All that I have done since that day to prepare the Land of the Five Cities for the coming of Zyung is because of her. Sharadza Vodsdaughter became my apprentice, my muse, and my friend. She had agreed recently to stay on my island, since she could no longer tolerate life as the spurned Queen of Yaskatha. Perhaps one day she will love me as I have come to love her. Yet we must stand against Zyung and repel his hordes, or that sweet dream will never come to pass. Like millions of others, it will die to be replaced by Zyung’s dream of absolute order.
On the fourth day of our flight we passed the White Mountains and looked upon the vast ice fields where bands of Udvorg hunted mammoth and elk. The crystalline palace of the Ice King glimmered at the western edge of our sight.
By the end of the day we approach a range of glaciers big as mountains, the glittering ramparts of the Frozen Sea. Here I circle downward toward a peak of icy shards as Sharadza follows me. The northern horizon is an unbroken plain of whiteness, an ice-capped ocean whose depths have never been explored by Man or Giant. In all the world there is only one thinking entity who has swum below those thick crusts of ice and seen the dark secrets of the polar sea.
To find her, we have come all this way.
In the north-facing wall of a mighty glacier yawns the mouth of a jagged cave. Our wings bring us to the narrow ledge of blue-green ice that hangs before it. The wind blows bitter and frigid across the snows that mantle the cleft. Our bodies shift from eagle to man and woman. Sharadza stares into the ice cavern, seeking to penetrate its blue shadows. Then her eyes turn to me and I feel her trepidation. Our thin robes and sandals grow into thick furs and boots. Still the cold bites into my bones. Icicles form instantly in the long, dark tresses of her hair. The wind rattles them like brittle bones.
“Do not be afraid,” I tell her. The blue flame flares on my chest, yet it is not an earthly flame so there is no heat from it. I walk through the deep snow at the lip of the cave. I offer Sharadza my hand and she takes it. Even in this barren place where the chill of death hangs over us, even through the thick leather gloves that cover our fingers, her touch brings a glad warmth. We enter the cold cavern together.
“Who would sleep in such a forbidding place?” Sharadza asks, her voice a whisper. The roaring winds are left behind us as we advance between the walls of ice.
“Not all of the Dreaming Ones are truly asleep,” I say. “They may have simply lingered in a chosen role or shape for too long. They have effectively become the roles they have been playing. This is the danger of assuming any form; wear it too long and it subsumes your true nature. Recall Khama the Herder of Goats, whom we were forced to remind that he was the Feathered Serpent. Some of the Old Breed have enjoyed their long sleep for too long. They do not wish to be awakened. They might greet us with anger, or refuse to recall the truth.”
“What can we do in such cases?” she asks.
I conjure up a long staff from the ice to help me navigate the uneven floor. It feels cool and solid in my right hand, while Sharadza clutches my left.
“We can only try,” I tell her. “Try to make them remember who they really are.”
I do not mention the particular dangers of waking the long sleepers, especially the one who lies at the far end of this cavern. There are other factors at play here. Some of the Dreaming Ones did not choose their forms, but fell into them as mortal men fall into unwanted dreams.
“What is that smell?” Sharadza asks.
The bones of devoured walrus and seal lie scattered on the cave floor, some buried beneath the ice. My blue flame flares again, shedding cobalt light across the back of the cavern, and Sharadza sees the answer to her question. She gasps.
“This one does sleep,” I whisper. “Yet no longer…”
A colossal mound of white fur rises above our heads. On either side of us great claws rest upon frosted rock. A pair of great eyes dark as obsidian and rimmed with pink flesh opens to regard us. A black snout sniffs at us as the mother of all snow bears awakens. A rumble rises in its throat and icicles fall from the cavern roof, splintering about us. The she-bear is large enough to swallow us both whole.
Its maw opens, displaying yellow fangs long as swords and a pink tongue wet and dripping. Hot breath washes over us, reeking of marine flesh.
I raise the staff of ice and send the Flame of Intellect coursing through it like a torch. The great she-bear blinks and the blue fire dances in her black eyes.
