Blood Song

“The Seordah Sil dwell in the Great Northern Forest. My people do not go there. We do not hunt the Seordah. It is said they are greatly feared. Even more than the Lonak.”

“Lonak? So they survived the coming of your kind. I should have known the High Priestess would find a way.” She turned her blank gaze on him once more, the impression of scrutiny was overpowering, his sense of wrongness flaring with it. But the sensation was different this time, not so much a warning of danger, more a feeling of disorientation, as if he had climbed a cliff and found himself awed by the sight of the ground far below.

“So,” said Nersus Sil Nin, her head tilted. “You can hear the song of your blood.”

“My blood?”

“The feeling you just experienced. You have felt it before, yes?”

“Several times. Mostly in times of danger. It has… saved me in the past.”

“Then you are fortunate to be so gifted.”

“Gifted?” He didn’t like the tone she used when speaking the word, there was a gravity to it that made him uncomfortable. “It is simply an instinct for survival. All men have it I’m sure.”

“All men do, but not all can hear it as clearly as you can. And the blood-song has more to its music than simply a warning of danger. In time you’ll learn its tune well enough.”

Blood-song? “You’re saying I’m afflicted with the Dark, somehow?”

Her mouth twitched in faint amusement. “The Dark? Ah yes, the name your people will give to what they fear and refuse to understand. The blood-song can be dark, Beral Shak Ur, but it can also shine very brightly indeed.”

Beral Shak Ur…“Why do you call me that? I have a name of my own.”

“Men such as yourself tend to collect names like trophies. Not all the names you’ll earn will be so kind.”

“What does it mean?”

“My people believe the raven to be a harbinger of change. When the raven’s shadow sweeps across your heart your life will change, for good or ill, there is no way to know. Our word for raven is Beral and our word for shadow is Shak. And you, Vaelin Al Sorna, warrior in service to the Faith, are the Shadow of the Raven.”

The sensation, the blood-song she called it, was still singing in him. It was stronger now, the feeling was not unpleasant but it did make him wary. “And your name?”

“I am the Song of the Wind.”

“My people believe that the wind can carry the voices of the Departed from the Beyond.”

“Then your people know more than I gave them credit for.”

“This,” Vaelin gestured around him at the clearing. “This is the past isn’t it?”

“In a way. It is my memory of this place trapped in the stone. I trapped it there because I knew one day you would come and touch the stone, and we would meet.”

“How long ago is this?”

“Many, many summers before your time. This land belongs to the Seordah Sil

and the Lonak. Soon your people, the Marelim Sil, the children of the sea, will come to our shores and take it all from us, and back to the forest we will go. I have seen it, the blood-song is your gift but mine is the sight that can pierce time. Only when I use my gift can my eyes see, it is the price I pay.”

“You’re using your gift now? I am…” he fumbled for the right word. “… a vision?”

“In a way. It was necessary that we meet. And now we have.” She turned and began to walk back to the trees.

“Wait!” He reached out to her but his hand grasped nothing, passing through her robe like mist. He stared at it in bewilderment.

“This is my memory, not yours,” Nersus Sil Nin told him without pausing. “You have no power here.”

“Why was it necessary for us to meet?” The blood-song had raised its pitch now, forcing the questions from his lips. “What was your purpose in calling me here?”

She walked to the edge of the clearing and turned, her expression sombre but not unkind. “You needed to know your name.”

“VAELIN!”

He blinked and it was all gone, the sun, the lush grass beneath his boots, Nersus Sil Nin and her maddening riddles. Gone. The air felt shockingly cold after the warmth of that summer’s day uncountable years ago, the whiteness of the snow making him shield his eyes.

“Vaelin?” It was Nortah, standing over him, his face a mixture of bemusement and worry. “Are you hurt?”

He was still slumped against the plinth, now once again covered in weeds. “I… needed to rest.” He accepted Nortah’s hand and hauled himself upright. Nearby Barkus was rifling the corpse of the old archer Vaelin had killed.

“You tracked me here?” he asked Nortah.

“It wasn’t easy without Caenis. You don’t leave much of a trail.”

“Caenis is hurt?”

“He took a cut on the arm when he took care of the sentries. It’s not too bad but he’s laid up for a while.”

“The battle?”

“It’s over. We counted sixty-five Cumbraelin bodies. Brother Sonril lost an eye and five of Al Hestian’s men have gone to join the Departed.” Nortah’s eyes showed the same haunted look that had clouded them when he first killed a man during their hunt for Frentis. Unlike Caenis and the others, Nortah did not appear to be growing accustomed to killing. He gave a mirthless laugh. “A victory, brother.”