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