The elders led the way through the narrow tunnels to the location where they would complete the ritual. Firerocks embedded in the walls lit the way, shining with the bright blue cast shared by the glow worms living in the innermost caves.
She was surprised when the path led them to the Origin, the holiest place for the Folk. It was neutral ground, though not a place where ceremonies were generally done. However, they did not enter the sacred cavern, but stopped just outside of it in a chamber where a large, flat altar rock lay, its height reaching her knees. It was oblong and of a size to fit a dozen people seated around it.
Footsteps sounded from one of the other entrances to the chamber, and the Iron Water contingent appeared. Their shaman was a younger man, perhaps only in his thirties. His chest, bare like all men’s, was decorated in the black painted markings of his clan, his head bald and gleaming. Two male apprentices followed him, looking to be in their early twenties—of an age with Mooriah and Glister. The shaman bowed at Oval, who returned the gesture.
Beyond that no one moved, but Mooriah knew enough not to question it. Her apprenticeship had been composed of much waiting, listening, and figuring things out on her own. Murmur was helpful in private, away from Oval’s piercing intensity, but the elder shaman’s style of instruction consisted mostly of allowing his apprentices to shadow him, observe, and work things out for themselves.
Now, they waited in silence. Several minutes later, the Iron Water clan chief arrived with his daughter. Moments afterward, Crimson stepped into the chamber, followed by Ember and Rumble.
Many of the rituals required a chieftain’s presence, though only the most sacred required that of his or her blood kin. In the years of her apprenticeship, she had never witnessed one. She called to mind the steps and requirements for the Sanctification of Amity. It was, indeed, strengthened by the blood of the chieftain’s descendants.
As the eldest present, Oval began the proceedings. He led them in a prayer to the Mountain Mother and the Breath Father. All lifted their heads to the sky in reverence as he spoke.
“Hallowed Mother and Divine Father, givers of blood and life. We come to you in humility, grateful for all you have bestowed. Cleanse our spirits and anoint us with your care. Sustain us with your power and absolve us with your shadow and your light. Hear the pleas of your servants and accept our honor and praise. We revere you with the blood of our bodies, umlah.”
After a few moments of silence to allow the words to penetrate the air and rock, Oval turned to his apprentices. “Let us begin the ritual. I will require the activating agents for the invocation.”
Mooriah swallowed, running through the list in her mind. Funeral bane, star root, ash of mercy, natalus ichor. She reached into the hessian satchel strapped around her, which she carried for this very purpose. Glister did the same, though her bag was made of fine lizard skin from one of the master crafters. They raced one another to provide the necessary ingredients enclosed in tiny vials and leather packets.
A stricken look crossed Glister’s face. She’d hurriedly produced everything but the natalus ichor, a foul-smelling substance that was difficult to procure. Obtaining the materials necessary for the spells and rituals was another of the apprentices’ duties. Mooriah had spent three sleepless nights tracking a colony of bats and didn’t want to dwell on what it had taken to retrieve this particular animal secretion now stored in the tiny vial she retrieved from her bag.
She set it on the altar next to the others. Murmur winked at her. Glister’s stormy expression was its own reward. Mooriah couldn’t imagine the girl going to the same lengths to acquire such a substance. Oval merely nodded, not letting on whether he’d noticed which apprentice had contributed which item.
The Iron Water shaman spoke up, his tone thin and high-pitched. “Since we are all gathered, I humbly request we also complete the Binding of the Wretched.”
Murmur frowned. “That is quite an arcane rite. I cannot recall it having been done for generations.”
The young shaman nodded. “It is my belief that it has been too long. In these trying times, it would be wise to revisit it. If you agree.”
Mooriah scanned her memory for the ritual in question. She had studied everything, no matter how old or rarely used.
Glister hailed from a high-ranking family, well-connected with the clan elite. She was talented and ambitious and offered strong competition. But unlike the pretty and popular young woman, Mooriah had no family commitments, no social engagements, nothing but the drive that propelled her.
Glister’s dejection was evident on her face. She had no idea what the binding entailed. When Oval nodded his agreement to include the ritual and looked to his apprentices expectantly, Glister swallowed nervously.
Mooriah quickly produced the powdered featherblade and bitterleaf packets from her satchel and placed them on the altar. Oval’s hairless brows rose slightly, the only indication that he was impressed. Her heart thumped a stalwart rhythm. It wasn’t proper to smile, but light wanted to pour from her.
Then she glimpsed Ember, standing just a few paces from her. He appeared troubled. The Binding of the Wretched was also strengthened with the blood of the chieftain’s kin, specifically his heir. Since one had not yet been chosen for Night Snow, both Rumble’s and Ember’s would be used—though he probably had no knowledge of that. It was unlikely he spent much time studying obscure customs.
Murmur lit the censer of incense, and fragrant smoke soon filled the space. Oval freed the white bone knife from its sheath at his side. He also loosed the simple clay bowl which hung from its handle on a loop on the belt around his waistcloth. The bowl spanned two hand-widths and was unadorned with decoration or markings. It was said to have been made from the same red clay and water with which the Breath Father initially made his own physical form.
