THE circle closed around Zevaron. He stood in the center, as it must be, as it had always been. As much as he was able, he surrendered himself to the te-alvar. The pain from his arm, from uncounted bruises and abrasions, dimmed. Light suffused him, lifted him, cradled him.
Swords shimmered in the dawnlight, horses neighed, and men shouted, “Khored! Khored!”
He stood on a hilltop as the wind tore at his hair and his skin burned with inner fire. He lifted his bare arms against the gathering storm. The world brightened in his sight. He recognized what he held, each petal glowing with its distinctive radiance, the center more brilliant than any flame. Words flowed from his mouth, as they had from the great king so many ages ago, words shouted, whispered, prayed. Words became light, and light flowed through spirit, and spirit shaped itself back into words.
BY GRACE, ALL THINGS ARE MADE.
As if in response, the ground rumbled again. The cleft mountain must be pushing even higher, devouring more of the surrounding terrain. In his mind’s eye, in the part of him that was still bound to the forces of Fire and Ice, Zevaron saw it swell until it blotted out the sky.
BY JUDGMENT, ALL THINGS ARE UNMADE.
The great form raged, a shadow upon shadows. It battered against the last invisible barrier. Part corporeal, part spirit, it could not yet emerge completely into the living world. The six alvara had been able to accomplish that much, but no more, and the guardians were human. They would need to replenish the strength they had poured out. But Fire and Ice would never tire, never grow old, never need to sleep or eat.
I will end it here.
Zevaron reached within himself, peeling away the layers of willful blindness with which he had kept the te-alvar confined. Time fell away like the husk of a giant seed, along with his confusion, his disbelief, and every moment in which he had turned away from its guidance. Finally he came to the pivotal instant, the moment of betrayal. He was not Khored, could never be. He was not worthy. He had broken faith. From the first awakening of the te-alvar to when he entered the White Mountains, he had pretended he could remain true to the teachings of his people and pursue vengeance against Gelon. He had convinced himself, but he had not convinced Fire and Ice. By slow degrees, the subtle and ancient enemy had enticed him and lured him, diverted his purpose . . . and deadened him to the truth within himself.
Now the te-alvar blazed up like a sun. In its searing brightness, he could see nothing and everything. One by one, the lesser petal gems came into focus, each in its proper place, glowing with its distinctive color and adding its unique virtue. He knew them all, from the earliest teachings of his childhood to the present rhythms of his heart.
“May the light of Khored . . .” began the blessing, and the alvara answered.
Eriseth. Blue held fast, endured, kept faith in the long years of exile in a foreign land.
“Ever shine ever upon you.”
Benerod. Green brought healing of the wounds of war and injustice, and engendered compassion and kindness and fellowship.
“May his wisdom guide you . . .”
Cassarod. Red heartened with courage, not the absence of fear but the determination to act rightly despite it.
“Through every tribulation.”
Dovereth. Yellow saw through lies and madness and terror into the heart of truth.
“May his Shield protect you . . .”
Teharod. Pale rose, subtle as dawn and as powerful, touched vision with wisdom.
“When all else fails.”
Shebu’od. Purple, as intense as a butterfly’s wing, as amethyst, as wine, spun out oceans of strength.
The power and depth and vividness, the very life of the alvara filled him and yet he felt something lacking.
“At the end of time, O Holy One,
Deliver us into the hands of peace.”
Like the first breath, like the last, the clear center of the Shield became one with the others. There was no sense of domination, only the quiet acknowledgment that there was no essential division between the aspects of the Shield.
It is one as we are one.
Khored had stood upon his hilltop, looking down at the battle, but Zevaron had no need for physical sight. Having been ensorcelled by Fire and Ice, he perceived it and its creatures far more accurately with his mind than with his eyes. He sensed the cleft mountain, the fuming vents, the barren rock, the great lumbering arsinoths, the combinations of mineral and beast, brimstone and hoarfrost. Most of all, he was aware of Fire and Ice.
Quick as thought, the monstrous form reacted. As Zevaron was still linked to it, it was even more acutely sensitive to him. It recognized the magic that had defeated it ages ago. It howled out its frustration and pent-up fury. A blast exploded on top of the alvara circle with gale-strength winds, blizzards of flaming cinders, and razored shards of hail. The attack was only partially physical. The greater force tore and ripped at the Shield, which glowed under the assault. The earth flinched as if it were a living thing in agony. Horses and men screamed in terror. The creatures of Fire and Ice wailed, their cries barely distinguishable.
I am the center, Zevaron thought, and it came to him that the function of the te-alvar was not to anchor but to aim, not only to unite but also to give purpose. He stood in Khored’s place and wielded Khored’s stone. But what was his purpose? To repeat Khored’s victory? To exile Fire and Ice to the north from where, an age later, it would surely find another way out of its prison?
The dharlak of the Golden Eagle people lay in smoking, twisted ruin. He would not trust to mountains, to stone and snow. He would trust to fire. It might not prove more secure, but choose he must. Indecision would have far worse consequences than choosing wrongly.
