North we fly, in the shapes of white eagles.
We do not pause for sleep, or food, or rest. We do not speak, although there are many questions Sharadza would like to ask me. There are many things I would like to tell her.
Now is not the time.
“Our first ally lies deep in the Frozen North,” I told her before we left New Khyrei. She had turned a puzzled face toward me. Her emerald eyes sparkled, so like those of her mother.
“Is there a member of the Old Breed among the Udvorg?” she had asked. The blue-skinned Giants roamed the high plateaus of the Icelands. A great force of them had followed her brother south in his campaign against Ianthe the Claw. Yet many Udvorg tribes still roamed the tundra, or held the icy palace of Angrid that now belonged to Vireon.
“Not the Udvorg,” I told her. “Far beyond their hunting grounds we must go. To the shores of the Frozen Sea at the top of the world.”
She knew the urgency of our need and she asked no more questions. She had already delivered my message to Vireon and Tyro. The northern armies prepared to march along the Golden Sea coast to set up defenses in the Sharrian valley. Before they reached the shattered remains of Shar Dni, we must enter the white realm where even the Udvorg did not go.
Never had we flown so fast, or so far. I feared her strength might not be great enough for the long flight, and that she might slow me down. I would not leave her in any case. Yet I need not have worried. The tips of her wings were never far behind my own.
On the second day of flight we soared over the Stormlands. A continent of shifting clouds hid the fields and rivers from our eagle eyes. We flew higher than the storms so the angry winds would not impede our progress. On the third day we crossed over the Grim Mountains, sailing past frosty peaks and dark valleys where shadows danced. The bones of Serpents moldered in deep gorges. Beyond the mountains we passed over the City of Men and Giants. How long had it been since Sharadza had visited the city of her birth, seat of her brother’s power? No doubt she wished to dip between its ebony towers and walk its bustling streets again. Perhaps she longed to visit Vod’s tomb and lay a wreath of flowers at its door. Yet she said nothing of these desires. The time for returning to Udurum would be later, when the fate of the continent and all its peoples did not lie upon our shoulders.
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.
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 hide 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.
Our armed escort leads us toward the far end of the hall, past the yawning mouths of corridors agleam with half-light. This is the nexus of their sunken city, the heart of a nameless kingdom that few living beings know exists. There are no books in any of the Five Cities’ libraries that speak of this place, no stone tablets that record its history. Only one entity survives who remembers the glory of this lost city when it thrived in the sunlit world an eon past. Her gaze falls upon us now.
She sits upon a tusked throne made from crystal and the bones of mammoth Serpents. The nameless ones bow before her dais. I sink to one knee and my companions join me. She regards me in silence as I raise my head to speak.
“Greetings, Vaazhia, Queen of the Nameless Realm,” I say. “It has been far too long since last we spoke.” I use the common tongue because I know she understands it. Not even she remembers the long-dead language of her own kingdom.
Vaazhia’s eyes gleam bright as rubies with vertical pupils of ebony. She sits tall as an Uduri upon her throne. High cheekbones dominate her shapely face, and her full lips are purple as the skin of fresh grapes. Her tall forehead sweeps back into six horns that rise from her skull like a crown of yellowed ivory. A flood of night-black hair flows from the top of her head to cover her shoulders and breasts. Strands of jewels shimmer upon her arms and legs, where the scales of her scarlet skin reflect the glow of firelight.
“Shaper.” I am relieved to see that she remembers me. Her forked tongue darts from between her lips and slides back into the hollow of her mouth. “You have not visited me since the black desert ruled the lands above. Are these your daughters?” Her eyes shift to examine Alua and Sharadza.
“These are my honorable companions,” I say, emphasizing the last word. I introduce both women at length. Vaazhia was always impressed with formalities and courtly etiquette. Reminders of her lost Queenhood, perhaps.
“I am most honored to meet you,” Sharadza says with a curtsey. “Your hidden kingdom is… quite lovely.”