The Iron Water shaman looked upon it longingly. No other clan had such a treasure and Night Snow’s possession of it had been the cause of more than one war over the generations. But now they were invoking peace. Hopefully lasting peace, though a glimpse of Crimson’s and Rumble’s faces was not encouraging. As Murmur expertly measured out the various ingredients into the bowl and intoned the opening words of the chant, the chieftain and his son appeared bored. Was this ceremony all for show?
Crimson’s hot temper was legendary. Mooriah’s youth had been marked with the protracted war he had led against two smaller clans. Eventually, those people had been absorbed into Night Snow. First as unclanned, which some still were, but others had been accepted and initiated.
Oval’s voice rose and fell with Murmur’s, vocalizing the various chants and obsecrations required. Then it was time to seal the ceremony with blood. The Iron Water shaman gripped his own bone knife in a long-fingered hand. Oval set the clay bowl before him on the altar and motioned for them all to kneel. On the Night Snow side, Murmur was to the right of the shaman, then Glister, Mooriah, Ember, Crimson, and Rumble.
Oval made a shallow cut into his palm and allowed his blood to drip into the clay bowl. He whispered the words of the blood magic spell to close his wound then passed the bowl and knife to Murmur, who repeated the practice as they all would.
Glister followed, then Mooriah. When she passed the bowl and knife to Ember, his hands shook slightly upon accepting, before his grip firmed. He hunched over the altar to make his cut and then passed everything on to his father.
Mooriah noticed that Ember didn’t mutter the healing spell. But perhaps such a small cut on such a strong warrior was of little matter. Mages needed to preserve their blood, but fighters spilled it all the time.
Once the bowl had made its way around the altar and was once again with Oval, he spoke the words of completion—another spell, this one transformed the contents of the bowl. The mixture of ingredients congealed and hardened into a small, jewel-like stone the color of blood. It rose into the air, hovering above the altar for pregnant moments.
Oval and the other shamans chanted, their voices harmonizing and
growing louder and louder. The red stone—a caldera, or holder of magic—shimmered with a glittering shine and then continued to rise far above them, out of sight of the firerocks lining the walls, to the roof of the chamber, invisible in the darkness overhead.
Mooriah sagged with relief. Though she had not been leading the ceremony, as one of the blood mages the spell pulled energy from her for its efficacy. For some reason, the others never seemed as affected by the magic as she did. She supposed, being an Outsider, she was just weaker—or it could be because of the other thing that made her different from the Folk. The reason that she had been sent to live with them in the first place.
Not wanting to dwell on that, she took a deep breath and pulled herself together. Fortunately, the Binding of the Wretched was a simpler undertaking. Similar, but with different chants and ingredients designed to protect those who had left the safety of the Mother and sought lives Outside. With each generation, the population of the Cavefolk became more and more depleted, the lure of the Outside increasingly enticing. It did not tempt Mooriah, for life Outside was notoriously dangerous.
Oval surprised her by calling her name.
“Yes, Exemplar?”
“Lead us in the binding.”
Shock did not begin to describe her reaction. But she held it all inside and merely nodded her assent. “Certainly, Exemplar.”
She cleared her throat and took the clay bowl that Glister passed her, not missing the fact that the other woman’s hands vibrated with barely leashed anger.
Mooriah mixed pinches of the powders together and retrieved her own bone instrument for use in the ceremony. Unlike the sanctification, the binding required only a drop of blood from those gathered, taken from the fourth finger of the left hand, the one that, according to belief, held the artery which led to the heart. As all shamans were blood mages, they carried a variety of utensils for piercing the skin; Mooriah pulled out a sliver of bone as long as her index finger, its tip needle-sharp.
Chanting the words of the ceremony, she pricked her fourth finger and allowed just one drop of blood to fall into the clay bowl. She passed the bowl and needle to the left, back to Glister. As each person contributed their blood, their voice joined the chant. Soon a chorus had risen with power vibrating the air.
Last in the circle was Ember. He took the bowl and needle from his father, placed the bowl on the altar, and held his left hand over it. His hand was definitely shaking. So was the hand holding the pin.
He brought the sharp edge to the pad of his finger and paused. The shaking intensified. Around the circle the chants went on. Ember’s face was rigid, his eyes wide. He was terrified. She checked on the others, but most had their eyes closed and hadn’t noticed.
Ember’s gaze met hers. He blinked rapidly, looking paler than normal. She didn’t understand what was happening. His hands went to his waistcloth and fumbled at his belt. A small bladder hung hidden there, too small to be a canteen. He opened the stopper and a splash of blood leaked onto his hand; he visibly flinched. Then his body hardened, each muscle practically turning to stone.
Did Ember carry blood with him so he would not have to pierce his flesh? Mooriah nearly lost the rhythm of the chant in her surprise.
Whatever his reasoning, that technique would not work. This old ritual was specific, only a drop must be used, and he would not be able to get such an amount onto the point of the pin, not without piercing the bladder and leaving blood streaming down his leg.
