by Hal Emerson
“Very well,” Crane said. “Is there anyone that wishes to speak in opposition?”
“I do!” Henri Perci called out, striding forward. He was clad in his full battle armor, dyed with gold highlights to match the color of former Elder Warryn, his sponsor, his long hair tied back behind his head and shining like spun gold.
“You have the floor,” Crane said.
“Then I will use it,” Perci said, turning to the Kindred, “to tell you a tale about a man who fought against Tyranny. I will tell you the tale of Goldwyn.”
The Kindred watched silently, with haunted eyes.
“William Goldwyn was born one of the Kindred,” Perci said. “He grew up here among us, the son of a family that goes back to the founding of our nation. He was the best and the brightest of his age, and everyone knew it. He was loved by all, and he loved them all in return.”
“But then came the first invasion of the Ox Lord. The land was darkened by the tide of the Imperial army, and our bravest soldiers knew fear. The illusions that had kept us safe were strong, but they did not stop him. He drove his army on, not caring that thousands died each day in gibbering madness. He burnt what land he could find, and killed all who stood in his path.”
“But one man alone knew no fear, and stepped forward to lead us. He sent out the call for arms, knowing we had to stop the Ox Lord before he pushed so hard he passed the illusions. We had to surround him, we had to fight, even though his force outnumbered us ten to one. We had no chance – we all knew it – but not Goldwyn. Goldwyn believed in us, and through that belief saved us, turning the Empire’s weakness against them. He knew these lands, loved these lands, and fought with his life to defend them. We named him Prince then, knowing that his cause was hopeless, but praying in our desperation that he would manage to drive them back, even if it meant sacrificing his life and the lives of an entire generation in order to do so.”
“And beat them back he did. He returned to the Kindred with barely a quarter of his men, having sent the enemy army reeling back through the Pass. He beat the Ox Lord with brilliance, and a genius that was unmatched. He was the definition of a Prince, the highest kind of man we have ever known.”
He whirled and pointed to Raven.
“And this thing wishes to make himself his equal.”
There was a stir here among the Kindred, like a restless wind.
“This man, who is one of the Seven Children! This spawn of the Tyrant! He comes from the same blood that has caused us to cower in fear for centuries. He and his family are the reason that Goldwyn was murdered! It was his brother that held the knife! We cannot trust him living with us, much less leading us!”
The Kindred were beginning to shoot Raven ugly looks. This wasn’t looking good – if Perci kept going the whole thing would be pointless. Raven had to do something, had to try to say something, anything.
“I would say something,” Raven said, stepping forward, trying to draw attention away from Perci. But his voice was soft and hesitant compared to the booming roar of the young lieutenant general, and Perci rode right over him.
“Again we hear from this Prince of Ravens! No doubt he wishes to tell us that he saved our lives, that we owe him fealty! I stand to say that we are a free people, and that we owe him nothing! We, the Kindred, fought for this our land, and bled the rivers red with tears and blood! Where was the Prince of Ravens then? We, the Kindred, stood with might and strength, willing to die against the Empire. Where was the Prince of Ravens then? We, the Kindred, have defied the Tyrant for a thousand years, and in her eye spat words of hope and joy, hard hearts full of freedom and defiance. Where was the Prince of Ravens then, her loyal son? BOWING AT HER FEET!”
The Kindred roared, a sound so loud it shook the very stones of the Odeon.
“And now he comes, great Prince, to save us all.”
Perci turned and pointed a single finger, dagger-like at the Prince.
“I say he is as bad as the Tyrant herself.”
The Kindred roared again, the sound swelling, and Raven realized that he might not have to worry about his brothers and sisters anymore. He would be lucky to leave this arena alive.
“We have heard the objections!” Crane called out, his voice cutting through the din despite its thin tremility.
“And now, we will hear from the man who seeks the office himself.”
Raven stepped forward, his mind blank. What could he say to them? How could he convince them that he was the man they needed?
Are you the man they need? You don’t even know who you are. You’re the cast-off son of a Tyrant to them. You’re nothing.
The voice was savage and full of vitriol, and he knew such thoughts were poison. But he could not help but think it right, could not help but drink the draught it offered him. He was no one, and nothing. Not even Goldwyn could have convinced him otherwise.
Goldwyn…
People do not follow plans. They do not follow speeches. People follow dreams.
Raven stepped forward before the courage could leave him, and spoke, loud and clear:
“I am not one of you, that has been made abundantly clear.”
Silence fell as the Kindred heard him speak. Slowly, they began to take their seats again, watching him with suspicion and hate. But as Raven looked at them, looked around at the thousands of faces, he saw that beneath that anger was fear. Desperation had taken root when hope had fled, blinding them, turning them on him like wounded creatures who only sought release.
“It is true that I, Raven, son of Relkin, am not one of you. But Goldwyn was. And he believed in something.”