Alua’s only greeting is a silent bow of the head. “You are of the Old Breed,” Vaazhia says to her. She recognizes the subtle signs of our ancient kind. Her eyes return to Sharadza: “And you carry the blood.”
“My father was Vod, King of Giants, Breaker of the Desert,” says Sharadza.
Vaazhia’s eyes widen. She leans forward in her great chair. “Yes. I see him in your face, girl. Yet I knew him by another name. And his father I knew better than he did. Yet too short was his stay in my company. This cannot have been so long ago…”
“Only a few decades,” I say. “Time is an illusion that fools us all, cousin.”
Vaazhia looks at me as if seeing me for the first time. She nods, her eyes glazing with memories, or the shreds of memories. A silence falls upon the chamber. Even the orange flames, fueled by her sorcery, are without sound.
I break her reverie by speaking her name again. She blinks like a viper.
“Do you recall the name of Zyung?” I ask. The lizardess nods. “A great war falls upon the world above, and Zyung has become our enemy. We seek your aid in opposing him and those of our kind that he commands.”
Vaazhia laughs. “The world above does not concern me,” she says. “Long ago I enjoyed life beneath the sun and stars. This is my world now and I am content. My children take what I need from the fields above, and there are none to challenge my rule here.”
“Your… children… are known only as brigands and river pirates in the world above,” I remind her. “When they raided the desert they bore the stigma of nomads and the hatred of civilized folk. Now they are the scourge of the Stormlands, and still held in contempt for it. Do you not wish for allies, for respect, for companionship?”
“I have companions,” she says, spreading her arms wide to indicate the Nameless Folk. They stare at us, silent as mushrooms.
“I know the truth of these nameless ones,” I say. “They are creations of your sorcery, nothing more than phantoms designed to resemble those you once ruled here. In the world of the living they are nothing less than scavengers and thieves, all in service to an unknown sovereign. They neither think nor feel. You are alone here, Vaazhia. Yet you need not be.”
The lizardess stands, towering twice my own height. Sharadza takes a step back. Alua does not move.
Vaazhia opens her mouth wide, baring fangs like those of a cobra. “You insult me, Shaper…” The earth rumbles beneath our feet and sand trickles from the vaulted ceiling. The flames in her braziers rise higher and brighter. Serpents of fire dance there, ready to leap and devour us.
“No,” I say. “I bring you a gift called truth.” I step closer to her, drawing her gaze lower. The long talons of her fingers curl on either side of me. “Far too long have you wallowed in the sorrow of your own memories. The world you built here died long ago! Yet you can build another. Do not waste your immortality sitting in the dark, lost in a prison of remembrance. Live, Vaazhia! Rise up and discover how fine and beautiful the world has become! I will help you!”
Her rage subsides. She does not weep, but sinks back into her throne. The braziers return to their calm state of illumination. She sighs, sweeping her gaze across the throng of phantom folk who have served her for millennia. Vaazhia’s curse is not to forget, but to remember. I must break her of it. I reach out with the invisible coils of my heart, hoping to reach her own. Eager to make her believe that something other than this futile existence is possible.
“How can I do this?” she asks. Her voice is that of a despairing child.
“Let me–let us–show you how,” I say. “You are of the Old Breed. You can remake yourself as you will. Come and see the world that lives green and golden above you. Fangodrel’s world.” Vaazhia loved Vod’s father Fangodrel, if only for a little while. When he refused to stay with her in this sunken realm, it only confirmed her despair. Yet Fangodrel was but a taste of the world that had moved on without her. I know she longs for more of that sweet flavor.
“There is so much goodness to discover in the world,” Sharadza says. “Light and love and the laughter of children. The gleam of sunlight on water and leaf. The breath of night and the glimmer of stars. So much more…”
Vaazhia sits in silence for a long moment.
The nameless ones collapse into piles of black sand and coarse cloth. They will no longer raid the ships of the Western Flow and the villages of the grassy steppe. They were nothing but mindless drones that served the will and appetites of Vaazhia. Now the lizardess must learn to serve herself.
