David Farland - The Lair of Bones

Chemoise tried her best to wait patiently to give her endowment. She discovered as she stood in line that all the facilitators in Heredon, along with all of their apprentices, had gathered at the castle. Sixteen of them worked near the hilltop. They’d been slaving for nearly two days in an effort to complete their great work, taking no time to eat, no time to rest.

Their voices were weary and coarse.

“Are you sure that you dare do this?” Dearborn asked at her back in a whisper. “Won’t giving grace put your child at risk?”

“It’s a small risk,” Chemoise said. “Yet don’t we ensure our destruction if we refuse to stand against our enemies?”

“Let someone else stand in your place,” Dearborn said.

“I can’t,” Chemoise whispered. “Iome was my best friend at court, and in the short time that I’ve known Gaborn, I’ve learned to admire him as much as any man I’ve ever known. The facilitators need your love and devotion to transfer an endowment. How many others here really know the Earth King?”

“I’ve never met the man,” Dearborn admitted, “but I know what he’s up against, and I’m willing to give whatever I can.”

“So, you offer an endowment because of your love for a principle, while I offer mine for love of the man. Do you think our love is equal?”

“It could be,” Dearborn said, “if one loves one’s principles enough.”

There was a cry up the hill from an attendant. Chemoise glanced up, knowing before she looked what she would see. One of those who had granted brawn lay on the lawn, and several healers quickly threw a black sheet over his body, then hustled him away, lest the death of one Dedicate poison the resolve of others who had come to grant endowments.

Chemoise took that moment to push her way to the front of the crowd, past others who offered themselves as Dedicates. Darkness was falling, and soon full night would be upon them. Gaborn had warned that the attack would commence by sunset.

She only hoped that she could give her endowment in time.

“Let me through,” she said, elbowing past a fat man to the front of the crowd.

Almost immediately, a blunt-faced facilitator came downhill. “Next?”

Chemoise didn’t recognize him. If he had been King Sylvarresta’s old chief facilitator or one of his apprentices, she’d have stayed in the crowd. For the facilitator would have known of her pregnancy and refused to take her endowment.

“Here,” Chemoise called.

She burst from the crowd just as the facilitator reached the front. “An eager one!” he rasped. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Grace,” Chemoise said. “I offer my grace.”

He took her elbow. “Thank you,” he said. “Few there be who will give up grace. I’d walk in your footsteps, if I could.”

“You have your job to do,” Chemoise said, “and I have mine.”

He led her up to a tent, past Dedicates who lay all around the entrance in piles, like the wounded on some macabre battlefield. People were moaning, like the sound of wind through rocks, and nearby crickets had begun their nightly carols. The scent of stewing meats wafted over the fields.

“Tell me,” the facilitator asked. “By any chance, do you know the Earth King?”

He threw back the flap to a red pavilion.

“I know him and love him,” Chemoise said. She knew what he wanted to hear.

“Good,” the facilitator rasped. “Good. Think of your love for him during the endowment. Think only of that. Can you manage that?”

She entered the pavilion. Inside, a single candle burned in the center of the small room, shining like a star. On a cushion, curled in a fetal position, lay a young woman. Every muscle in her body was clenched, unable to move. Her fingers were balled into a fist, and she grimaced as if in pain. Even her eyelids were clamped tight, unable to relax. She wheezed as she breathed shallowly, unable to draw much air.

The facilitator stopped, let Chemoise see the woman for a moment.

“This is Brielle. She was a dancer at an inn at Castle Groverman until she granted her grace to our king. She will serve as his vector. By giving grace to her, you will be transferring it to your king.”

“I understand,” Chemoise said.

“This is what you will look like in a few minutes, if you proceed,” he apologized. “Do you dare to go on?”

Having her muscles corded into knots was not the worst of it, Chemoise knew. Giving an endowment of grace affected the gut. The first few weeks would be hard. From now on, she would only be able to eat broth and thin soups.

“I’ll bear it gladly,” Chemoise said.

“Good,” the facilitator said. “Good girl.”

He went to a small pile of forcibles and picked one up, held it near the candle for a moment, studying the rune on its head. It looked like a tiny branding iron. He must have found some imperfection, for he pulled out a small blunt instrument and began pressing one edge of the rune outward.

“Forgive the wait,” he apologized. “The blood metal bends easily, and is often damaged during travel.”

“I understand,” Chemoise said.

Chemoise watched Brielle. Aside from her shallow breathing, Brielle showed little sign of life. Chemoise saw a tear seeping from one eye.

It’s painful to be so clenched, she realized. Giving an endowment of grace is torture.

When the facilitator finished, he glanced at Chemoise. “Now,” he said. “I want you to look at the candle.” Chemoise glanced at the candle, then turned her attention back to Brielle. Each time that she had seen the endowment ceremony before, the potential Dedicate had stared at the lord who would receive his gift.

“No, don’t look at her,” the facilitator warned. “Keep your eye on the candle. Look to the light.”

Of course, Chemoise realized. We look at our lords because they are handsome, with their endowments of glamour, and it makes it easier for us to give ourselves. But staring at a wretched vector would only unnerve a potential Dedicate.

Chemoise looked at the candle as the facilitator began to half chant, half sing, in a rich voice. She couldn’t understand the words. As far as she knew they were only sounds. But they were sounds that comforted her, and made her want to give of herself. She could feel that yearning grow, like a potent fire.

The candle flame flickered and sputtered as the facilitator whirled around the room several times, and then placed the forcible on Chemoise’s arm.

The touch of it sent a thrill of shock through her. Often she’d heard of the “kiss of the forcible.” She imagined from this that the touch of the metal must somehow be soft and sensual at first. But it wasn’t a kiss. Instead, she almost felt as if the forcible were a leech that hooked its round mouth to her skin, and began sucking something vital from her.

As soon as the forcible touched her, the head of it began to heat, and the elasticity in her muscles drained away. Her right biceps cramped inordinately, so that she caught her breath.

She gave herself, willed herself to think about Gaborn in his hour of need. The candle flame flickered like the tongue of a snake, and she watched it, ignoring the urgent sound of the facilitator’s chant. Outside in the city, she heard cocks crowing, serenading the sunset.

The pain in her arm spread down to her elbow and up to the socket of her right arm. Beads of perspiration broke on her brow, and one trickled down the ridge of her nose. The forcible seemed to become a flame itself. It burned her arm, and she smelled singed hair and cooking flesh.

She glanced down at the tip of the forcible in surprise. She’d been listening for hours as people gave endowments, and in turn nearly all of them had cried out in pain. Some said that the pain of a forcible was unspeakable, unbearable, but as Chemoise’s arm burned, she felt determined to bear it.