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