken his final words to his father, and Lorna went with him, both seeking refuge in the night.
Autmaran was the last, and after he’d finished speaking he stood and watched Goldwyn’s body for a long time. And then, abruptly, he turned and scanned the crowd.
His eyes fell on Raven, and he approached.
Tomaz saw this and stepped forward, putting himself partially in front of Raven; he didn’t know what Autmaran was planning to do. The man looked as if he’d been through hell and back, which Raven knew was close to true. But when the Major reached them he didn’t try to push past Tomaz; his earlier rage was gone, cooled and hardened into something sharp that he could control.
“I will call on you tomorrow,” Autmaran said without preamble. “I will call on you to take the Veil. You are the Prince we need.”
Raven said nothing, only stared into the blaze below, feeling hollow and empty inside. He couldn’t meet the Major’s eyes – they were too full of emotion. It was too raw to look at – like light coming off the sun.
“I will call on you tomorrow,” Autmaran said more forcefully. “You do not have a choice. I will nominate you. You are the only one here who can fight the Empire, and you know that. You cannot run anymore – none of us can.”
Raven did look at him then, knowing these words mirrored the thoughts he’d had not so long ago.
“Last time,” Autmaran continued, “you did not accept the nomination. You were not ready, so I was told.”
Raven took a deep breath.
“I am now.”
Chapter Nineteen: Prince of the Veil
He did not sleep that night. He returned to the Odeon before dawn after a short, fitful time in bed, and decided to lie on the cold stone seats, looking up into the sky. He watched as it turned from the black of night to the faded gray of early morning; the cold of winter clutched at him, but something inside kept him warm, some ember of emotion, and he simply pulled his cloak about him tight, and watched the infinite sky.
When the dawn came, and the Kindred, silent and grief-stricken, began to file into the seats once more, a man came to Raven. He’d been sent by Autmaran with instructions to lead him to a small room located under the stage of the Odeon. He would wait there, until he was called.
Raven followed the man without complaint. The room beneath the stage was mostly bare, with only a few wooden chairs, a table, and a mirror.
Sometime later there was a knock at the door. Raven spoke some words, something along the lines of permission to enter, and the wooden door swung inwards.
Tomaz was standing there, still looking sallow and drawn as if he hadn’t slept in weeks. Raven couldn’t blame him – the man had literally been drained of energy, his strength pulled out of him to feed the efforts of another man miles away. It was a wonder he was able to stand.
There was a tense moment where they stood there, just looking at each other; and then they both let out a heavy sigh and all that had passed was dismissed and they were just two friends again. Tomaz strode forward and gave Raven a friendly pat on the back – for once, not hard enough to send him sprawling.
They both looked into the mirror, examining each other, thinking about what was ahead of them, thinking about what lay behind them. It was Tomaz who spoke first.
“I see you shaved,” he said, taking in Raven’s smooth cheeks while stroking his own magnificent beard.
“Yes,” Raven said. “Last night. I couldn’t sleep. I think I’m more comfortable with it this way.”
“Well,” said Tomaz, “I’m sorry the weight of manhood was just too much for you.”
Their gazes caught and Raven saw a twinkle at the corner of the giant’s eye. They both snorted simultaneously and turned away from the mirror.
“You know what Goldwyn used to say about his time as Prince?” Asked Tomaz lightly.
“No,” Raven said, voice tired. “I wish I had spoken with him more about it. I wish I spoken with him more about a lot of things.”
“Indeed,” agreed Tomaz with a heavy sigh. “Well, he said that his time as Prince opened his eyes. He said it showed him that this world is a place of joy, one that we too often take for granted.”
“How can anyone be joyous now?” Raven asked. That emotion felt as far from him as the other side of the ocean.
“I don’t know,” said Tomaz. “But then again, I never did.”
Raven looked up at him and saw his eyes were far away.
“That’s what you talked to Goldwyn about, isn’t it?” He asked. “
That’s what your conversations were about.”
The big man slowly nodded, and Raven realized in a flash of sudden insight that his friend had never truly recovered from the sting of exile.
“Some wounds will never heal properly,” he said to Raven slowly, “they just scar over, and you go on as best you can. But Goldwyn, he found joy even in scars. He found joy in the pain of life, and I cannot understand it. I never could, though I kept trying. I’ll try even harder now.”
Tomaz cleared his throat and shifted, breaking out of his reverie.
“He would be frustrated with us now you know,” he rumbled. “He never understood why people grieved those who had passed on. He always said the life was much more important than the death.”
“’I love because I know that at any moment I may die’,” Raven said, remembering Goldwyn’s words.
“He used to say that to me too,” Tomaz said with a small smile.
A silence passed between them, and then the big man sighed.
“What is it?” Raven asked.
“I am sorry my friend,” said Tomaz with a heaviness to his words, “but I do not hold much hope of you swaying the Kindred and being chosen.”
“Why not?” Asked Raven, trying not to show the hurt he felt at this admission.
“Because you do not know who you are,” said the giant, dark eyes staring deep into Raven’s. “How can you hope to lead a people, to give them hope and an identity of their own, if you cannot do it for yourself?”
A cold emptiness crept over Raven, and Tomaz, recognizing the silence for what it was, spoke no more. The big man smiled without emotion, and left the chamber, leaving Raven alone.
You do not know who you are.
That had been true for almost a year now, Raven realized. He had been the Prince of Ravens, then a Prince in exile, and now was simply Raven, a name that was truly nothing more than a placeholder, something for others to call him. But it was also something that kept him tied to his old life – his life as a Prince of the Realm.
