Seven Sorcerers(35)

As the mighty towers dwindled behind us and the colossal forests of Uyga and pine covered the world below, I recalled the tavern in Udurum where Sharadza’s word–and her deep green eyes–had awakened me from a cynical slumber. She had stirred me to action, demanded that I help her stop a war before it started, and would not accept my protests of futility. I had worn the shape of a disheveled old winesop for so long, walked the cities telling stories for handfuls of coins, that I had nearly forgotten my true self. Her father had condemned me twenty years earlier for manipulating his life to suit the needs of the world. Vod’s harsh words and his anger had haunted me. I no longer wanted to be the Shaper. So I became Old Fellow, a spinner of yarns, and a drunk. Yet that was not me at all.

How ironic that Vod’s own daughter was the source of my rebirth. She had come to me begging to be taught the rudiments of sorcery. In this I had complied at last, although hiding my true identity from her. She saw through my disguises. In that squalid drinking house, she roused more than my true self from its dark dream of shame and regret. She returned me to life as surely as the warm sun brings forth the first blossom of spring.

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.