Down, he sent the silent command through the bond forged by obsession and beguilement. In his mind, he saw the Form falling through streams of molten rock, down through the heart of volcanoes to the glowing fundament beneath. Ice sizzled and steam churned with magma. In that infernal heat, no trace of chill survived.
Down!
He hurled the command like an arrow, like a spear, with all the power of the Shield behind it. His aim was true. His will pierced the chaotic heart of the Form. The te-alvar channeled its power through him. In a moment, it would all be over, the danger passed, the threat vanquished.
Nothing happened.
Silence blanketed the steppe. Through his connection with Fire and Ice and the senses of the Shield, Zevaron knew that every mist creature and abyssal monster had obeyed his command. Frost-wolf and ice-troll, winged serpent and stone-drake and all the things that had no names, all plummeted through the rift. Fire and Ice alone remained, and it was untouched. It loomed above the shattered peaks like a monarch on a throne looking down on the least of his slaves. Laughter like bile, like sulfurous ichor, like frozen blood, rolled down the mountain slopes.
*Did you think to compel me, man of dung and earth? Your words have no power over me!* Never before had the voice of Fire and Ice been so clear, its meaning so unambiguous. *I will recreate my army from your night terrors. This time, I shall not fail.*
Zevaron recoiled. Dismay crept like smoke through his mind. He had been so certain. The power of the Shield had been flawless.
Through his shock, he sensed Fire and Ice becoming even stronger with each moment. The ancient adversary was feeding on the failed attempt. In the abyss, shadows condensed anew into solid form.
What had gone wrong? Had his own certainty—his arrogance—betrayed him? Had all the harm he had done left an indelible stain that warped even his best efforts?
The unity of the Shield began to dissolve. Individual colors appeared within the sphere of light. He thought of all the gifts he had received in his life, the sacrifices made on his behalf, the friendships freely given, the love and fellowship . . . and how he had set it all aside. He had thought only of his own petty hatred, had sought only to inflict even greater pain on those who had wronged him.
*All your fault . . .* murmured the seductive mental voice.
The sphere of power generated by the Shield diminished further. Through the thinning brightness, the lineaments of surrounding objects emerged—people, horses, the bloated outline of the mountain.
Voices reached him, muted. “Zevaron, what’s wrong?”
“Try—you must try again!”
What was there to try? His words had no power over Fire and Ice.
His own words, perhaps, but not those of Khored of Blessed Memory. If he had commanded Fire and Ice to the northern mountains, would that have worked? Might it still work?
A flicker of intuition nudged Zevaron away from the thought. It did not matter where he sent Fire and Ice, only how.
Something whispered through the back of his mind, a sound like a hissing serpent, and then a long exhalation. Not Fire and Ice, the common appellation, but syllables of conjuration . . .
O Most Holy One, help me!
There was no answer. But “The Holy One” was not the name of God, any more than Fire and Ice was the true name of the remnants of Creation.
Its true name. He must command it by its true name.
There was very little time left. Moment by moment, Fire and Ice grew stronger and more solid.
Khored! Father, ancestor—speak through me! Save our people—save all the earth’s peoples as you once did!
His chest thrummed, his pulse accelerating and growing in intensity like thunder. The te-alvar reflected and gathered power from the lesser gems, and also from sky and steppe, from the heartbeats of men and beasts.
The thrumming built into an avalanche of sounds, the clash of steel against steel, the crack of breaking ice, the drizzle of rain, a woman singing, winds on the heights, the roll and ebb of ocean waves . . .
“In the desert, my soul cries out in thirst,
On the heights, my heart is filled with longing,
In the temple, I find no rest.
All is dust between my hands;
My fire gives no warmth, my bread no savor.
Come to me, O Holy One of Old;
Speak to me as you spoke to my fathers!”
Fire and Ice, he had named it, speaking contemporary Meklavaran. But in the ancient holy language . . . He remembered sitting beside his mother’s knee, her lamp filling the room with amber-soft light. Her voice rose and fell, half-singing as she read to him from the Te-Ketav.
Fire . . . sar, and ice . . . korak. Zevaron racked his memory. There would be a linking modifier, barely a breath. Sar-h korak. No, the letter reth reversed the order—sahr.
Sahr-Korak.
He lifted his arms, drawing power to him. Colors intensified as each virtue heightened. Courage and strength flared again like a sunburst, anchored by truth and wisdom, tempered by compassion, deepened by endurance.
Zevaron sensed the enemy’s ages of yearning, of bitterness, of implacable hatred. More rapacious than any wildfire, it hungered without end. In it, he also saw what he had nearly become.
In that moment, Sahr-Korak was no longer an enemy to be conquered, but a part of Creation to be restored. Not, as he had first thought, to the infernal regions of the earth, but to the limitless heavens. There nothing and everything remained constant, the stars fixed in their places, the moon fluid in its phases, meteors and comets, veils of undulating iridescence, pools of emptiness.
There, he thought, there is your place. May it bring you the peace you never knew on Earth.
In that instant, he felt a lightening of the awful presence, a ripple of surprise. A pulse of weariness, of relief. Almost, he could imagine, willingness. Assent.
“Sahr-Korak,” he whispered.
And it was gone.