translucent, the bluish-green veins already easily visible all over.
Oval stood with Murmur, the clan prophet. Murmur was younger, still an elder, but his often dreamy gaze, which saw so much, gave him a more cheerful manner. Oval called his two apprentices over, and Mooriah and Glister hurried to the men’s side and away from the crush of bodies.
“I hope you both enjoyed the festivities. To close out these events, and as a show of good faith between clans, we will join with Iron Water in the Sanctification of Amity.” Oval’s voice was low and creaked with advanced age. “We will seek the blessing of the Breath Father for continued peace between us and mutual advancement.”
Anticipation grew within Mooriah at the pronouncement. For the past three years, she had worked diligently as apprentice shaman, studying hard and completing the duties she’d been tasked without complaint. At the end of her training, if she were promoted to assistant, then her place in Night Snow would be assured. She would no longer be unclanned, an Outsider, and though she would still be recognizably different in appearance, the slights and snubs that came with her current status would plague her no more. This chance to seal the peace with their old adversary was another opportunity to prove herself.
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