The Prince of Exiles (The Exile Series) (49 page)

“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.

“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 ritual. 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.

And then with a shout, the Elders knelt and slammed their hands to the floor.

A thunderclap echoed through the chamber, and the Prince watched, amazed, as lines began to curl out from where they stood – black lines that melded into white, then red, then green and blue, violet and indigo, gold and silver, all the colors one could think of, spreading and branching to the edges of the room.

The air around him began to tighten.

They’re not making a new enchantment – they’re waking an old one. One that’s been here for hundreds of years.

The Elders stood, no longer chanting, and Raven saw that they all looked pale, as if something had been taken from them. It looked as if Leah had told him the truth about their Bloodmagic – it used life energy from the person casting the enchantment, not life energy from a sacrifice.

“I will now ask you three questions,” Crane said, speaking ritualistically. The others were all looking at him very solemnly. Even Spader seemed to be taking this proceeding seriously.

“You stand at the center of an Oath Maker,” the Elder continued, “and as such any oath you take you are bound to fulfill. It will become a part of you. Once you speak, there is no going back. Do you understand?”

Raven nodded.

“Do you swear to uphold the law of the Exiled Kindred in all that you do, so long as you hold this office as Prince?”

“Yes.”

The air around him tightened, and he felt as though something had settled over his mind.

“Do you swear to protect the Kindred, and fulfill your duties for as long as you hold this office as Prince?”

“Yes.”

The air tightened again, making his skin tingle and itch.

“And do you swear to lead the Kindred, as the Prince of the Veil, until such time as our borders are secure once more and Elder Goldwyn’s death has been avenged?”

“Yes.”

A flash of light illuminated the chamber and a rumble of thunder rolled through the air, as if the very rocks were murmuring their approval. The Prince felt something
settle
onto him, attaching itself to his fingers and toes and layering itself on top of him. It felt as if he had slipped on a full body suit; it was not uncomfortable, but it certainly made his skin crawl.

I hope that sensation fades with time.

The Elders sheathed their
sambolin
in one quick, simultaneous motion, and the torches guttered back to light, hissing and spitting, burning with an extra brightness as if to make up for the time they’d spent unlit.

The lines in the stone floor faded as if they’d never been there, but the Prince knew that they were simply waiting to be activated again. Enchantments like that could lie dormant for lifetimes.

Crane approached him; he was binding a strip of cloth around his hand with a quick and practiced motion that showed he was used to this. The Prince wondered suddenly how often he had to perform Bloodmagic – it seemed only practical that he would continue to use the same hand in order to do so.

“We need to talk about the coming months,” the Elder said swiftly, motioning to the large map table that sat in the center of the room, carved with a perfect map of Lucia and the Kindred lands. “We need to discuss your new responsibilities.”

***

The first difference he noted between being Prince of the Veil and the Prince of Ravens, was that there was little to no ceremony to stand upon after his naming. The Kindred referred to him now as “my prince,” but without the bowing and scraping customary to the Imperial cities. His clothing did not change – he continued to wear his black Rogue shirt and loose pants, and the Kindred didn’t give him a crown or even a small circlet. There was no finery whatsoever, and really the Prince didn’t find himself very surprised.

The one thing that did change was his armor. He had been wearing the same officer breastplate, helm, greaves, bracers, and chainmail he’d received before the battle at the Stand – all of it dyed black, which quite suited him. But sometime during the night, the armor had been taken, and returned the following morning with gold tracings lining it in intricate patterns and circles. He didn’t know how he felt about this – he had learned from Leah and Tomaz the value of passing unseen through enemy territory, and as such didn’t much like the idea of shining with golden highlights. But, after donning his thick, heavy black cloak and realizing it hid the worst of it, he decided not to make a fuss. The symbols were necessary, and who knew how many Kindred would be offended if he refused to wear it.

His first duty as Prince of the Veil was to visit the other Cities; after being chosen by Vale, the capital city, each Prince was required to visit the other four. While elections were always held in Vale, they were attended by most of the Kindred from the entire land. In fact, the Prince was informed that the size of the crowd present at his election had been larger than usual because many of the Kindred in the outer cities had been in Vale for Midwinter. Autmaran, now officially promoted to the rank of Commander in light of Scipio’s death in the fire of Roarke, would be the man to take him on the journey.

“The cities are all only
two days
apart?” Asked the Prince, shocked, when Autmaran told him. “How is that possible?”

“What lands we have are limited to what we’ve managed to carve out of the wilderness left after the Empress’ conquest,” Autmaran said. “Besides, Vale is the only true city, the others are towns at best. Every year more of us are killed or captured, and much of the land we have isn’t arable. Vale and Chaym are the exceptions … everything else is wilderness, through and through. Add that to the constant risk of invasion, no matter how unlikely to be effective …”

Autmaran shrugged.

“Which city are you from?” The Prince asked, wondering suddenly about the man’s dark skin, which was something of a novelty in an Empire that worshiped the fair skin of the Empress and Her Children.

“Marilen,” Autmaran responded with a smile, “born and raised a fisherman. My mother died in childbirth though, and my father followed her when I was old enough to join the Academy at the Stand.”

“Academy?”

“Indeed,” Autmaran said. “He wanted me to be a scholar, and someday an Elder if I could. But while I enjoyed my studies, I always wanted to be outside in the sunlight. I got tired of learning endless theory – I wanted to put it into practice, but never had the chance. Eventually my teachers asked me if I’d like it if they recommended me for officer training in the Scouts – what you would call light infantry and light cavalry. I was ecstatic. The Scouts are ambushers, which meant all of our training took place in the forests.”

“Autmaran the Ambushman,” said the Prince suddenly, remembering what Davydd had called him some months ago now outside Roarke.

Autmaran smiled, his teeth bright white against his skin. But his eyes were sad, and the Prince suddenly suspected he knew who’d given him the name.

“Goldwyn had taken it into his head to train the Scouts that year … it’s when I first met him,” Autmaran said, eyes far away. “He was always doing things like that – trying to change as many lives as he could, even if it seemed like an impossibly strange way in which to do it. He was our top general, and there he was taking over Scout training because he felt like he was needed.”

“Is that when you became his student?” Asked the Prince, watching his friend carefully. He reached out through the Raven Talisman then and did something he hadn’t yet done – he touched the man’s life.

The smell of pine needles mingled with fresh, clean dirt, the sense of hardened leather hands running along the sharp edge of a blade, the smell of fish and the sound of birds –

“Yes,” said Autmaran simply, quietly. “I studied with him for five years.”

A silence stretched between them as the Prince thought about how much he could have learned from the Elder if he’d had that much time.

Likely more than I ever learned in Lucien … or at least more things of importance.

“I know very little about your lands,” the Prince said, changing the subject. “I have a few questions, I suppose the simplest being also a little embarrassing to ask … do the Kindred have a name for their nation?”

“No,” Autmaran said.

And so began his brief, though surprisingly comprehensive, education on the lands of the Seventh Principality.

The lands of the Exiled Kindred were small – in reality they were almost nothing more than one long strip of grassland to the north and a number of valleys amid towering mountains to the east, west, and south. When the Prince asked what was beyond the mountains, Autmaran responded that no one knew – many had tried to find ways through them, but most hadn’t made it back alive to report their findings. Those who did return reported only impassible heights and harsh wilderness.

The farthest south they went was only a day’s ride from Vale – to a town called Eldoras. It was a mining town – the mountains, while impassible, were full of metal ore, from silver to iron, copper to nickel, and the Eldorians made their living exporting it to the other cities.