“Come and sit with me by the lake,” Ukaro said. “Enough practice for one day and you must return to your flatlanders in any event.”

“I must, father,” nodded Marak. “The Sakovans are preparing to leave for home, and I would be remiss if I was not there to bid them farewell.”

The young lord of the Torak clan and his Chula father strode across the open field and sat beside the lake. Marak gazed at his father’s face. The shaman’s face resembled the face of a lion. Long whiskers spread outward from above his split lips, and his mane was more than just long hair. It flowed from every portion of his face and head. His eyes sparkled with the clarity of a hunter.

“You still find my appearance strange,” smiled Ukaro. “It can only be achieved by a powerful shaman. It demands respect within the Chula. You have the power to look like me, although I doubt your flatlanders would find it appealing.”

“I suppose they would not accept it very well,” Marak conceded. “Do you like looking that way?”

“I do,” grinned Ukaro. “It is a constant reminder of who I am, but I do understand how others could find it discomforting.”

“Perhaps when I am finished doing whatever it is that I must do,” posed Marak, “I will live with the Chula and learn the ways of my ancestors.”

“If you survive,” frowned Ukaro. “Do not make light of what the Torak must endure. Your task will be fraught with danger.”

“What is my task, father?” asked Lord Marak. “Tell me about the Torak.”

“I think you already know much more than you let on,” declared Ukaro. “The painting you saw in Angragar must have made you think about what god will require from you.”

“God,” mused Marak. “I grew up with the flatlanders, father. They speak of many gods, but value none of them.”

“I understand,” nodded the shaman, “but you have learned from your Sakovan friends that the one true god is Kaltara. Have you not?”