“You did well today, son.”
“You’ve said that…”
Malik followed his father deeper through the crypt tunnels that weaved beneath the base of the Kalengal Spires known by the Faltari as the Mountain of Souls. The tunnels themselves were woven with magical threads that glowed with an icy luminescence. All through the mountain, the caverns were lined, allowing just enough light to navigate without the aid of a torch.
From the front entrance at the center of the valley, the cavern walls were also lined with narrow internment shelves, carved straight into the stone. This far down, most of the shelves remained empty. Further back up the tunnels, each box-like shelf contained a clay jar with the ashes of Faltari ancestors. Each shelf was decorated with items important to the deceased, and the jars themselves told their stories in a series of pictographic inscriptions.
There was no rhyme or reason to the order of the shelves. Shamans chose the location at random, usually with the intent of separating each deceased person from their ancestors.
In death, there are no families, no clans, Malik had been taught. This is the final reminder.
And so, Faltari families were not laid to rest together as in other corners of the world. For similar reasons, the shamans held no clan identities, which was why Malik had not been marked by a fresh tattoo of jackal claws the night before the Ascent. A shaman’s true and ultimate allegiance was only to the gods.
None but the elders and the shamans visited these crypts, except to prepare the internment shelf on the day of burial.
Up the tunnel, Malik could hear the murmurings of Petyr’s family. They were the last family in the crypts, and Joren had elected to give them space, as he usually did.
The crypts glowed brighter the deeper they descended into the heart of the spires.
“I mean it, son,” Joren said, pausing to turn to him.
Malik glanced away. His father’s face was painted. Dark wells of ink splotched around his eyes. Slashes of blue graced his cheeks and the shaved sides of his head. It was ceremonial custom for a shaman, but Malik had always hated looking into those dark wells ever since he was a child.
Next year, his face would be thus painted as well. And all the years after, and somehow, everything about this ceremony felt like an immense weight. As though his destiny were closing in around him, pressing down like the mountain above, walls collapsing and crushing him under the pressure.
His father’s hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his own thoughts.
“Even death is a lesson, Malik.”
“Everything’s a lesson to you,” he murmured. “Nothing more than an excuse to me. To soften the blow from the exact result we should expect for sending our youth up the Spires every year. These deaths are a curse we bring on ourselves. Not a lesson.”
His father scowled, the whites of his eyes feeling spectre-like against the dark rings decorating his face.
Joren sighed. “Come.”
They descended further into the mountain. Malik knew where they were going, and the dread creeped in as they neared.
The burial tunnels wended down, growing brighter and brighter before reaching a door made of stone, etched in ancient runes. A language from that dead world, just like the dirge their people sang.
Joren uttered words in the ancient tongue as he pressed his right palm against the stone.
“Melana esso tanai.” Joren issued a soft pulse of hish as he uttered the spell.
The stone groaned, and Joren pressed firmly with both palms. The door shifted open, grinding against the floor of the chamber.
A flood of brilliant light ushered forth, so bright, it took Malik several moments, even with the aid of hish, to adjust his vision.
The floor of the room beyond was blanketed with threads of magic, drawing from the heart of the mountain toward the center of the room, where a coalescence of magic formed in a pool of ethereal mists. Malik could feel the warm presence of spirit resonances all around the chamber.
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All the caverns behind were frigid, but here, Malik quickly grew flushed in his cloak. Joren led the way across the chamber, removing his thick shaman’s cloak, and then his shirt. His father’s back was covered in paint—symbols of the clans, runic incantations, transcriptions of tales.
There was much he had yet to learn about all the rites that surrounded the Festival of the Ascension. Next year.
Malik removed his own cloak, and together, father and son stood at the edge of the pool.
“You’re right, son,” Joren said.
“About what?”
“Of course we ask for this. We choose to send our young up the Spires. We choose to send them to a dead world. What it means to us is also a choice.”
“It feels like nothing more than a needless sacrifice. Like the heathens from that dead world slaughtering their children in great wars.”
“It is a sacrifice, but it is also a lesson. Because that is the perspective our people chose long ago.”
“Even Derrin,” Malik said. “Even his death was a lesson?”
Joren gestured toward the pool. “Why don’t you find out, son?”
Malik crossed his arms, a lump in his chest. He hadn’t been here since Derrin died. He knew what his father wanted of him, but he was not sure he could do it.
