The yurt flap swung open. In the entrance stood Kaisar—massive, bronze-skinned, with fire-scarred hands and ginger braids singed by the forge's flames. Green eyes swept over Orgatai, lingered on Ainur.

  "Basy," the old man greeted, rising from the cushions. Bones creaked beneath his weight.

  "Stay seated, ata." Kaisar stepped inside, ducking beneath the low arch. "I didn't come for ceremony."

  Orgatai sank back down, but kept his spine straight. Ainur froze by the hearth, ladle suspended mid-stir.

  "Zhalgaztur sent word," the basy continued, folding his arms across his chest. "Pack for travel. You leave with him at dawn tomorrow."

  Silence fell heavy as felt. Ainur blinked, disbelieving.

  "Where?" Orgatai forced out.

  "To his sacred cave. The baksy has decided to take you and your granddaughter." Kaisar's gaze swept the yurt—modest but well-lived-in. "A pilgrimage. Or whatever he's planning—he'll tell you himself."

  The old man clenched his bone comb until his knuckles whitened.

  "I can't… Not in my condition."

  "You can." The basy's voice brooked no argument. "The rukhs command it. Zhalgaztur doesn't ask—he orders. You should know that better than anyone!"

  Orgatai lowered his head, exhaled long and wearily.

  "Very well."

  Kaisar nodded, turned towards the entrance, but paused at the threshold.

  "Pack quickly. The baksy won't wait. I'll send people to help."

  Pulling on his boots, he vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared.

  Ainur sank to the floor, hand pressed to her mouth. Her heart hammered, thoughts raced.

  A pilgrimage? With the baksy? Ata agreed?

  Orgatai rose, leaning on his staff.

  "Start gathering our things, kyzym."

  By evening, a crowd had assembled at the yurt. First came Gulnaz—an orc woman of middle years, the tanner's wife. Behind her followed three more women, bearing sacks, bundled cloth, and strings of dried meat.

  "Let us help, Ata!" Gulnaz rumbled, handing Ainur a heavy bundle. "You'll need this for the journey."

  "Rakhmat, ainalaiyn!" Gifts offered with pure hearts could never be refused—bad luck otherwise. And who in this world was more superstitious than the torki?

  Next came the men—orcs, humans, land-dwellers. The latter grumbled, but their hands worked efficiently: dismantling the yurt's framework, rolling up felt, securing bundles. Orgatai sat on a low stool, directing where everything should go.

  Amidst the bustle appeared Aigerym—a young babulusa, incredibly strong, with long horns sweeping outwards. She grabbed an armful of poles, spun sharply—her horns caught a stack of cooking pots. Copper rang out, rolled across the ground.

  "Oh!" The babulusa crouched, trying to gather the fallen items, but her horn snagged another bundle. Fabric loosened, grain spilled.

  "Aigerym, stop!" one of the orc women laughed. "You're breaking more than you're helping!"

  The babulusa snorted sheepishly but continued hauling bundles, carefully avoiding the others.

  The women began to sing—an old song about roads, about bidding farewell to home. Voices intertwined, low and high, orcish chest notes mingling with bright human voices. The melody drifted over the aul, catching in the cookfire smoke.

  "The road calls, you cannot hold it,

  The wind carries, you cannot retrieve it,

  The steppe stretches wide, you cannot circle it,

  The path is long—but you walk it."

  Ainur joined the chorus, her voice trembling on the first line but strengthening by the end. Gulnaz smiled at her, nodded approvingly.

  By nightfall, the yurt was folded, the bundles secured. Orgatai sat on a fallen log, gazing at the empty space where his home had stood that morning.

  At dawn, seven wagons already rumbled across the land, wheels crushing damp grass. First—Orgatai's own cart, creaking but reliable. Second and third—borrowed from neighbours who'd agreed to escort them to the baksy's dwelling.

  Two more wagons carried Yernazar's belongings. Others drove them whilst he rode alongside. Beside him rode Kairat—the elder brother, broad-shouldered, with the same ginger braids as their father. He constantly grinned into his newly sprouted moustache, glancing at Yernazar from time to time.

