It was evident that the old man was not well practiced in the taking of endowments. His hands trembled as he began to sing, so that the rod shook. In some distant day, he might have been a facilitator to some warlord, a mage who specialized in taking endowments. But forcibles had become so rare in the past few years. Now he closed his eyes and began to sing a wordless song that felt strained and uncomely.
It was not words really, but repeated sounds—groans and humming, interspersed with sharp harking calls. There was music in his song, but it felt wild and unrestrained, like a driving wind as it coils through mountain valleys, blowing this way one moment, another way the next.
Rain grew lost in the song, mesmerized, until soon the chanting and humming seemed to be part of her, something flowing in her blood.
Just as she lost herself, she wakened to the smell of burning flesh. The old facilitator had taken the forcible and pressed it to the barbarian’s bared chest, and during the course of the song the metal had turned white-hot.
Hair scalded and flesh burned. The barbarian’s face was hard and stony, his eyes unfocused. He knelt, staring at Aaath Ulber while the facilitator branded him with the searing iron. Sweat streamed down the Dedicate’s brow, and his jaw quivered from pain, but he did not let out a sound.
Then the facilitator danced away, held up the hot branding iron. As he did, the forcible left a white trail in the darkness, a worm of pale white light that hung in the air as solidly as if it were carved from wood.
The children cried out “Ah!” and marveled.
The facilitator waved his forcible in the air, creating knots of white light, like a giant rope. One end of the rope was anchored to the barbarian’s chest, while the other end blazed at the tip of the forcible. The facilitator studied the light trail, gazing at it from various angles, and at last took the rod to Aaath Ulber.
The giant pulled open his own vest, revealing a chest that was much scarred—both from old battle wounds and from the kiss of the forcible.
The facilitator plunged the metal rod into Aaath Ulber’s chest, and in an instant the trail of white light that connected the two broke. The worm of light shot out of the barbarian’s chest like a bolt, and with a hissing sound it rushed toward Aaath Ulber. It struck the forcible, which turned to dust and disappeared, and for an instant the light seemed to well up in Aaath Ulber’s chest, threatening to escape. A white pucker arose on his skin in the shape of a rune, and suddenly the air filled with the acrid odor of his singed hair and the pleasant scent of cooked skin, so much like the scent of pork roasting upon a spit.
It is said that receiving an endowment, any endowment, grants the lord who takes it immense pleasure, and now Aaath Ulber’s eyes fluttered back in his head, as if he would faint from ecstasy.
His head lolled, and he nearly swooned.
But the fate of he who grants an endowment is not so sure. The giving of an attribute causes such agony that it cannot be described. Women claim that the pain of childbirth pales in comparison, and almost always the Dedicate who grants an endowment will wail in pain, sometimes sobbing for hours afterward.
But this big barbarian did not cry out. He did not even whimper. He merely sat stoically, beads of sweat breaking out on his brow, until at last he fainted from the effort of staying upright.
His strength had left him completely.
In a tense moment, everyone watched the barbarian to see if he still breathed. Too often, a man who gave his strength gave more than his strength: he gave his life. For when the strength left him, his heart might be too weak to beat, or his lungs might cease to draw breath.
But the barbarian lay on the ground, breathing evenly, and even managed to raise his arms, as if to crawl. He fell to his belly and chuckled, “I’m as weak as a babe!”
At that there was a shout of celebration, for if he could talk, then he would survive.
Thus the endowment ceremony began, with those who offered greater endowments leading the way. The greater endowments included brawn, grace, wit, and stamina, and granting them was dangerous business. A man who gave too much stamina was prone to catch every little fever that swept through a village. Those who gave up grace often cramped up on themselves; their muscles, unable to loosen, would either cause them to strangle for lack of air or to starve. Even those who gave wit might pass away, for in the first few moments after granting the endowment, a man’s heart might forget how to beat.
Thus, courageous men and women came to offer up endowments, and with each successful transfer the celebration deepened, for it was proved that the old man knew how to transfer attributes without killing his Dedicates.
Rain noticed a young woman at the edge of the firelight thrown from a torch, spreading salve upon one of the injured warriors who had helped fight at the arena. Rain went and borrowed some salve from her, a balm that smelled rich from herbs, and took it to Draken.
Gingerly, she placed the salve on his ear, where his captor had bitten it off. Draken did not jerk or start away when she touched him. Instead, he leaned into her, savoring her presence though it cost him pain.
She teased him, “You Borensons, with that odd gap where your ear should be: I do hope that our children don’t inherit the trait.”
Draken smiled up at her, his eyes gleaming, and pulled her close for a hug. He glanced around. All eyes were on Aaath Ulber, so he pulled Rain into the darkness in the shadows of a building and kissed her roughly.
For weeks now, on the boat, they’d been unable to find a place to be alone, had not dared kiss. Now he made up for it.
He kissed her lips, her cheeks, and hugged her so tightly that it took her breath away. He finally pulled back her hair, studied her in the weak light of the stars.
“I’m glad that the wyrmlings didn’t get your ear,” he said. “I’ve been longing to nibble on it.”
He leaned in, chewed on her ear, and the passion inside her flamed to life. He was hugging her, so that his whole body pressed against her. She felt his strong chest firm against her breast, and she ached to race off into the woods, into the shadows, to be alone with him.
But she knew that the time was not right. She wanted a proper wedding, with family and friends gathered around to witness. So after a time, they stole back to watch the endowment ceremony.
Myrrima was there, at the edge of the light, her face stony. She looked as if she had been beaten.
“Have you spoken to your mother?” Rain asked, wondering what was wrong.
“No,” Draken answered, clinging tightly to her hand. “Why?”
“She looks so sad,” Rain said, and suddenly she knew why. Aaath Ulber was taking endowments, endowments of metabolism that would kill him. It might not kill him in an instant, but they would shorten his life by de cades.
“Your father’s killing himself,” Rain said. “He’s sacrificing himself, and he didn’t even ask your mother’s permission . . . he didn’t talk to you, or Sage.”
Draken held silent for a while. “He has another family now, too. I guess that their need outweighs ours.” Draken sighed. “He’s sacrificing himself for both of his families.”
Rain bit her lip, appalled at the sacrifices this system of magic required. A few moments ago she had feared that one of the Dedicates might die in this process, and she’d felt relieved to see him survive. But now she realized that Aaath Ulber was the victim this night.
He would die from his wounds, even if the wyrmlings didn’t kill him. Nothing could save him.
Aaath Ulber grew mighty during the course of that night, and as he did, his appearance altered subtly.
With three endowments of wit, a new light shone in his eyes, a keenness to his perceptions. He would now learn more quickly and would not forget anything that he saw or heard.
As he garnered endowments of brawn, his back straightened and his massive bulk seemed to hang on him easily.