Soren tied off the end of the little doll’s first leg and began weaving the other one. It was tradition for prospective acolytes to weave their sacred herbs into the form of a little man, to symbolize the source of his power being alive, or something like that. Over the centuries, the meanings behind many of their older traditions had been lost. But Master Alred said it was something along those lines.
Soren’s people had once kept books in which all of their ancient secrets were kept, and anyone who wanted to know could read about their history, about the Covenant their ancestors had made with the spirits from the other side, about the meanings behind all of their sacred traditions. But those books had all been destroyed when the Paters had come. When his people had gone into hiding, they were in small groups, with maybe only one or two Covenant-bound among them, and all that remained of their history now was what those few Covenant-bound refugees had managed to remember and pass on. Somehow in the generations since then, many of their ways had changed– no one was sure anymore which of their traditions were the sacred ways of their ancient ancestors and which of their traditions had been twisted by poor memories and misguided efforts to adapt to a new way of life. But even so, they had still somehow managed to keep the sacred Covenant of their ancestors.
Soren sighed, stopping a moment to stare at his half-finished herb doll. What was he doing? This Binding would ruin him. If it turned out as he’d always feared and he didn’t have the potential after all, he would have to live with that shame for the rest of his life. But now, even if he did have the potential– even if he could be bound– with that boy still alive, he was only giving himself up to a life of wretchedness and pain. And for what? To prove to everyone that he could?
No, he couldn’t back out now. He had been trying to prove his potential to everyone for the past ten years. To suddenly change his mind at the last second . . . It would kill his pride. No one would understand. He would just be seen as a coward.
If only he’d had the courage to tell Master Alred the truth. He would have known what to do.
But when Soren had returned from the Paters’ camp, the master had been waiting to inspect the herbs he’d gathered. Of course he’d noticed the blood right away. “What happened?” the master had asked.
“There was a Paters’ boy in the garden,” Soren had mumbled, “He saw me, and . . . ” He hadn’t been able to finish the sentence. And what? I accidentally cut him and then apologized and left him there, alive? He wondered what the master would have thought of that. And of course he couldn’t lie to a Covenant-bound master. So what could he have said?
But the master had assumed the rest of the story. Master Alred had wrapped him up in a warm hug and told him not to think too hard about it. “You did what you had to do,” the master had assured him. “We’ve all been forced to make these hard decisions from time to time. Just be glad that, because you did what had to be done, you were able to come back to us safely.”
What could he have said after that? The master had said that it was clever and resourceful of him to use the boy’s blood on the herbs. That Soren had been brave and strong and very mature about the whole incident. The master had been proud of him. How could he have corrected him at that point?
Even now, he couldn’t say anything. Soren continued weaving the second leg of his little doll. No, he had to go through with the Binding. Perhaps something would go wrong and Soren would just die halfway through the ritual. What did it say about him, that a sudden death was the best possible outcome he could hope for tonight?
Soren shook his head at that thought. He had to stop thinking about such things. He was supposed to be concentrating on all of his hopes and wishes for the future while he wove his herbs together.
Soren thought about all of his old dreams. He wanted to be a hero to his people. He wanted to somehow make all of the Paters go back to where they came from and restore all of his people to their ancient cities and rebuild the sacred places. He wanted to learn how to communicate with the spirits like his ancient ancestors used to do, and get them to tell him all of his people’s lost secrets so he could write them down in new books for future generations.
He knew that with a cursed Binding like his was sure to be, he would never grow old enough to become an elder, but he hoped to at least be able to achieve the rank of master, and possibly teach children about the Covenant like Master Alred did. He also thought it would be nice to one day be surrounded by family and friends who loved him and believed in him.
Suddenly his mind’s eye was filled with the image of that boy from the garden. Wide, innocent brown eyes, round rosy cheeks, soft yellow hair cropped short like a Pater’s. No, Soren would never get to realize any of those dreams. People whose lives were cursed didn’t get to see their wishes come true. He wondered if that boy would ever come to understand just how much Soren had given up, just so that he could have a life.
Probably not.
