Let all the clans be on alert, we will take on all challengers and prove to them that we cannot be bested!”
Cheers from Night Snow were joined by grumbles and jeers from the other clans gathered. Divot stood with the Iron Water chieftain, head lowered, no doubt being chastised for losing the match. Ember felt a twinge of sympathy for him. With the First Frost Festival coming up in just a week, this match was the pre-qualifier for the largest competition of the year for each clan.
Tensions between Night Snow and Iron Water, the two largest clans, were high and these nonlethal games were meant to diffuse it, though Ember wasn’t certain it was working. He’d certainly rather show his proficiency in the circle than have their people embroiled in a deadly war. He could only hope that his performance, and the opportunity these games gave for the chieftains to work out their differences, would be the key to peace.
As Crimson and Oval left the center of the circle, his father motioned for him to follow. Ember shot a glance at the section of the audience he’d fallen into but couldn’t glimpse Mooriah through the crowd.
Once ensconced in the side cavern that Crimson had at his disposal, his father whirled on him. “Your victory was solid, but how in the Mother’s name did he manage to roll you out of bounds? You lost your focus, and it could have cost you the match! Do not let it happen again.”
“Of course not, Father.” Ember dropped his head. The scent of blood still lingered in his nose, and he waged a constant battle to ignore it.
The echo of heavy footsteps entered the small cavern. That particular stomp could only belong to one person. “Well done, brother,” Rumble said, insincerity dripping from his voice. “It looks like it will be you and me facing one another in the festival.”
Ember met his brother’s cool gaze. Eyes of pale gold regarded him with barely concealed hatred. They were the same age, born in the same month to two different mothers. As the son of the Lady of the Clan, Crimson’s first wife, by tradition Ember should have been the heir, but Rumble’s mother effectively lobbied for consideration for her son. Had Ember’s mother been alive, she might have objected, but as it was, Crimson had kept the two in competition all their lives, holding the promise of heir to the chieftain’s seat over them.
“I look forward to besting you in battle,” Ember said.
Rumble raised a brow. “I do as well.”
Crimson grunted. “Come, we have matters requiring our attention. Try not embarrass me or the clan.” Rumble smirked before following their father out.
Ember grit his teeth. A match against his brother was what he’d expected, and victory would offer more than just bragging rights. Both men suspected that this, their twenty-fifth year, would be the year Crimson made his choice between them.
Ember needed to win, not for his own sake, but for the sake of the clan. The Mother only knew what horrors a chieftain such as his brother would bring down upon them.
~ 2 ~
Sanctification of Amity: To ensure a good rapport between rivals.
Combine generous pinches of star root and funeral bane along with a dram of natalus ichor. Do not inhale the fumes. In the case of reluctant participants, sprinkle ash of mercy.
—WISDOM OF THE FOLK
Mooriah only got a glimpse of Ember through the throngs of people after the match concluded. She still couldn’t believe that the chieftain’s son had helped her up after he’d crashed into her. It had taken quite a while to slow the beating of her heart, only to have it start racing again—this time with annoyance—when Glister’s grating voice sounded behind her.
“Oval has summoned us.”
Composing her face into a brittle smile, Mooriah turned to face the other young woman. “Of course,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll be right there.” Glister narrowed her eyes, then turned on her heel and left. With a last, longing look at the circle but no further sight of the victorious warrior, Mooriah grabbed her satchel and followed.
They wended their way through the crowds to find the Night Snow shaman waiting at the entrance to a narrow tunnel. He was an ancient man, his skin leeched of all hue in the way of elderly Cavefolk, the effects of many generations spent inside the Mother Mountain with little access to the rays of the sun. Not just pale, like the younger Folk, but edging toward