“I will leave this body to inhabit another. You must obtain that body, and take it with you. Only then will I be able to continue on with you,” he explained.
“Is there no other way?” Lorit demanded.
“There is no other way,” Mu'umba said. He rose and passed his hand before Lorit, saying, “I leave the quest in your hands. Leave this body here, and take my spirit with you when you leave.”
As Mu'umba stood, Lorit's head cleared, and he was back, sitting in the chair at the inn. Mu'umba had slipped into a sound sleep and was breathing heavily. As Lorit watched, his breathing became heavier and sporadic. He convulsed once, twice, then tensed up and relaxed.
Lorit shook him, calling out his name repeatedly, until Chihon came over and gently touched his shoulder. “He’s gone, Lorit.”
“Another death on my hands,” Lorit muttered. “What have I done?”
“Lorit, you didn’t do anything to Mu'umba. He chose to come with us knowing the dangers,” she added, gently guiding him back to the chair.
“It’s my fault that he’s here. I led him to his death just like I did with Ardser and Onolt.”
“Lorit! That’s just not true,” she scolded him. “You didn’t cause any of those deaths.”
“They are all my fault,” Lorit said. He sat with his head in his hands, refusing to look up at her.
“What did he say to you?” Chihon asked.
“He said his spirit was going into the winning competitor, and that we were supposed to secure that body, and take it with us,” he said dejectedly.
“What competition?” Chihon asked.
“He said there was going to be a competition, and he would inhabit the winner.”
Ostai looked up from the still form of the tribesman. He stood and turned towards Lorit. “There’s a fight every night in the temple. The locals raise and fight crickets. It usually starts right after dinner and goes on until there is a clear winner,” he explained.
“Surely he didn’t mean that,” Lorit said.
“That’s the only competition that he could have meant,” Ostai said. “It happens every night.”
“How would he know about it?” Lorit asked.
“That’s a mystery, but if you don't get going, you may miss it,” Ostai said.
Lorit and Chihon made their way to the temple, a few blocks from the inn. The large entry room was hung with finely woven tapestries depicting wizards, battling against each other, in unfamiliar settings.
An elderly gentleman entered, carrying a large square wooden box adorned with symbols inlaid with pearl and lacquered over. He placed it on the table and stepped back. “The contestants may enter,” he shouted.
A second man walked into the temple with all the ceremony of the head of a wedding procession. He carried a clay pot in front of him, carefully cradled in his hands. The pot was covered with a lacquered wood cover bearing a number of large holes and decorated with flowers.
He placed the pot in the large box and stepped back.
A boy about Lorit's age entered behind the man. He carried his clay pot with almost as much ceremony as the older man. He, too, placed his clay pot in the box, opposite the one already there.
An old man dressed in orange robes and with a shaved head walked in, supporting himself on his staff. He stood beside the table where the box rested, pulling himself to his full height.
“We gather atop the sacred mountain that stands between the wizards of old and the people of magic,” he intoned. “We remember the battles of the past to assure that they stay in the past.”
He stepped away from the table and spoke softly. “Let the contest begin.” He waved his hand over the table and waited.
The older man and the boy each came forward. They removed the cover from their clay pots. The boy reached inside his jacket and pulled out a long thin pair of polished wooden sticks. He deftly reached inside the pot and withdrew the cricket within, placing it in the box. He pulled out another thin straw, and twitched the long, thin antenna on each contestant, directing them towards one another.
The two insects met in the center of the box, circling one another. They twitched their wing casings and quickly jumped head to head, antennae twitching wildly. They darted in and out of the battle almost too fast for the eye to follow. Again and again, the insects engaged and backed away from each other, antennae and tiny wing cases twitching and flicking quickly.
Eventually, one of the insects turned tail and ran from the other as a loud cheer went up from the crowd. The boy quickly plucked the winning insect from the box and placed it in the clay pot, once again trapping the insect inside with the polished cover. He placed it inside his robe and turned for the door.
Lorit quickly stepped between the boy and the door. “I’m Lorit, and I would like to buy your cricket.”
“No,” the boy said reaching for his robe, to protect the clay pot within. “He is my family's livelihood and a sacred trust.”