  The final two wagons bore the baksy and his "cargo". On one lay the youth—the very one Zhalgaztur had carried from the cave. Pale, motionless, seemingly lifeless, though his chest rose and fell rarely, barely perceptibly. On the second loomed an enormous chest.

  When Zhalgaztur had emerged from the spirit cave carrying the young orc, no one remained unmoved. The baksy bore the heavy body like an armful of kindling, not a single muscle straining under the weight. But another sight struck everyone to their core: behind him, the chest floated of its own accord, as though tethered by an invisible rope to the baksy.

  Whispers rippled through the crowd—quiet, frightened, reverent.

  "Did you see?"

  "The rukhs carry it."

  "It flies on its own..."

  "The sandyk! Flying!"

  This spectacle provoked even more gossip than the confrontation with the priest. Zhalgaztur had left abundant fodder for the women's morning and evening conversations at the well during his brief visit.

  The caravan also included Kaisar with five men. They accompanied on horseback. Protection wasn't strictly necessary—the baksy alone could handle all of them combined. But the return journey for those travelling back with empty wagons held various threats. Wild animals, bandits, unclean things that dwelt in mountain gorges.

  Ainur sat beside Orgatai on the lead wagon, holding the reins. Zhuldyz, unaccustomed to the moiynturyk around her neck, snorted and tried to shake off the collar. The valley spread around them—boundless, green, lush, brilliant under the summer sun. In the distance rose mountains, cloaked in forests, their peaks crowned with snow.

  Zhalgaztur's wagon led the way, the baksy sitting upright as a spear. His ginger braid hung down his back, tattoos showing through his shirt at the neck. He never looked back, never checked whether the caravan followed. He knew—they wouldn't fall behind.

  "Ata," Ainur whispered, leaning towards her grandfather. "Why did he take that youth? And the chest?"

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  Orgatai remained silent, watching the baksy's back.

  "I don't know, kyzym," he finally answered, his voice hoarse. "But when Zhalgaztur does something, it means the rukhs commanded it. And one doesn't question the spirits."

  The wagon bounced over a bump. Ainur gripped the reins tighter, maintaining her balance. Behind them, laughter rang out—one of the men joking about the rough road.

  The sun climbed higher, heat pressing down heavily. At least dust didn't hang in clouds above the caravan, settling on clothes, working into skin. Ainur wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

  By evening, the sun began its westward descent, painting the valley in deep copper tones. The road wound along low hills, beyond which birch groves now appeared.

  Zhalgaztur raised his hand, speaking no word. All wagons halted. Even the animals seemed to sense his will—they shifted from foot to foot but made no sound, didn't shake their heads.

  Orgatai slowly descended to the ground, groaning, and began unharnessing Zhuldyz.

  The men dismounted, stretched after the long journey. Kairat seized a sack of stakes and rope first, tossed it onto the grass.

  "Quickly, before it gets completely dark!" the basy barked, last to swing down from his saddle.

  Everyone set to work: untying bundles, unloading poles and felt. One of the humans—stocky, with a thick black beard—lit the fire, added dry twigs. Flames leapt up hungrily, tongues reaching skyward.

  Ainur jumped from the wagon, working feeling back into her numb legs. Gulnaz, who'd volunteered to accompany them, already rummaged at the second wagon, extracting pots and pouches of grain.

  "Zhanym, help me!" the orc woman called, holding out a bundle of dried meat.

  The girl grabbed the package, carried it to the fire. Behind her came a crash—someone had dropped an armful of poles.

  The men drove stakes into the ground, stretched ropes. Felt spread over the framework, secured with straps. The first yurt rose quickly—hands worked efficiently, practised. Then the second, separate for Ainur and Gulnaz.

  Kaisar circled the camp, checking the fastenings' strength, correcting those who rushed. The basy tolerated no shoddy work.

