Mistake sat silently for several minutes as Temiker’s words sank in. Finally, she began to cry. Temiker tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away. He walked to the fire and poured a fresh cup of tea for her. He walked back and handed it to her. She nodded silently and took a sip.
“You are a wise man, Temiker,” Mistake sniffed. “Perhaps I came on too strong and too quick for MistyTrail. I will return with the wagons to StarCity.”
“I have a better idea,” offered the mage. “Another caravan will be coming to Alamar. Spend some time here and think about things. Let MistyTrail do the same. After a week’s time, you can go back and see how things stand. I truly believe she just needs a little time to dwell upon what having a sister means in her life. I am sure that everything will work out just fine.”
“Then that is what I will do,” nodded Mistake. “I really do not want to leave her.”
Chapter 5
Changragar
Marak and Ukaro traveled well past the Golden Gates and the Sacred Lake on an old mountain trail. The trail climbed steadily and eventually the trees fell away below them. Marak began to shiver as he saw last season’s snow still lying in the dark crevices of the mountains. When Ukaro turned into a narrow canyon, Marak felt a numbing cold blow over his body. His teeth chattered and he wrapped his arms about himself in an effort to retain his body’s warmth. The narrow canyon broadened suddenly and Marak stared at the old building in the center of the valley. An ancient temple, much like the one in Angragar, but much smaller, sat in solitude.
The jaguar that Marak was riding suddenly stiffened. Marak calmly ran his hand over the large cat’s shoulder.
“Changragar,” Ukaro announced.
“The cats are fearful of this place,” Marak stated. “Why?”
“Changragar is a place of power,” replied Ukaro. “You are in the presence of Kaltara. Can you not feel it?”
Marak frowned before saying, “All I can feel right now is the need for a good blanket. It is freezing here.”
“It is cold,” shrugged Ukaro as he halted his tiger in front of the temple. “You will get used to it.”
Marak looked at his father as he slid off the jaguar. The Chula was practically naked with only a breechcloth to cover him. His whiskers had a tinge of frost, and his mane was stiff. Marak shook his head and followed Ukaro up the small flight of stairs to the doorway of the ancient temple. There was no door to open; its wood had decayed a thousand years ago.
As Marak entered the temple, he stopped and gazed about the foyer. There were several discarded torches on the floor near the doorway. Ukaro stooped and lit two of them. He handed one to Marak, who held it high above his head as he surveyed the interior of the building.
“It has not weathered the years as well as Angragar,” he said softly.
“It has not been magically preserved as the old Qubari city has been,” replied Ukaro. “You will find no hellsouls here.”
“What will I find here?” asked Marak. “Why have you brought me here?”
“This is Changragar,” shrugged the Chula shaman. “This is where the Torak will be born.”
“I thought I was the Torak,” frowned Marak. “Is that not what the Chula have been calling me?”
“It is,” nodded Ukaro, “but we are only human. We recognize you as the Torak because all of the signs point to the truth of it. Still, only Kaltara can anoint you. That is why you are here.”
“Do you expect me to believe that god lives here?” questioned Marak. “This rundown temple is hardly a fitting mansion for Kaltara.”
“Were it a slave shack,” frowned Ukaro, “it would be holy to the Chula. You need to have more respect for Kaltara.”
“I am sorry, Father,” apologized Marak. “I do have a hard time understanding this god of yours. Why am I supposed to be the Torak? Why not a believing Chula?”
“Do not question things that you have no chance of comprehending,” admonished the shaman.
“Alright,” sighed Marak. “What do I do now?”
Ukaro pointed to a small set of steps leading to another doorway. “Enter the sanctuary and pray,” instructed the shaman. “I will wait for you here.”
Marak shrugged and marched up the short flight of steps. He entered a circular room that was devoid of anything except a lone torch holder. Marak walked to the center of the room and placed his torch in the holder. The light from the torch barely reached the walls of the room.
Marak stood in the center of the room for several minutes wondering what he was supposed to do. He had never been taught to pray. He did not even know how to pray. He felt very foolish. At first his eyes scanned the room looking for imperfections in the construction. Then he started whistling to himself and studying the mosaic design of the floor tiles. When enough time had elapsed that he thought Ukaro would be satisfied, Marak reached for the torch to leave the room. As he reached for it, a cold wind swept into the room and blew the torch out.
Marak froze with his hand extended towards the torch. His eyes tried to scan the room, but he could see nothing. He stood erect and turned, trying to find the entrance doorway, but he could not see as far as the wall of the round room.
“Do you believe only in yourself?” boomed a voice from the darkness.
A knife immediately slid into Marak’s hand as he tried to gauge the direction of the voice.
“Drop your weapon and kneel,” commanded the voice.
Marak started turning slowly as the voice spoke. Try as he might, he was unable to determine which direction the voice had come from. Suddenly, Marak’s knees buckled. He tried frustratingly to keep his legs straight, but he could not. He fell to his knees painfully. As if someone had grabbed his hand and forced his fingers open, his hand straightened and he heard the knife fall to the tiled floor.
“You are stubborn, Marak,” scowled the voice. “That can be a virtue, but not here, and not now. Why do you try to deny me?”
“Because I don’t know you,” Marak heard himself respond.
“Yet you have expressed a desire to know me,” replied the voice. “You came close in the prison of the Khadorans. Again the night before the battle at Balomar, you reached out to me. Now you find yourself in my presence, and you do not believe.”
Marak’s mouth opened in awe. No mortal could possibly know his private thoughts at those two times.
“Kaltara?” Marak said meekly. “You are real?”
“If you were looking for a false god,” replied the voice, “you should have gone to Motanga. What must I do to convince you that I am real?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Marak. “I want to believe in you very much. I need to believe in you for the sake of my people.”
“No, Marak,” responded the voice. “The people are not yours. They are mine. You are my Torak, but the people belong to me.”
Silence reigned over Marak for several minutes. For some unexplainable reason, he feared that Kaltara had left him.
“I will never leave you,” promised Kaltara. “The question is, will you ever leave me?”
“I will not,” promised Marak.
“We shall see,” countered the voice. “What do you want to know?”
“I must know of this great evil that is to come against my people,” declared Marak. “I mean your people.”
“You may call them your people if you wish,” replied the voice, “as long as you understand that they are truly mine. I would like you to deal with them as if they were your own. You have shown that you have the compassion to do that.”
“And the evil?” reminded Marak.
“As it was written, so shall it be,” replied the voice. “In the Time of Calling, memories will be recalled. You will learn of the followers of Vand. What else do you want to know?”
“Will we succeed in defeating this evil?” inquired Marak.
“That is the question that you must answer, Marak,” replied the voice. “Were I to destroy Vand myself, I would give credence to his claim to be a god. Destroying him is the task of the Torak. As Vand is merely a person, it shall fall upon the people to defeat him. I have endowed you with the skills necessary to complete the task. I have given you that which was promised thousands of years ago. The rest is up to you.”