“You have chosen well, young sorcerer,” Jabalwan said and placed a hand over the boy’s eyes. “Now you see the truth, the spirit world outside the tribes. Now you see how the clouds with their backs to the earth carry our spirits and return prophecy with the rains. From this day forth you will hunger more for them than for food. You will fast and you will wound yourself to be near them. All your suffering will be their long calling, all your needs their necessity. The clouds are the weight of your life and the shapes of your destiny. Whenever you rise to them, in prayer and in pain, they will carry you. For now, you are a sorcerer.”
Matu looked at Jabalwan floating above him, his sinewy face dusted with morninglight, and tried to grasp what the man said. His words sounded sweet, and tense, and gone even as he spoke them, like threads of wind whistling through a hollow bone.
“Is this good?” the boy asked
“Good?” Jabalwan smiled joylessly. “You are thinking like the Book again. For sorcerers there is no good or evil.” He looked up at the clouds floating above them. “The sky is deep. It carries everything. No matter where.”