“My friend said his spirit would inhabit the winner tonight, and that I should secure it for him,” Lorit explained.
“This is a sacred trust,” the boys said, looking at Lorit skeptically. “Who is your friend?”
“His name is Mu'umba,” Lorit said. “He’s of the Plains of Grass, an Arda'um tribesman. He fell off the mountain on our way here and didn’t survive his injuries.”
At Lorit's words, the boy suddenly dropped to his knees and bowed his head to the floor.
The orange robed monk nearest him fell flat on his face, touching his head to the floor. He cried out in a loud voice. “Blessed are the people of magic.”
At his words, the rest of the room followed suit until they were all face down on the floor chanting softly.
Lorit looked over at Chihon who simply shrugged. He wondered what he’d gotten himself into this time. Why did these people worship the tribesman when those in the valley below reviled and despised him?
Lorit waited patiently until everyone rose.
The boy looked at Lorit. “I’m Itqua.” he said, bowing his head. “It’s my sacred honor to host one of the spirits.” He placed his hand over the clay pot underneath his robe.
“You have one of the people of magic with you?” he asked with an eager look on his face.
“We did,” Lorit said. “He died.”
“They do not die. They transition to another plane,” he said, once again placing his hand atop his robe.
“He appears dead,” Lorit said sadly.
“His body may have died. HE is not dead.”
The older monk laid his hand on Lorit's shoulder. “I am Kour,” he said. “The boy speaks the truth.”
“He was badly injured during our climb, and never recovered,” Lorit explained. “I fear the cold and snow were too much for him in his injured state.”
“The people of magic do not often venture out of the Plains of Grass. Why was he traveling with you?”
“We met him while crossing the Plains. Du'ala insisted that he accompany us to Veldwaite. She said he was going to be of some help.” Lorit looked down at the floor. “I don't see how he’s going to be much help now.”
“Are you a Wizard?” Kour asked, taking a step away from Lorit.
“Not much of one,” Lorit said angrily. “I couldn’t do anything to help him. When we were in Eldon they treated him like an animal.”
“The holy mother of the people sent him to aide you?” Kour asked, looking Lorit directly in the eyes as if trying to discern the truth of his response. “A Wizard?”
“She said he was going to help us,” Lorit said sadly.
“Come, join us,” Kour said. He guided Lorit and Chihon out of the large room and into a more comfortable space, hung with decorative tapestry, similar to the competition room. Large pillows were stacked up in one corner. Kour grabbed the large pillows one after another and tossed them into the center of the room until there were enough for all of them. He nodded his head to the pillows and said, “Please sit.”
Lorit lowered himself cross-legged onto one of the pillows, facing their host. Chihon took the one next to him.
A second man entered carrying a tray filled with crystal glasses, each holding a large measure of dark green tea steaming profusely in the cold of the evening. Kour motioned to his guests and Lorit took one of them. He held it to his nose and breathed deeply, taking in the scent of mint along with the bitterness of some root he could not precisely identify. He took a sip to find it sweet to his tongue.
“You are indeed honored ones, and you honor us with your presence,” Kour said. He sipped slowly from his tea.
“Honored?” Chihon asked.
“Indeed,” Kour said.
Just then, another monk entered the room, carrying a large, ornately decorated book. He took a seat near Lorit, folding his legs beneath him as he descended onto the large cushion.
“I am Denghau,” the monk said, “keeper of the legends.”
He opened the book and held it up, so Lorit could see the illustration. It looked remarkably like Du'ala, the head of Mu'umba's tribe. As he held the book up, Denghau said, “The Holy Mother.”
He turned the page to a second illustration. It showed Du'ala holding out her hand towards a tall man with a shaved head and black robes. Fire shot from her fingertips to engulf the man, who directed his staff back at her.
“The wars of old,” he intoned. Lorit wondered what this was all about. It sounded as if the monk was explaining that Du’ala had fought the temple priests with magic in the ancient past.
