Seven Sorcerers(36)

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.