“Ytara!” I call her by name, using the oldest one I can remember. “It is Iardu, your cousin. I bring you the gifts of memory and light.”
The she-bear growls, shifts its massive bulk. Sharadza squeezes my hand. She must be afraid, but she shows no other sign of it. Perhaps she recognizes something in the great she-bear’s eyes. She was always a clever apprentice.
The beast rises on all four legs, shedding ice from its back and sides. It sniffs at us, regards us with eyes full of curiosity. And hunger. Either she will remember her name, or she will try to devour us. I stand ready for either.
The white she-bear speaks in the voice of a woman. The language is ancient. One I have not heard in ages. It is a language spoken only by sages and sorcerers.
“I do not know these names,” she says. Her tongue slides across her black snout. “Yet your voice is familiar.” The she-bear settles herself before us, laying her head upon one massive paw. Her ebony orbs shift to Sharadza. “I know your beauty…” The voice is uncertain. She has lost much. Rather, much has been stolen from her.
“Ytara is your name,” I say. “Though you have known many others. Do you remember Shayakatha? Ymbriss? Anyarom? All these names mortals have called you. Do you recall your long journey southward? Do you recall the warm jungle and the kindly folk of Omu?”
The she-bear growls. “Dreams…” says the woman’s voice. “Dreams of a golden sun and purple blossoms… a city among the trees.”
“Yes!” I encourage her. “You remember Omu the Green City. Many were the temples built in your honor there. The simple folk of Omu worshipped you as their Goddess in another form than this one. I visited you there long ago. You were most happy. Until the Pale Queen came and stole it from you. Then you fled north, back to this lonely land from whence you came.”
The she-bear roars. I am stirring unpleasant recollections now. Sometimes the deepest memories bring the deepest pain. Sharadza releases my hand. She stares at me instead of at the Bear Goddess.
“The White Panther…” says the she-bear.
I nod. “That was the first time she stole your life and loved ones,” I say. “The first time you faced Ianthe the Claw.”
The she-bear gnashes her fangs. “I remember this name,” rumbles the voice, more bear than woman now. I must be careful. “I remember my enemy…”
“Wait!” I say, raising the bright staff to catch her eyes again. “There is one last name you must recall, for when you lost it you lost everything. Again you manifested here, in the sanctum of your power, where you ruled before the coming of Man.”
The she-bear is silent. Columns of antediluvian stone glimmer inside the luminous walls. The ice-swallowed remnants of a forgotten temple.
“Alua.” Sharadza says it before I do. She sees it clearly now and knows who we have awakened this day. “You were Alua, Queen of New Udurum. It was my brother who named you this. He found you roaming the Icelands in the shape of a fox who became a woman. He loved you, and he helped you find your lost memory. Do you remember him?”
The great she-bear blinks at the Daughter of Vod. Its eyes fall to the floor, pressed downward by the weight of loss.
“Vireon…” says the she-bear.
“Yes,” I say. “What else do you remember?” I do not want to speak of her lost daughter. The girl-child who was Ianthe’s ruinous lie.
The she-bear slumps to the cave floor. “Nothing else…”
“The White Panther tricked you,” Sharadza continues. “Once again she stole what was yours. Can you not recall this?”
“She stole your life,” I say, “and your power, your white flame. I see now that the Claw has also stolen much of your memory.” She should remember more than this. The hollowness inside her is Ianthe’s doing. Still, we only need to stir enough memory to bring her with us.
I glance at Sharadza. A tear slips from her eye, freezing solid upon her gentle cheek. I want to reach over and wipe it away. I resist the urge.
“You are Alua!” Sharadza shouts. “Wife of Vireon! Queen of Udurum! You cannot have forgotten this.”
The she-bear’s shaggy bulk shrinks.
“You are of the Old Breed,” I remind her.
It is no longer a hulking beast that stands before us. It is now the slim figure of a woman with blonde tresses hanging the length of her waist. The only remainder of the she-bear is a great white pelt hanging like a cloak from her shoulders. Beneath it she is naked, bare feet pale upon the icy ground. Yet she does not shiver.