He flipped the page once more to show an illustration that either depicted Zhimosom, or was a striking resemblance by coincidence. The Wizard spread his arms out wide, holding his staff in one hand. Before him was a broad plain of fertile fields. From his staff a purple light emanated and where it struck tufts of tall grass sprouted up.
“Does that look like Zhimosom to you?” Lorit asked.
Chihon peered at the illustration in the book. “It sure does.”
“The mighty one raised the Plains of Grass to isolate the people of magic from the Wizards of Old,” he explained. He closed the book and latched it shut with the brass lock.
“He stopped the wars and raised the Plains of Grass as a barrier to keep the people of magic separate from the Wizards,” Denghau explained.
“When did all this happen?” Lorit asked.
“Long ago. Before the time of my grandfather’s grandfather,” Denghau said. “The people of magic do not deal with the wizards any longer. How is it that you, a Wizard, came to cross the Plains of Grass?”
“Zhimosom directed us this way. He said it was the most expeditious route,” Lorit explained.
“The Mighty One directed you to the Holy Mother?”
“Yes, he did,” Lorit said.
Denghau shook his head. “The time has come, then,” he mumbled so quietly that Lorit almost missed it.
“What time has come?” Lorit asked.
“Time of great change,” he said absently. He waved his hand in the air dismissively. “Don't pay attention to the mutterings of an old man like me. We have much to prepare.”
“Prepare?”
“We have a funeral to prepare. You said you had this one of the magic folk with you. His body is here, in Mistwind?”
“Yes, he’s in our room at the inn,” Lorit answered.
Denghau's eyes filled with tears. “I can barely believe we are so honored,” he said. He signaled to someone outside the room. Another monk in orange robes appeared and silently bowed, “You desire?”
“Bring the boy,” he said.
“As you wish,” the monk said, bowing as he backed out of the room.
Shortly, the boy appeared in the doorway. He bowed deeply, “You requested my presence?”
“Itqua, please sit down,” Kour said.
The boy quickly took a seat next to Lorit.
“What did he tell you?” Kour said to the boy.
The boy looked over at Lorit. “He said his friend told him that his spirit would inhabit the body of the winning competitor. He was to secure the winner to take with him.” As he spoke, he nervously placed his hand over the lump in his robe where the clay pot containing his cricket was hidden.
“Just so,” Kour said. He inclined his head towards Lorit.
The boy reached inside his robe and withdrew the clay pot. He stood up and faced Lorit. He held the pot carefully, as he bowed deeply, extending his hands. “I would be honored,” he said.
Lorit reached out to take the pot. “I offered to pay for it,” he said.
“Please,” the boy said. “It would be a great honor. I only ask that you allow me the honor of escorting your friend to his resting place.”
Lorit followed his gaze over to Kour, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“That sounds like a fair trade,” Lorit said. He carefully placed the clay pot into the pocket of his coat.
“Thank you,” Kour said to the boy, who rose and backed out of the room, bowing as he left.
The old monk stood, using his staff for support. “Come; let us show you the preparations we are undertaking for the ceremony.” He waved for Lorit and Chihon to follow him.
Lorit and Chihon followed Kour into the adjacent chamber. The room was formed of highly polished marble that glistened and glittered, throwing back the reflection of the oil lamps that ringed the room. In the center was a raised marble block supporting a short, squat casket adorned with carvings of flowers, clusters of grapes and nuts. It was gilt with gold and reflected the sparkle of the lamps that had been placed beside it.
The floor around it was carefully ringed in small, dried, pressed floral buds and leaves. The room smelled heavily of scented oils and the incense that was burning in small golden pots arranged carefully along the edge of the casket.
“As you can see, the preparations have already begun,” he said. He indicated another table containing rich white robe trimmed with gold and silver. Beside the robe was a pair of slippers made of the finest silk and trimmed with intricate, detailed silver embroidery, to match the robes.
“What is all this for?” Lorit asked.
“To honor the holy one.”
“Mu'umba?”
“Yes,” the monk said.
“But you only just found out about him,” Chihon said.
“We have been preparing for the past two days,” Kour said. “We heard of his approach two days ago.”
“We were still a long way away,” Lorit said. “That’s about the time he fell off the mountain,” Lorit said.