Who am I?
A man began to speak outside, and Raven heard the sounds of the gathered Kindred ready to vote on Autmaran’s call for a Prince of the Veil.
“Someone’s here to see you,” said a man at the door, an Aide it looked like from his gray robes. Raven nodded and the man opened the door wider.
It was Leah. Raven took an involuntary step toward her, completely shocked by her presence, but pulled up short. He realized he didn’t know how to proceed. How was she feeling? What was she feeling?
“Leah,” Raven said, then stopped, her name like a stone in his throat, blocking the sound of words and the flow of thought. What could he say to her? It was his inaction that had led to her father’s death. It was his inability to prepare for such an attack that had put her in danger, that had wounded her and nearly cost her her life.
“Princeling,” she said quietly. Her voice was heavy and her eyes clouded with pain and exhaustion. She was favoring her side.
“I’m not a Prince anymore,” Raven said, making an attempt at their old banter.
“You’re certainly trying to be,” she said.
“I suppose,” he admitted. “How are you?”
“I’m good,” she said. “And I understand I have you to thank for that. They told me you carried me all the way to the hospital.”
“I had to make sure you got there before it was too late,” he said quickly. “I wasn’t going to risk letting you –”
He cut off, embarrassed, and they both shifted awkwardly.
“Elder Keri says I shouldn’t be walking yet,” Leah picked up. “But I had to be here for this. It was bad enough I missed his funeral … ”
The silence came again as she trailed off, stretching on and on; Raven couldn’t find anything to say to fill it. He tried again and again to think of something, but the only image that came to him was of her father, and he refused to speak of that.
Finally, it was she who broke the silence:
“I’m here to say that I will stand for you.”
“You will?”
“Yes,” she said, though the confirmation was short and clipped, as if it was something unpleasant she wished she didn’t have to say. “But I want to know why you think you’re ready now. Before, when Autmaran called on you, you didn’t want the office. You told me that you didn’t believe the Kindred had a chance, thought instead we would never be able to defeat the Empire. The best we could do, you said, was to hide here, safe behind our mountains.”
“I still think that,” Raven said, unable to look her in the eye now. He wished he could lie to her, but he knew he couldn’t. Not to her.
“You implied you couldn’t risk the Imperial prophecy being right, that you feared destroying us.”
“I still fear that,” he said honestly.
“Then why?”
The emphasis on the word made her grimace, and she sucked in a harsh breath. Raven moved toward her, but she took a step back and wouldn’t let him touch her.
“Because your illusions are gone,” he said slowly, watching her, “and your mountains are no protection now. Because the choice has been forced on you – on us, the Exiled Kindred. And I can’t turn from it, can’t turn from helping you.”
“So you want to fight because you think we have no other choice,” she said; disgust and contempt colored her words, and Raven felt suddenly as if they were back in the Elmist Mountains, talking about the Empire.
“No,” Raven said fiercely, “do not belittle me in such a way.”
“Then why?” She said vehemently, challenging him.
“Because the fight is worth fighting, even if we lose it!”
For a long moment there was silence between them, and then she nodded, and left. But as she did she paused, and her lips parted as if she would speak. Images of Midwinter night came back to him and his chest ached as he realized in despair he would never have that again. He’d saved her, but she’d been changed by what had happened. She was harder – and this Leah wouldn’t give in to her emotions ever again.
“I will stand for you,” she said, and then she left.
After that he was alone again until the man on the stage had finished speaking. The Aide at the door entered once more.
“The Elders have asked for you.”
Raven nodded and walked out, taking the short stairs up to the level of the stage. He saw that the full number of Elders was present – though this meant they were only eleven since Goldwyn was gone. Raven looked up at the surrounding seats and felt his breath catch in his chest. The whole arena was filled, and from this vantage point, the audience looked absolutely terrifying. There were so many people, thousands upon thousands, and they were all watching him.
He looked around the stage, trying to settle his mind, and saw Leah and Tomaz seated in the front row, barely ten yards from him, with Davydd and Lorna to their right. To Raven’s surprise, Tym, the young boy whose life he’d saved, was there too, sitting next to Davydd.
And then he heard a voice that set his teeth on edge. He turned and looked to the other side of the stage; standing there was the one person he wished had died sometime these past few days: Henri Perci.
Autmaran saw him and approached.
“What is he dong here?” Raven asked the Major, motioning with his chin toward Henri Perci.
“He’s here to speak against you,” Autmaran said, looking undaunted by the prospect. “I’ll nominate you, and then Crane will ask for any who wish to speak against the nomination. Perci will speak, then it will be your turn.”
“My turn?” Raven asked, suddenly terrified. He’d assumed Autmaran would be doing the talking, making the speeches. His palms began to sweat and he felt his chest constrict.
“Yes,” Autmaran said. “Just tell them about what you think we should do. Speak, they’ll listen. I know they will.”
He cut off and turned away as Crane came forward to address the crowd.
“We are gathered here to nominate
a Prince of the Veil.”
Some in the crowd stirred, but no one seemed inclined to speak.
“The Elders have conferred, and we support a nomination to be confirmed by the people. We believe it is time for a Prince to be chosen.”
Crane turned to Autmaran.
“You have the floor.”
“I nominate Raven, son of Relkin, last of the line of Aemon,” Autmaran said without preamble.
There was more stir among the Kindred here, but not much. They were expecting this.