“Alua.” She repeats her name, and now the feminine voice fits the body. She speaks in the common tongue of the Five Cities; the language of traders and diplomats, scholars and Kings.
Sharadza rushes forward and grabs her in a tight embrace. Both women weep. How much does Alua truly recall, and how much as Ianthe erased forever? I cannot say.
Alua raises her hand. A white flame erupts in the center of her palm.
I cannot help but smile at this display. Sharadza laughs, wiping frost from her cheeks.
“Names… faces… a few torn fragments of dreams,” Alua says. “These are all I have. I have lost so much…” Her tears flow freely now. She lets them fall. They turn to motes of ice before they reach the cave floor.
“Come with us,” I tell her. “Stand with us in the battle that is coming and face the Claw one last time. She is the enemy of us all, and she serves an even greater enemy. Come with us and make Ianthe pay, for she has twice wronged you and those you love.”
“My name is Alua,” she says, as if finally convincing herself.
Her sense of loss is deep. I feel it opening like an abyss inside the core of her being.
“Yes.” Sharadza cradles her hands.
A blast of white flame surrounds us. Encased in its blazing light, we burst from the cave and rise into the blue vault of sky. No longer must Sharadza and I flap our weary wings to fly.
Inside the flaming sphere Sharadza grabs my hand as well. Her glistening eyes stare into mine with a flood of released emotions. Her brother will rejoice when he finds that his beloved wife still lives. Vireon could not know how difficult it is to slay a true sorceress.
Yet we cannot seek Vireon yet. Sharadza knows this too.
More of the Dreaming Ones must be awakened.
A white comet hurtles south above the frozen world.
Inside the cocoon of white flames Sharadza speaks softly with the reborn Alua, whose look is that of a child being lectured by a kindly tutor. Her memories are only fragments, but she quickly understands the immediacy of our danger and the urgency of our mission. The name of Zyung she does not remember. I do not wish to burden her reintegrated mind any further, so I describe his horde and his goal. It is enough for Alua that he has allied with Ianthe the Claw. That above all else makes him her enemy.
The lands below rush by as we watch them through the sphere of pale fire. Once again we cross the Grim Mountains, yet at a speed that far exceeds that of our eagle forms. Alua weaves a garment for herself from the white flame. It cools and congeals to the smooth consistency of silk, and she keeps the cloak of snowy bearskin as a reminder of her most ancient aspect. Her dark eyes, too, remind me of the great she-bear.
She listens quietly to our voices, flashes of recognition igniting in her black pupils. Yet her mind is still clouded. Ianthe stole far more than her white flame. She has not spoken the name of Maelthyn, the daughter born of her womb and Ianthe’s sorcery. We do not have the heart to remind her of this terrible crime. Perhaps she will remember everything in time, and what a torrent of pain will follow that memory. Yet for now I need to keep her focused on the task at hand.
“Our destination lies northwest of Uurz,” I say. Alua’s head turns and the flaming sphere arcs westward above the Stormlands. “Some leagues east of the Western Flow, yet many leagues south of Vod’s Lake. There we will find a series of green mounds dotted with ancient stones. A great city stood there long before Men came to the Desert of Many Thunders.” I take Alua’s hand and show her a mental image of the grassy mounds. They are all that is left of the nameless city.
In a few short hours we have crossed from the top of the Frozen North into the very heart of the Stormlands. I see the Western Flow glimmering silver below us. I guide Alua toward the scattered mounds. There are tiny villages on the green plain here. All this land was black desert before Vod worked his great spell and slew the Father of Serpents. Yet no villages sit close to the low mounds that we now approach. A soft rain falls from thinning clouds, and rays of sunlight stir rainbows to life above the steppe.
The globe of white flame descends to earth. It fades, leaving Alua, Sharadza, and myself amid the tall grass. Cool winds rustle my robe, and the honest scent of wet earth fills my nostrils.
Like the burial mounds of lost Kings the seven hillocks rise about us. Dense thickets of thornwhistle and starflower grow upon their crowns. Toppled obelisks of worn granite lie here and there between the mounds, covered by emerald moss and purple lichen. The blocks are so old that only the faintest remnants of glyphs and sigils are visible in the pitted stone.
