“What’s wrong, Mother?” Durotan asked, concern in his young voice. She blinked, coming out of her reverie, and smiled at him.
“Not a thing,” she assured him truthfully.
The shadows had chased away the sunlight by the time they reached the foot of the mountain. They would sleep here tonight and begin their ascent at dawn. Durotan fell asleep first, wrapped in the hide of the talbuk doe he himself had slain not too long ago, and Mother Kashur watched him fondly as he slept the deep sleep of the innocent. She herself would have no dreams; her mind needed to be clear if she was to be ready to receive visions on the morrow.
The climb was a long, tiring one, harder by far than the simple hike to reach the mountain, and Kashur was grateful both for her sturdy staff and Durotan’s strong hand. But today, Kashur’s feet seemed to move more surely her lungs work more efficiently as she and her young charge climbed. She felt as if the ancestors were pulling her forward, aiding her physical body with the power of their spirit ones.
They paused at the entrance of the sacred cave. It was a perfect oval in the smooth surface of the mountain, and as always, Kashur felt as though she were entering the womb of the earth. Durotan tried to look brave, but succeeded only in looking slightly nervous. Mother Kashur did not smile at him. He should be nervous. He was about to enter sacred space at the specific request of one of his long-dead ancestors. Even she was not unmoved.
She lit a bundle of dried grasses that gave off a sweet, pungent scent, and waved the smoke over him to purify him. Then she marked him with the blood his own father had shed for this moment, kept carefully in a small stoppered leather bag. Kashur placed her withered hand upon his smooth, low brow, murmured her blessing, and then nodded.
“You well know that few are called before the ancestors who do not walk the path of the shaman,” she said gravely. Brown eyes wide, Durotan nodded. “I do not know what will happen. Maybe nothing. But if something occurs, you know to behave with honor and respect to the beloved dead.”
Durotan swallowed and nodded again. Then he took a deep breath and stood straight and tall, and in the yet-unmolded body of the boy, Kashur saw a hint of the clan chieftain to come.
Together, they went inside, Mother Kashur going first to light the torches that lined the walls. The orange illumination showed them the downward twining path, worn smooth by years of bare or booted orc feet. Here and there steps had been carved, to make those pilgrim’s feet more secure. It was always cool inside this tunnel, warmer than it was outside in winter. Kashur let her hand brush the sides of the wall, remembering the first time she had come here long ago, the blood of her mother wet on her own face, her eyes wide, her heart racing.
Finally, the long, gentle downward slope cased. There were no more torches on the wall to light, and Durotan looked at her, puzzled.
“We will not need to bring fire to come before the ancestors,” Kashur said. They continued on a level surface, traveling into darkness. Durotan was not frightened, but he did look confused as they left the comfort of fire behind.
Now it was completely dark. Kashur reached out a hand and grasped Durotan’s to guide him. His strong, stubby fingers folded gently around hers. Even now, when he might be expected to clutch my hand, he remembers how it aches, she thought. The next Frostwolf chieftain would have a considerate heart.
They continued without speaking. And then … subtly, like the arrival of dawn after a long, dark night, light began to grow around them. Now Kashur could dimly see the shape of the youth who stood beside her, so much younger than she and yet already walking in the body of a grown male. She watched him as they moved forward; the miracle of the cave of the ancestors was familiar to her, but Durotan’s reaction was not.
His eyes widened and he inhaled swiftly as he looked around. The glow emanated from a pool in the center of the cavern, casting a soft white light over everything. All was smooth and soft and dimly radiant; there were no sharp angles or rough places, and Kashur felt the familiar sensation of deep peace wash over her. She let Durotan look his fill in silence. The cavern was huge, larger than the main drumming and dancing area at the Kosh’harg festival, and branching tunnels led to places that Kashur had never dared explore. It would have to be so large, would it not, to be able to host the spirit of every orc who had lived and died? She walked to the water and he followed her, watching her closely. She removed the pack she carried and gestured that he do likewise. Carefully, Kashur removed several waterskins, opened them, and with a soft prayer added their water to the glowing liquid.
“You asked about the waterskins as we departed,” she said quietly to Durotan, “The water in here is not native to this place. Long ago, we began offering blessed water to the spirits. Every time we come, we contribute to the sacred pool. And even so, I know not how, the water does not dissipate as it would in an ordinary hollow. Such is the power of the Mountain of Spirits.”
Once she had emptied the waterskins, she sat down with a soft grunt and peered into the luminous depths. Durotan emulated her. She knew the angle at which she could see her reflection and made sure they were both positioned correctly. At first, all she could see was her own face and that of Durotan. Their features looked spectral themselves, reflected in a white pool rather than a dark one.
Then a third figure joined them, as if Grandfather Tal’kraa were standing right beside her shoulder, his reflection as clear as theirs. Their eyes met, and Kashur smiled.
She craned her neck to look up at him, but Durotan continued to gaze into the water as if searching for the answers there. Kashur’s heart sank a little, but immediately she reprimanded herself. If Durotan was not of the shamanic path, then he was not of the shamanic path. Surely his destiny would be an honorable one regardless, born to lead his clan as he had been.
“My many times great granddaughter,” Tal’kraa said with more gentleness than Kashur had ever heard from him before. “You have brought him, as I asked.” Leaning heavily on a staff as insubstantial as he, the spirit of the Grandfather moved in a slow circle around Durotan as the young orc continued to look into the water. Kashur watched both Frostwolf males closely. Durotan shivered and looked about, no doubt wondering where the sudden chill came from. Kashur smiled to herself. He could not see his ancestor’s spirit, but he knew, somehow, that Tal’kraa was there.
“You cannot see him,” she said a bit sadly.
Durotan’s head came up and his nostrils flared. Swiftly, he got to his feet. In the eerie light, his tusks looked blue and his skin had a green cast to it.
“No, Mother. I cannot. But … is an ancestor present?”
“Indeed he is,” Kashur said. She turned her attention to the ghost. “I did bring him here, as you requested. How do you find him?”
Durotan swallowed hard, but remained standing straight and tall as the spirit circled him thoughtfully.
“I sensed … something,” Tal’kraa said. “I had thought he would be a shaman, but if he cannot see me now, then he never will. But although he will not see spirits or summon the elements, he is born to a great destiny. He will be an important asset to the Frostwolf clan … indeed, to all his people.”
“He will be … a hero?” Kashur asked, her breath catching. All orcs strove to uphold a code of courage and honor, but only a few were powerful enough to have their names engraved upon the memory of their descendants. At her words Durotan inhaled swiftly, and she could see the wanting on his face.