  Orgatai settled on a log by the fire, rubbing his knee. Finished helping Gulnaz, his granddaughter sat beside him, set a pot on the flames. Waited for the water to hiss and boil.

  "Ata, tea?"

  The old man nodded without raising his eyes. Wrinkles carved deeper into his face in the fire's shifting light.

  Yernazar sat slightly apart, back against a wheel. Kairat settled beside him, chewing dried meat, talking about something to do with their father's forge. The younger brother listened, nodding occasionally.

  Zhalgaztur hadn't moved. He sat in his place, watching the unconscious youth. His face remained motionless, but the air around him seemed to thicken—as though time itself held its breath.

  Finally, he leapt from the wagon and, without addressing anyone, stood beside the young man. His fingers touched the sleeper's forehead.

  The tattoos on his arms flared—dim at first, then brighter, flooding the skin with bluish radiance. The baksy froze, lips moving soundlessly. A whisper—so quiet no one caught the words.

  Ainur froze, teapot suspended in her hands. Orgatai lifted his head, squinted.

  The fire trembled as though caught by wind, though the air stood motionless. The glow intensified, spread across the baksy's body, shining through his clothes, running down his wrists.

  The youth flinched. His eyelids flickered but didn't open.

  Zhalgaztur exhaled sharply, withdrew his hand. The tattoos dimmed, fading one by one. He straightened, looked at the stars emerging through the dusk.

  "Good," he said quietly, though his voice carried to everyone. "Sleep is the best medicine."

  Silence blanketed the camp. All eyes turned to the baksy and his motionless companion. Orgatai cleared his throat, placed his hands on his knees.

  "Will he wake?" The old man finally voiced what lingered on everyone's tongue.

  The baksy nodded to Orgatai. His ginger braid swayed, casting shadows in the firelight.

  "When?" Ainur whispered to herself, frightened by her own boldness.

  Zhalgaztur heard, looked at the flames, then at her, and answered.

  "When the Heaven decides his time has come…"

  Wind swept across the grass, making the flames dance, throwing strange shadows across the gathered faces. Kaisar tossed dry twigs onto the fire, sparks soaring into the darkening sky.

  Ainur set the teapot beside her grandfather and involuntarily glanced once more at the youth. His face remained serene, yet she could have sworn she saw his eyelids trembling—as though he dreamt deep, deep within himself.

  Yernazar shifted closer to the fire.

  "The Aruaks speak with him," he said quietly. "I hear their whispers."

  Zhalgaztur turned his head towards the young man, surprise flickering in the baksy's eyes.

  The next seven days, their journey proved long and changeable, as though the earth itself tested them, probing their resolve. Water-meadows wrapped in grasses waist-high stretched like an endless green sea. Across them, like drops of light, flower clearings blazed—blue, scarlet, golden. Through these the wagons passed, leaving behind an even, slightly flattened track. Wheels rustled through grass, animals snorted, shaking off midges, whilst above them kites wheeled slow and unhurried.

  Mornings brought light mist, spreading silver between the hills. From any hilltop, it resembled a sea, flowing and silent, dissolving only with the sun's first rays, yielding to transparent blue sky.

  Stones began appearing more frequently along the route, gleaming in sunlight, and solitary trees—sturdy birches and oaks. They stood like sentinels, seeing travellers into another world—there, where meadows end and mountain silence begins.

  On the fourth day, the air grew colder. From the east came freshness, mixed with pine scent. Forests, sparse at first, gradually closed in, turning the road into a tunnel. Birches with white, seemingly silver trunks stood shoulder-to-shoulder with firs. Sunlight pierced the canopy in thin golden beams, and when wind stirred the crowns, it seemed waves of light glided across the earth.

  Ainur grew accustomed to the journey's rhythm. Morning—packing, then long hours on the wagon seat. Brief lunch, on the move. Evening—camp, fires, supper. And sleep, deep and dreamless, beneath the starry sky.

  Yet she noticed changes in Yernazar. The young orc increasingly rode away from the caravan, climbed hills, closed his eyes, listening. No one paid attention—who knew what a baksy's apprentice did? Everyone knew that by now. But Ainur saw how his face changed—as though he heard distant music, comprehensible only to him.