“He’s waited a long time,” Joren said. “I haven’t pressed you. Everyone must face loss in their own way. But you’re hurting, son. And I think he may offer you some comfort.”
“You and I both know it might not even be him.”
“I’ve visited your brother on two occasions. Whether it is his spirit, or a manifestation of my own… it is no less sacred.”
Malik released his clenched fists and took a long breath. His spirit was in turmoil. He knew his father was right, and yet, even that very truth was shrouded in anger and frustration, and Malik didn’t know why.
He drew another long inhalation and slowly released it, attempting to release the tension in his body as best he could.
Joren patted his shoulder.
And Malik removed his fur-lined boots and stepped into the ethereal pool.
It was wet. Warm. A pool fed from deep in the heart of the mountain. But it was much more than water.
A rush of light surged through the mists. Magic swirled around him, filled with resonances of ancestral spirits. The subtle vibrations of hish that he’d learned to recognize hummed with a soft and steady cadence. Like waves beating the shore or the crackle of fire. Despite the fact that all of them were dead, Malik was struck by the realization that all these spirits were at peace. No anger or bitterness surged in this place.
Striving is the stuff of life, he thought. What awaits is peace.
His father had taught him these words when his grandmother passed from the world. He had emphasized them again when Derrin fell.
No one knows what awaits, Malik thought.
But in the warm presence of the resonances surrounding him, the thought drifted away. His body relaxed, and then, all at once. The mists parted around him, forming a space in their midst. And one resonance drew close.
Malik recognized that vibrant spiritual thrum immediately.
A face appeared from the mists, formed of visible manifestations of the breath of the gods.
Derrin beamed at him, his face like a dim reflection of the remarkable young man he’d been in life.
“I think your Ascent may have been even more exciting than mine, little brother.”
Malik tensed at the voice, reminding himself that this might not be Derrin’s resonance at all. Spirits were mysterious, even devious, as he’d seen in the Abyss. But it sounded just like him. Felt just like him.
Malik couldn’t hold back a smile. “I’d have taken a boring Ascent, I think.”
“Ah, but that wouldn’t have made for a very good story. You did well, Mal. I’m beyond proud. We all are.”
“All?” said Malik.
Derrin’s smile widened.
Malik shrugged, knowing he’d get no straight answers from spectres.
“You did all you could,” Derrin said. “There is never shame in that.”
“Even when it’s not enough?”
“No amount of striving is ever enough. It takes death to understand the beauty in that.”
Malik huffed. “You sound like father.”
“I did train with him for many years.”
Malik looked away, suddenly jolted back to the turmoil surging inside him.
“I know why you haven’t come down here,” Derrin said. “I can’t say I blame you. I put you in a bit of a… precarious situation. Dying and everything.”
Malik couldn’t help himself. It was so like Derrin to make a joke, even about his own death. The mists swirled with the mirth of their laughter.
“I know it’s been hard on you,” said Derrin. “You were never supposed to be shaman. And then, you were. But you showed your mettle today, little brother. The way you helped Petyr in the Abyss. Ulgar on the bridge of vines.”
“You could see all that?”
“Resonances,” said Derrin.
“You can see us in the Abyss? Even father can’t do that.”
“Father is still striving. Much wisdom comes with death. It is no tragedy.”
Malik grimaced, shifting his feet and stirring up the mists.
“You don’t have to be like me, you know,” said Derrin. “Or like father. You’ll find your own way to serve our people.”
The words washed over Malik. Mists swirled and slowly evaporated, and he could feel Derrin’s resonance slipping away, joining the throng of others in the crypts. Leaving a lingering ache of absence.
Malik didn’t move for some time.
His brother had struck at the core of his anger and frustration, and yet, Malik had lived as a shaman for the past year, and he did not see how his brother could be right.
Malik longed for the Jackal claws etched into his forearms, just like Riese and Yuri. He longed for more than prayers and healings and tending to the dead.
The Ascent itself had dredged this awareness back to the surface. The thrill of the climb, battles with jackals and dragyrs, fleeing from wights of the Abyss. Even the storm itself, though terrifying, had been exhilarating.
His one and only adventure was done.
And now…
Joren’s hand clasped his shoulder. “Petyr’s family has finished their burial preparations. I think they would find comfort with you making the final rites.”
Malik took a long breath, a part of him wanting to refuse.
But just as he had during his Ascent, he knew he must be more.