There was a stir in the crowd at Goldwyn’s name, but no one spoke; it seemed that the power of the ritual was too great and they were trying to contain their emotions. Raven took a deep breath and continued.
“It is true that I, Raven, son of Relkin, last of Aemon’s line, am not one of you. But Goldwyn’s son and daughter are, and they stand here with me.”
Leah and Davydd, taking their cues, stood then and came to flank him. The crowd grew quieter; they were suddenly confused, uncertain.
“It is true that I, Raven, son of Relkin, last of Aemon’s line, and bearer of the Raven Talisman, am not one of you. But I believe as Elder Goldwyn did, and so I stand before you all, with anger and fear in my heart.”
A few Kindred made noises of incredulity, but Raven ignored them and continued on.
“For who could see his body, lying here only a night ago, and not feel anger? Who here could see those wicked wounds, carved into his sides by a sick dagger and not feel rage rise up, unbidden, to take root in a loving heart? Who among you can cry but for revenge when you see the body of the man who kept you safe for years, and devoted his life to the protection of your families?”
Silence rang through the Odeon now, and many faces were blank, not knowing what to think, captivated by his words. Raven continued, taking a step forward, setting himself in the center of the stage, alone, and visible to all, standing where Goldwyn’s body had burned just hours before.
“I know I am not such a one. Goldwyn was more of a father to me than any man I have ever known. He was a greater man than any Prince could ever be, not because of power and privilege, not through Tyranny or Talisman, but with wisdom and simple courage.
“I know that I, Raven, son of Relkin, last of Aemon’s line, am not one of you. But I weep for this man’s death, for I know death as no one ever shall. I, the Cursed Son of the Empress, know what it is for a life to end, and this man should have gone on living long into the hereafter. This man, who was worth all six of my brothers and sisters and half the Empire beside, should have lived to see his own children grow old! He should have lived to see the world become the vision he dared to dream!”
The Prince felt his eyes sting, and realized his cheeks were wet. Looking out into the gathered Kindred crowd, he saw that his grief was mirrored there. And still the words continued to pour out of him, his heart heavy, and his throat aching.
Tomaz stepped forward then between Leah and Davydd, his huge, towering presence lending Raven strength.
“I have no land in the Empire, and I have no fortune there. I have only what I have found here, in Exile. And I, for one, feel sickly dread and black despair that Goldwyn, the greatest of us all, lies dead, while I must go on living. I, Raven, feel fear. But as I remember the look of his body as I found it on the Capitol floor, the sound of his final words ringing in my ears, I feel something more. I feel hatred.”
The word grated through his throat, coming out in a rasping gasp of breath that echoed around the Odeon floor, slicing through the deadly quiet.
Henri Perci suddenly stepped forward, trying to draw the crowd away.
“Whatever he may feel, his Imperial blood blinds him!”
“GOLDWYN’S BLOOD BLINDS ME!”
And suddenly it was true – Raven’s vision had gone red, and he felt as though a ball of fire had formed in the pit of his stomach, burning him from the inside, making him sick, pushing him onward. He stepped in front of Perci, turning his back on the man.
“I, Raven, son of Relkin and the Empress, last of Aemon’s line, was cast out of the Empire on a whim! I was cast out and Exiled, forced to flee across the land I loved, because the Empress decided it was my time to die. My brothers and sisters, my blood, the Children, tried to kill me. Death Watchmen were sent for my head, Bloodmages conjured their Daemons, and the Seekers laid traps in their black and hidden lairs. But I survived, and I came to you. And when I, Raven, son of Relkin, stood on the front lines at Aemon’s Stand as the Ox Lord himself came to burn the Kindred, destruction and doom riding on his shoulders like the ghosts of our father’s sins, I shouted defiance as you all did!”
Lorna and Autmaran rose at the mention of the Stand, and joined the others behind him.
“And who here would do any less? Even if no life rested on your actions but your own, who here would have laid down their arms and gone meekly into the night? Not I. I, the Exiled Prince, came here to fight for myself – for the dream that one day I could live free. And when Goldwyn spoke, when he told me of the dream he had, I knew that it was the same as mine. Who here has a story that is different? Who here remembers his body, broken and cast down, and does not think that they would give their very lives to bring this man, the best of us all, back again? Who here has not known pain, and suffering, and loss because of the Empire? Who here has not found a better life among the Kindred, and wished beyond all other things that their past sins might be forgiven? Who here does not now bear the name of Exile with stubborn pride and rebellious hope? I know I do. I have no path forward, no foresight to grant me strength, but I have the hope that as I stand here, alive and strong, I may tomorrow stand as well.”