“What is this place?” Sharadza asks.
“It has no name,” I say. “Rather its name has been lost for ages. These crumbling stones were once the foundation of a metrop olis older than any on this continent.”
I walk between the obelisks, touching each of them in turn. Some are merely the remnants of foundation stones that once supported walls as large as those of Udurum or Uurz. My touch extends through the porous rock into the soil beneath. It is not long before I find the one for which I am searching. I mumble a word of power and the slab rises from the loam to float in the damp air. Tendrils of moss and creeper vine hang from it, dripping rainwater into the rectangular hole that has been revealed.
“Come,” I say. Sharadza and Alua follow me down the ancient steps into the womb of the earth. The concealing obelisk lowers itself behind us, sealing the entryway once again. The blue flame gutters on my chest, turning the rough-hewn walls from dirty brown to shades of azure. The light is not enough for Alua, so she conjures another white flame to dance in her palm. Sharadza keeps her silence as we descend.
At a certain depth the crevices of the stairwell are still filled with black sand from the desert that used to lie above. Sigils and hieroglyphs run along the walls in clever patterns. Another dead language, this one inscribed in stone. A human skull lies in a corner where the stairwell turns in another direction. The smells of fungi and rotted bones prevail here; there is only darkness outside our sphere of pale bluish light.
At last we reach the bottom of the long stair and enter a grand cavern. A forest of eight-sided pillars stands carved from floor-to-ceiling stalagmites. Nameless ciphers and icons swirl across the surface of these columns. The floor is of natural stone as well, yet graven smooth except for faded murals and cryptographs. I remember this place full of light and life, but it is the blurred memory of a dream that might or might not have been real.
My companions follow me into the depths of the pillared vault. We stop at the mouth of a great, dry well encircled by runes that I recognize. The marks of protective sorcery. Standing above the dark shaft, I sing the notes of an ancient song. My voice echoes among the pillars, travels across the dusty floor, and sinks into the well. By the time my song is done, twenty pairs of yellow eyes stare at us from the darkness between the pillars.
The Nameless Folk have us surrounded.
They creep forward, silent as cats. Curved blades glimmer in their fists. Dark veils cover the lower half of their faces, and hoods hid
e the tops of their heads. They offer us only the glare of their reptilian eyes. Some carry loaded crossbows of dark wood. I am surprised to see such recent advancements in weaponry here.
Alua’s white flame surges but a glance from me dispels her alarm. Sharadza stands against my shoulder. I can almost feel the questions lingering on her tongue. She has learned to be patient; a necessary trait for any sorcerer.
“Vaazhia.” I address them with the name of their creator. It is the only word I need to say. One of them motions me forward. I walk in the direction indicated by his raised blade. Sharadza takes Alua’s hand and reaches for my own. The thick gloves are gone now, and her touch is a pleasant heat in my grasp.
We pass through an archway guarded by two stone demons with chipped teeth and empty eye sockets where great jewels once sat. The Nameless Folk enclose us, part escorts, part guards. They lead us on without voices (for they have none) through shadowed galleries and twisting hallways, always downward into the earth by stone ramp and stairway. We navigate a narrow ledge, pressing our backs against cobwebbed stone and glancing into an abyss of windblown darkness. More stairwells await us beyond the gulf, and we come at last to a massive cavern with a river running swift through its middle. An arcing bridge of stone carries us over the whitewater; tall torches along its length blaze with orange light, despite the clouds of wet mist rising from below. This must be the same waterway that runs beneath the palace of Uurz, or at least one of the Sacred River’s tributaries. On the far side, another arch accepts us and a corridor leads us into a realm of dancing flames.
The walls of a great hall glisten with constellations of raw diamonds. Braziers of ancient iron burn hot with the leaping flames. Hundreds more of the Nameless Folk mill about the polished floor, peering from behind columns of green beryl and yellow quartz. All of them wear the veils that show only their yellow eyes, and they are all so very similar. There are no children or young ones among them, as there are no elderly. This does not surprise me.
Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper Page 11
