The Tehir Chronicles, Part 6, Past Tense Portents

The largest of the moons is low on the horizon and a deep sanguine, the colour of fresh blood on a sacrificial dagger.  An ill moon to anyone but a Spiritcaller, a good omen for what he must do this night.

Strangely, his shadow appears, faint at first, then brighter, and it begins to dance across the sand.  He looks up at the light as it streaks across the night sky, leaving a luminescent trail in its wake, a sure sign that death walks upon the desert this night.

He does not fear the signs, as others do; they have been a part of him since his earliest memories.  He is a Seer and Spiritcaller, a Bloodmage of the Tehir, reading the portents is his purpose.  The call of the Blood is strong within him, and the visions appear without effort behind his eyes.  His sacrifices have been for his people; the power he has gained is incidental, a means to an end. 

Eight days ago, in the middle of the day, the sun slowly disappeared from the sky, devoured by a slow moving darkness, and the desert took on the appearance of late evening.  People ran in circles, screaming, panicked and afraid for their lives.  He rushed from his tent and gazed up at the sky in wonder.  He had heard of such events from his teachers, but had never witnessed anything so awe-inspiring before. 

As quickly as it began, it was over.  Day returned and it was as if it had never been gone.  His clan looked to him for answers, but, for now, he had none.  All he could do was re-assure them that all is as it should be…if only that cold feeling running up and down his spine would go away.

Incense sticks planted firmly in the sand around him, he sits cross-legged inside his tent, meditating for clarity of thought and searches deep in his memory for the lessons he had been taught.  Suddenly his eyes open and he knows what he must do.

He glances at a sun-streaked leather satchel that sits at the foot of his sleeping mat.  The satchel, still serviceable after all these years, has been passed down to him from those of his line who have gone before, a lineage of powerful Spiritcallers, unbroken for many generations. 

A stray thought crosses his troubled mind…how many more generations will carry this satchel.  How much more must his line sacrifice for the good of the people?  Quickly, he dismisses such thinking from his mind, he does not need the distraction, especially now.

The satchel contains all the tools of his trade, ritual daggers for bloodletting, consecrated bowls, small sacks, vials, and flasks containing various items used to empower and ease his forays into the other realms.  There are also meditation mats and prayer rugs, boxes, crystals, bowls, sands, and cards, all used to divine the future.  There are also the items of protection, the precious salt and the various earths and herbs…and the water, the life of his people.

This is his last day of fasting; he is nearly ready to begin.  He runs the blade of his dagger through the flickering flames of the small fire burning before him, allowing them to lick at the metal of the blade, completing the purification ritual.

He stands and removes a small vial of blood from his satchel and, turning slowly, allows the blood to steadily pour onto the sand, creating a circle of protection; he then does the same thing with an opalescent jar of sea salt, reinforcing the circle, empowering it.

Slowly he takes the dagger and makes a cut across his left bicep and the blood runs freely down his arm, dripping into the sand.  He then makes three small cuts on the back of his left hand and it is this blood that he dabs the fingers of his right hand in and paints three lines down each cheek and one across his forehead.

Sitting down once more, he begins chanting, in the language of his people.

The Blood of Life I have within me

A Life of Power is my destiny

Power of Blood allow me to see

My Will gives Direction

My Soul grants Protection

My Heart is the Connection

Slowly, images form in his mind.  He sees fire and smoke, pain and death.  He hears the cries of the vanquished, he feels the pain of the wounded, and he knows the void is near.  All of this comes from the interlopers, those who desire copper and conquest above all else.  He senses that they will not stop; they will never be satisfied until all of the Tehir are under their yoke of dominion.

The vision clouds, and then clears once more.  There is smoke, fire, and something else.  It is…death.  He sees a hooded figure, garbed in robes of crimson.  The figure approaches quickly and he sees eyes, eyes of twilight grey swirled with viridian.  The figure pulls the hood back and he sees it is a woman, a Tehir woman, black of hair and tall, breathless but calm of demeanour.

"The Interlopers are known as The Tyramzyrrian Empire," she says to him.  "They are after our copper and want to enslave us.  It seems there is nothing we can do to stop them; our elders refuse to unite, but you must resist them."

She glances over he shoulder and hastily continues.

"Time is short, Old One," she says.  "You should know that your lineage will continue, long after you have returned to the sands that bore you."

"I will bear the burden of our line," she continues, "as will my son after me, though he will deny it for many years.  We can be nothing more, nothing less.  May you walk with the sun."

As the vision is fading, he sees the grey-eyed woman, with a young boy at her side, is wearing a satchel over her shoulder, and, though a bit more faded and worn, he sees that it is his satchel, and he is left to wonder who this woman and her son are, or more appropriately, who they will be.