Soren tied off the last end of his herb doll and looked at it. It was ugly. He remembered when he was eleven years old, and Master Alred had taught him how to weave a doll like this. He had practiced with the grasses and vines that grew in the forest. Those dolls had always looked neat and pretty. Green and yellow and evenly woven . . . and clean. This doll was rough, with thorns and rough stalks woven into it. It was uneven and lumpy. Worst of all, it was caked through with dried blood. Every leaf and stalk in it had at least a few spots of dark brown stain. And the bloodiest bits were the little purple flowers. The blood had turned the tiny blossoms into a bunch of black, shriveled, ominous-looking things. He supposed this was what these dolls always ended up like. The herbs were always sprinkled with blood before they were woven together. And it was always these same herbs, so of course the dolls would always end up a bit thorny and mangled-looking. But for Soren it felt like some evil portent– an indication that some disaster was about to claim him.
Soren took a deep breath and looked around. The sun was low in the sky; it was getting late. He wrapped his herb doll tightly in a clean cloth and handed it to the master. He had spent the day in silence, to prepare himself for his Binding, so he did all of this wordlessly. Master Alred accepted Soren’s doll with a proud smile, but said nothing.
With that done, Soren gathered up his Binding robe and walked down to the creek to wash. His father had worn this same robe when he was bound. Soren’s grandmother had made it for his father when he was just a boy his age. Soren had heard of people sometimes wearing a grandparent’s robe or a great-grandparent’s robe, but he would be the first initiate to ever wear his own father’s Binding robe. It was strange.
He made sure to wash himself well in the cold creek water. He felt like he was breaking so many rules, so many traditions. Being fae-blessed and yet still trying to be bound. Using blood from a person who was still alive. He didn’t want to be dirty too, on top of everything else. He scrubbed the oil and sweat from his hair, and scraped the dirt from under the nails on his fingers and toes. He rubbed himself down from head to toe with the sand from the creek bed, and then he laid himself down in the deepest part of the creek and let the cold water run over him, rinsing off all of the sand and dirt and sweat until he was pink and raw and goose-fleshed all over.
Soren sat on an old tree stump to let himself dry off a little as the sun began to sink into the horizon. He thought about all of the possibilities that this night might bring as he leaned over to wring the water from his long, dark brown curls. Maybe everything would turn out alright. Maybe the whole idea of being cursed for using a live person’s blood was just a silly superstition. Or maybe it had some small seed of truth but it had been twisted out of proportion over the generations. Who knew? Maybe he’d been worrying and brooding all day over nothing. After several minutes, he got up and pulled on his father’s robe.
His father had been a lot bigger than he was.
For the thousandth time, he cursed his pathetic, skinny, bony body and trudged off toward the altar that the master had prepared for him. Maybe it would have been a good idea to do a little more manual labor, or maybe to eat a little more, while he was studying over the past few years. Now that he was about to be naked in front of everyone he knew, he would have liked to have at least a little muscle, somewhere on his body. Oh, well. It was too late to think about those things now. Maybe the spirits would take pity on him for being so puny and decide to just skip on the whole curse thing.
Soren was both relieved and disappointed to find the place nearly empty. Usually the whole community showed up for these rituals, but most of them seemed to think that Soren’s wasn’t going to be a real Binding, so it was a waste of time to attend. Still, he’d thought more people would at least be curious. His uncle was there, and Elder Maebys, and three of the higher-ranking Covenant-bound, and an acolyte who had studied with Soren until her Binding the year before, and of course Master Alred and his two remaining pupils. The master always made his pupils watch the Bindings, as a way of preparing them for their own. And there, hanging back by the edge of the clearing, were Cowan and his friends, probably waiting eagerly to see Soren fail.
Soren wrapped the big, loose robe tighter around himself and stepped into the clearing. Master Alred cleared his throat and lifted up a torch, and everyone fell silent. “We have among us one of our sons,” the master began as he gestured for Soren to approach the altar, “who wishes to take upon himself a heavy burden.”
Soren stepped inside the ring of stones that the master had prepared. “Soren the Twice-Blessed, son of the Master Eldan and the Guardian Corvys, comes before us as an initiate, ready to take up the Covenant of our ancestors, and to be bound by that Covenant for all time.”