She forced her face to remain calm and realized that now attention was on him. The Iron Water assistants as well as their chief’s daughter had their eyes open. This ritual could not be corrupted—it was Mooriah’s chance to show Oval and the others her true worth. Her opportunity to advance and prove herself. Plus, she had no desire to show weakness in front of Iron Water.
She made the decision in a split second. Raising her voice, she began to practically shout the chant, startling several around the circle. Now the attention was on her instead of Ember. In the breath between repetitions, she invoked a blood spell to conceal her movements for the next few seconds. Even Oval would not be able to see what she did. Those watching would only see her as she’d been the moment she’d uttered the spell.
She grabbed Ember’s hand, wiping the blood away and grabbing the pin. She pricked his finger and, ignoring his flinch, added a drop of his blood to the bowl. Then she took the bowl from him.
The brief concealment spell petered out, and she finished the ritual like nothing had happened. The new caldera rose into the air like the others, an offering to the Breath Father and Mountain Mother. Beside her, Ember looked dazed, but held his peace.
After a few minutes of forced pleasantries between clan chiefs, Iron Water retreated. Ember and his family left as well. Mooriah glimpsed him trying to catch her eye, but she studiously ignored him.
Once the others had left, Oval turned to her, face stony as ever. “A thorough, if enthusiastic performance, Mooriah.”
She lowered her head. “Many of the old rituals mention that additional fervency in our pleas gratifies the Breath Father.”
“Hmm,” was his only utterance before he turned away with Glister on his heels. The other apprentice hadn’t looked directly at Mooriah since Oval had made his choice.
Murmur eyed her strangely as she cleaned up, putting away her materials.
“Do you think I will get marked down for too much exuberance?” she whispered.
He considered Oval’s retreating form. “You could have gotten through it faster and perhaps quieter, but given the Exemplar’s penchant for a snail-like pace, I would not worry overmuch.” He smiled kindly and patted her shoulder.
Her triumph was somewhat dimmed by the oddness with Ember, and she hoped that helping him had not hurt her chances of joining the clan.
~ 3 ~
Charm of Entanglement: To confirm an agreement between non-rivals to work together for mutual benefit.
Mix sapphire basil and crushed mammoth bone until well blended. Phantom rosemary may be substituted if the basil is overly fragrant but be mindful of its tendency to cause hiccups.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
For two days, Ember searched the city for Mooriah. When he wasn’t training or studying, he was finding reasons to be near the shaman’s cave. He caught glimpses of the old man coming and going, but never the woman he sought. And he couldn’t just ask one of the elders because they would doubtless want to know why he was looking for her, and he couldn’t really lie to them. It was said that elder blood mages could suss out truth without even piercing your skin.
Having no idea where she lived, he wandered the criss-crossing paths which stretched across the open cavern of the city, hoping to run into her. Silly, since such a thing had never happened before.
There were so many levels and tunnels and honeycombed chambers within the Night Snow mountain home. Endless staircases and bridges led to dwellings and businesses tucked away in caverns cut out of the rock. Moriah was not in the farming grottos on the bottom level, where firerocks shined bright as the moon and stooped farmers tended their plots. She was not with the fishers in the streams which circumnavigated the city or with the tanners or the masons.
He entered the teeming marketplace, wincing at the cacophony of voices echoing on the stone. Vendors shouted from stalls sectioned off with colored rope. The scents of stews and skewered meat wafted over, but did not entice Ember, preoccupied as he was. He was despairing of ever finding her as he turned a corner and ran, nearly headfirst, into Glister.
“Ember,” she said, smiling brilliantly. “You nearly mowed me down.” Her shaved head was painted with delicate artistry in the clan colors of white and gold. The nightworm silk chestcloth and waistcloth she wore were more expensive than all his possessions combined. Her family cultivated the creatures and harvested the fiber and even the chieftain only had a few bits of clothing made of the valuable fabric.
“Forgive me.” He bowed in apology. “I was not paying
attention. I hope you are well.”
“Better now.” She stepped closer until they were nearly chest to chest. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“I’m looking for someone. Actually, it’s Mooriah. Have you seen her?”
Her flirtatious grin turned into a scowl. “Why would you be looking for her?”
“Clan business,” he said brusquely. She flinched, narrowing her eyes. Ember wasn’t certain what sort of clan business he could manufacture if she questioned him further, but fortunately, she did not.
“Well, I haven’t any idea where she is. You could, of course, summon her.”
She pulled out a pin from her pocket and pierced her finger before Ember could do anything to stop it. He doubled over in a fake coughing fit to hide his horrified reaction. What must it be like to shed your own blood with so little care?
Glister muttered a summoning spell. Ember vaguely heard her mentioning his name but was using every faculty he had to keep the contents of his stomach in place. During a match or a ritual, he was prepared for the sight of blood, but this took him completely by surprise. He straightened, still fake coughing, and a nearby vendor handed him a cup of herb water, which he accepted gratefully. After drinking down the cool, sweet liquid, he faced Glister again.
“She should be here in a few moments.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. I’m always here for you, for anything you may need.” Her fingers grazed his arm. He wasn’t sure if she hadn’t closed her wound, or just hadn’t bothered to wipe off the blood, for a trace of it lingered on his skin.
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