Chapter 7: Princeling, Part 2

The Priest returned, holding a bowl filled with some dark, shimmering liquid, and said, "Spread your legs, hold out your arms. This will be cold and uncomfortable but try to hold still. I will work quickly, but it must be done correctly." Raffé nodded and the Priest dipped his fingers into the bowl and began to draw runes all over Raffé's skin. The dim, wavering light made it hard to see them in any detail, but he thought there were some for summoning and others for binding and warding. It was cold and uncomfortable, as he'd been warned, but Raffé had been made to hold still for far more difficult things in school. All the same, he hoped warmth was provided before his balls retreated or froze and fell off.

That flippant thought led to memories of Cambord, but Raffé shoved them away. The Blooding required his full attention. Cambord, and all the sweet aches and bruises he'd left before departing, would have to wait until the end.

Finally, the Priest finished painting him with runes. He stepped away, and the other Priest stepped forward holding a smaller bowl filled with a thick, dark liquid that Raffé knew just by the smell and look of it: blood. He had really hoped he wouldn't have to drink blood—not so soon, anyway—but he supposed it was best to begin as he would have to go on, pretending that he had any chance of surviving.

"Drink," the Priest intoned and gave him the bowl. The blood was warm and faintly sweet. Not that it helped. Raffé almost gagged as it filled his mouth but forced himself to relax and drink every drop.

"Good," the Priest said, and Raffé was surprised by the genuine approval in his voice. He took the bowl away and set it aside then turned back to Raffé. "Now, little prince, we are going to seal you inside the circle. After that is done, we'll begin the awakening spell. It will hurt—a lot. You may want to sit down, though certainly you may remain standing if you prefer."

Though he gave serious consideration to sitting down, in the end, Raffé decided to stand. He thought he heard the Priest sigh and mutter something but wasn't certain. The first Priest stepped forward to join the second, and holding out their hands toward Raffé, they began to chant intricate, lyrical words of magic.

Heat was the first thing Raffé noticed, followed by a faint glow in the chalk circle. Then it burst into bright, blue-white light that forced him to close his eyes. As the light eased, he slowly opened his eyes again. He was surrounded by a hazy wall of dim light, barricaded from the rest of the room. It was as if he were staring at them through a glowing spring mist.

The Priests' chanting grew deeper, slower, began to resonate with a power that made Raffé's skin crawl, made the back of his neck prickle with awareness, and he had to fight the urge to whip around to see who stood behind him.

After a couple of minutes, their words of warning came true and everything began to hurt. Every mark painted on his skin began to burn, and Raffé felt as though he was being struck with a thousand red-hot branding irons at once. He bit the inside of his cheek against a scream, his eyes stinging with tears of pain. He couldn't breathe it hurt so bad, wanted to drop to the floor and curl up in a ball and beg for somebody to make it stop.

The pain dug deeper, all the way to his marrow, and he finally screamed. The pain just kept coming, and now it was chased by whispers, by the feeling of something crawling, creeping through him, twisting through his veins, raking at the inside of his skin.

His vision grayed out, then his awareness, though he was never able to entirely blot out the pain or the sound of his own screams. It was then that he thought of Cambord. The warmth of his mouth, the knowing touches of his calloused hands. For a few hours, Raffé had felt precious, like he mattered to someone. A fantasy, but who begrudged a dying man the delusion that he had been loved?

The happy memories were torn away as the pain got the better of him once more. This time the focus was on his mouth, where it felt as if someone had shoved knives into his jaw and wrenched, twisted, yanked.

After that, Raffé remembered nothing.