The master touched his torch to the giant mound of kindling that was piled on top of the little knee-high clay altar that he had prepared. Soren shook nervously even as the fire behind him warmed his back and dried his still-damp hair. As the fire burned, the master brought out a large basin full of sweet-smelling, flowery water and a long, beautiful knife– one of the few sacred objects his people had been able to bring with them when they’d fled the great cities all those generations ago.
Soren removed his father’s Binding robe and handed it to Master Alred, trying to ignore the derisive snickering he heard from the boys at the edge of the clearing. Soren then spread his arms out wide as the master took the basin of water and slowly poured it over his whole body. “He has been cleansed!” the master announced.
Soren closed his eyes and took a deep breath as the master led him by both hands up onto the altar to stand in the center of the pyre. Master Alred had kindly prepared a cleared space in the middle, just big enough for Soren’s feet, where there was no kindling. Still, the clay of the altar was hot, and he could feel the flames on his skin, scorching the little hairs on his legs, and the blazing embers that surrounded his feet poked out to burn at his ankles and toes. But Soren endured it proudly, grateful that no one had decided to make him sit or lie down in the fire. Finally Master Alred shouted out, “He has been purified!” and led him back down to the cool, damp earth inside the little ring of stones.
The master then took a few handfuls of hot ash from the edge of the altar and smeared them across Soren’s chest and back, calling out, “He has been sanctified!”
Then Master Alred held out the knife and asked him, “Are you prepared to make this sacred oath and bind yourself to the Covenant of your ancestors for all time?”
“I am,” Soren replied as he took the knife from the master.
“I, Soren, present myself to those who bound my ancestors who came before me,” he recited. “I come humbled and naked, with nothing to my name, to bind myself with this sacred oath for the duration of my life, and for all time after.” He held out his right hand and sliced open the center of his palm. “I open my flesh, that the strength that filled the hands of my ancestors, may fill my hands also.” Soren looked down at his bloody hand. The wound sort of reminded him of the cut he’d given the boy in the garden. Then he opened his left hand and, without even thinking about it, he carved himself an exact replica of the boy’s wound. With both his hands bleeding, he held out the knife for the master to take it. “I spill out my life’s blood, for my life and my blood are no longer my own.”
The master then held out the little bundle that contained Soren’s herb doll. Soren opened the cloth wrapping and lifted out the little doll. It could easily have fit in the palm of one hand, but Soren cupped it in both hands as if it were a real little person. Soren continued reciting his oath as he held the bloodstained herbs carefully in his wounded hands. “I hereby swear, by the terms of the sacred Covenant of my people, to revere, obey, and protect the source from which I draw my strength, my life, and my power, and to do so with every part of my mind, my body, and my soul, until the end of my life and beyond my death, for all eternity. I also swear, by the terms of the sacred Covenant of my people, to have no higher loyalty to any other person, object, or entity, than the loyalty which I have for that sacred source which I serve.”
Soren touched the herb doll, which was now wet with his own blood, to the fire on the altar. When the head and arms began to smoulder, he lifted it high above his head. “I call upon those who bound my ancestors who came before me,” he shouted out, “I call upon them to uphold the Covenant that they made with my people, so that I may have the strength I shall need, to keep this sacred oath which I have now sworn!” And with that, Soren shoved the entire doll into his mouth and ate it. It tasted awful and it burned the inside of his mouth, but he managed to keep a straight face as he choked it down.
After he swallowed the last of it, Master Alred brought his father’s robe and draped it over his shoulders. Everyone who had gathered in the clearing was watching intently, waiting to see what would happen next. Soren stood there nervously, wondering whether or not he was crazy for having done this but knowing he could never take it back now.
Suddenly the air came alive with a thick crackling noise, and Soren felt a prickling on his spine, and a tingling on his scalp, and then his entire body began twitching uncontrollably, and then suddenly he felt as if he had been set on fire. He looked down and saw that there were no flames– nothing was touching him– but even so, he could feel himself burning. The pain was worse than anything he had ever experienced– he didn’t know what to do– and all the while the heat was growing stronger and hotter, until finally it was so bad that Soren couldn’t even scream anymore. He couldn’t breathe, and everything was spinning and tilting.
The last thing he was aware of was Master Alred’s strong arms wrapping around him as Elder Maebys leaned over him.
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