“Today, now, we have a chance to fight back, a chance that has never been afforded to the Kindred, not in their thousand years of existence. I swear to you, on all that I am, on everything I hope to be, that I will fight till my dying breath to free the Kindred from the yoke that has shackled them for centuries. The fight may be hopeless; the Empire may be invincible; but I will not live like a hunted, wounded beast, waiting for the slaughter. I will die with a sword in my hand, spitting in the eye of the Empire as I draw my last breath. For though I may not be one of you, I dream as Goldwyn did, and when I fall into the sleep of death, I will see him when I wake.”
There was a brief moment of silence, and then sound erupted from the gathered men and women so loud that Raven was forced backwards.
Pandemonium. Kindred were standing and shouting down at him in approval. Many of them wept openly, strong men and women shouting in accordance, roaring wordlessly into the gathering clouds of the dawning day.
Henri Perci strode forward and motioned for silence, his face red, his throat strained as he called out, trying to speak in rebuttal, but no one listened. Slowly, a deeper roar began to build, made up of a single word, one that was repeated again and again in a building crescendo:
“Vote … vote … vote … vote … VOTE … VOTE … VOTE! VOTE! VOTE!! VOTE!!!”
Henri Perci stepped back, face aghast, and his space was filled by Elder Crane.
Immediately, the Exiled Kindred went quiet. Crane’s blue-gray eyes bore a depth of sadness that went beyond tears; he grieved as only a best friend can, with a mix of base grief and noble pride. But there was something else there, as he looked silently at the crowd around him, something bright.
“There has been a call for a Prince to take the Veil,” said Crane in his thin, reedy tenor. The crowd remained silent, faces made up in anger, in sorrow, in hope, in all the spectrum of human emotion.
“The Elders have agreed that the time has come for such a man to lead us once again,” Crane continued. “A choice has been nominated. You have heard the motions for and against this man.”
He motioned here to Raven, and as if to protect him and lend him strength, his friends that had gathered around him drew closer, the imposing figures of Tomaz and Lorna lending physical weight while the slight figures of Leah, Davydd, and Autmaran lent something more cerebral – and all of them, together, seemed to echo the voice of the dead Elder, whose body had been burnt but whose dreams lived on in them.
“Who will have this man as their Prince?” Asked Crane softly.
Without a single word, one by one, the Kindred stood. Elders began to count the number as scribes scribbled furiously, but it soon became clear that a majority had already been reached – and it did not stop there. A wind passed over them, soft as the breath of an angel, and as it did, tensed shoulders relaxed and grief-stricken faces resolved into masks of determination.
Every Exile in the Odeon was standing now. Crane turned to Raven.
“By unanimous vote, you are hereby made Prince of the Veil until you have avenged the death of Elder Goldwyn and secured the lands of the Kindred from future threat.”
The Prince nodded, and bowed his head.
Chapter Twenty: The Coming Spring
“Come with me,” said Crane.
The Prince turned and followed him as the Elder stepped from the stage and went for the exit to the Odeon.
The Kindred bowed their heads to him as he passed – it wasn’t the overt prostration that had been demanded of Imperial citizens, but it still made him uneasy. Strange how, in less than a year, he’d swung full circle from expecting such obedience to deploring it.
The Elders, Crane at their head, surrounded him as they left the Odeon. He followed them to the center of Vale, to the Capitol, up the steps of the building, and through the large entrance chamber where Goldwyn had died. The floor had been cleaned, the blood removed; there was no evidence left of what had happened.
And just so easily we disappear.
They descended toward the meeting chamber where the Elders gathered, going through a large pair of doors, down stairs and along a hallway deep underground. The doors were guarded by six Rogues – three Eshendai, three Ashandel – two of which held keys. They inserted the keys into the door locks, turned them simultaneously, and then the Prince and the eleven Elders were through into the large, cavernous Council room beyond.
No one spoke as they went to work in the dim light of torches set about the room in wall brackets. The Prince was placed in the center, opposite the room from the intricately carved map table, and the Elders took up positions around him in a circle. They all unsheathed their sambolin in one smooth motion.
The blades were strange and multi-hued, as if they had somehow been fashioned out of perfect opals. Each of the Elders held out their right hands, and sliced the skin with their daggers.
The Prince felt chills run down his back. This was eerily similar to the beginnings of a Bloodmage ritu
al. He only hoped that the claims they’d made about their particular type of Bloodmagic held true.
The Elders came forward, holding their bleeding hands out before them, and they began to chant unintelligibly. The torches that lit the chamber grew dim, and then went out completely, though the room was not dark. The walls shone with a strange, green luminescence the Prince could not explain.
Their hands and the daggers they were holding began to glow, much as a Bloodmage’s Soul Catcher did. The Prince began to feel the urge to run, and he barely held himself back. He had to trust these people. He had to – he was their Prince now.
When they were close enough to him that they were standing shoulder to shoulder, the chanting grew louder still, and a wind began to whip through the room. The sambolin glowed brighter, a brilliant white flecked through with racing colors, one following another.