  "Do you hear them too?" he asked one evening, settling beside her at the fire.

  Ainur shook her head.

  "Hear whom?"

  "The spirits. They're everywhere." His eyes gleamed as though reflecting something beyond ordinary sight. "Before, I only sensed their presence. Now I hear voices. Can't make out words yet, but..."

  The words broke off. That instant, Zhalgaztur materialised behind them. The baksy placed a heavy palm on his student's shoulder.

  "Come. We need to talk."

  They disappeared into darkness, vanished between trees. Returned only an hour later—Yernazar pensive, subdued, Zhalgaztur calm as hewn stone.

  On the fifth day, mountains drew nearer—harsh, forbidding, white peaks piercing clouds. The road climbed, wagons creaking heavily, animals straining, pulling with their last strength. More frequent stops became necessary, giving exhausted beasts rest.

  The night turned cold. Ainur wrapped herself in blankets, but sleep wouldn't come. She emerged from the yurt, looked at the stars—bright, large, close, like mountain flowers in a celestial garden.

  By the fire sat Zhalgaztur. He wasn't sleeping, stared at the flames with an unblinking gaze. Beside him lay a spread hide, and upon it—the mysterious youth. The baksy rested his hand on the young man's forehead, tattoos glowing faintly in darkness.

  "He'll wake soon," Zhalgaztur said without turning. "Today his consciousness almost returned."

  Ainur froze, daring neither to leave nor approach.

  "Who is he?"

  "One who will change many fates."

  The baksy raised his head, looked at her directly.

  "Yours too, kyzym. More than you can imagine..."

  On the sixth day, the road curved sharply, climbing up the slope. Each step proved harder than the last. Mountain streams—wild, unruly children of the peaks—cascaded down rocks, filling the air with crystalline ringing and silver spray. Water rushed downward like a living creature, greedy for freedom.

  The air thickened, became almost tangible substance—dense, fresh, permeated with scents of resin, bitter herbs and fallen needles carpeting the earth in russet-brown, concealing beneath them the secrets of many generations. Between trunks showed stone—ancient, silent witness to all existence.

  Somewhere beyond the ridges, in another valley's invisible realm, thunder rumbled deep and rolling—there the sky had opened with downpour, but here only echoes of that fury reached travellers' ears.

  They rode immersed in silence like dense fog. Animals, worn by the long passage, stepped with the caution of experienced elders—their hooves striking muffled, dampened sounds from soft moss carpet and interwoven roots.

  That evening, when camp quietened, Ainur gathered tart bird-cherry berries and scarlet rosehip beads. Juice stained her fingers, leaving dark cherry traces on skin. And Yernazar, as in recent days, vanished into thickets, returning with a birchbark bucket full of mountain water. Crystal clear, burning with cold, to which he'd grown addicted, with particular fondness. He drank it in large gulps, eyes closed, as though hearing in this water voices unavailable to others.

  And when midday sun rays pierced the sky on the seventh day, the caravan reached the pass.

  Wagons halted on a narrow platform, seemingly suspended between heaven and earth. Below unfolded a valley—boundless, emerald-green, like silk cloth artfully embroidered with rivers' silver threads. Above it swayed translucent haze, pierced by golden light needles.

  Each beam, penetrating mist, birthed rainbow haloes, shimmering and melting in air. And there, where the valley met whitish spurs of distant mountains, ancient sanctuaries' outlines dimly emerged—half-ruined by time yet undiminished in power, drawing the eye like a magnet.

  Zhalgaztur, seated on the lead wagon like a stone monument, slowly raised his hand.

  "We're close," the baksy pronounced. Just two words, but containing universes of meaning. His voice sounded different—deeper, more ancient, as though not a man spoke but the mountain itself.

  He didn't turn to his companions, his gaze fixed ahead, there where sky and earth converged, where the boundary between the world of the living and the realm of spirits disappeared.