“Tell me more of Zyung and this war,” she says.
In the coral palace of Indreyah the Mer-Queen we are received without ceremony by a cadre of Sea-Folk guards in scalloped armor. Alua’s flaming sphere has carried us far over the Cryptic Sea, and as we plunged into the blue waters I replaced it with a sphere of sunlight and fresh air. Once I was welcome here, but those days are done.
As we sank into the great chasm and left the aquamarine light behind, Vaazhia asked me a question that I could not answer. “Do you really believe your former lover will aid you in this struggle, Shaper?” The lizardess was blunt. The waters rushed by us in a swirl of bubbles. The purple glow of the anemone forest lay directly below us. Eels and schools of silver fish darted by our sinking globe of light.
“She may hold little love for me these days,” I said. “But she is quite fond of Sharadza.”
Alua and Vaazhia turned to the Daughter of Vod. Vaazhia had reduced her size to stand no taller than any of us. Her crimson orbs blinked with curiosity.
“I once visited her palace,” said Sharadza, “to reclaim the bones of my dead father. Later she aided me against a sorcerer who had imprisoned me.”
“You have lived a most interesting life for one so young,” said the lizardess. Of course, she had lingered for an eon in the cellars of a dead city. Having Sharadza as a companion would be good for her. The Daughter of Vod had given me a new passion for life, and I was sure she would do the same for Vaazhia. If we all survived the coming of Zyung and retained our individual natures.
We descended among a multitude of gliding sharks, rays, and squids toward the avenues of the coral city. Spires and domes glimmered below like constructs hewn from monolithic emeralds. Shades of crimson, turquoise, and azure danced amid the incandescent marine gardens. The Sea-Folk swam thickly here, where streets and plazas were home to phosphorescent anemones, gardens of kelp, and groves of deepwater flora.
Curious crowds of the silver-scaled folk encircled us, staring with the amber orbs of their eyes. The sharp tines along the middle of their backs and on the tops of their heads twitched nervously. Some brandished tridents or harpoons of whale bone. Indreyah’s people were a cautious breed; the people of the dry lands had exploited the ocean’s riches for as long as there had existed divers, swimmers, and seagoing vessels. The Sea-Folk had good reason to fear the air-breathers of the world. I could not begrudge their lack of hospitality.
As we sank into the palace courtyard, pitted walls of crimson coral rose to hide the city from us. Indreyah’s finny warriors came forth to surround us with the points of their fishbone spears. Their captain rode on the back of a harnessed black shark and carried a crystalline blade. He spoke in the bubbling language of the Sea-Folk, and among our group only I understood him.
I addressed him by name, in my own language, yet by my conscious magic he understood my words. “Captain Aoliooyulp, you look well. Take us to the Queen if it pleases you.” He knew that my request was in truth a polite demand. Aoliooyulp had known my anger before and had no wish to draw it upon himself again. I was not always so level-headed in matters of the heart, or so cautious about releasing my rage upon those about me. One of my many faults. Indreyah had discovered most of them during my time in her watery kingdom.
So we enter the coral palace under heavy escort and are brought before the throne of sculpted sapphire. Indreyah the Mer-Queen leans back against the great oyster shell that rises from her high seat. The lambent jewels of a hundred lost kingdoms encrust the dais below her webbed feet. Strands of dark hair float about her silvery head, evoking an image of black flames. The topaz orbs of her eyes flash directly at me, as if she does not see my three companions at all. I do not wait for her to condemn me with words or compel me to leave. Before she can do either, I sink to both knees and spread my arms wide within the tiny sphere of air.
“Great Queen of the Sea,” I begin, “my old and dear friend, most beautiful of all creatures beneath the waves, ruler of the coral kingdom and keeper of the Great Pearl. My heart rejoices to see you again.”
Indreyah does not reply to my obvious fawning. I must play the fool here to disarm her; better to draw her amusement than her scorn. It is a fine dance that requires a perfect balance of charm and flattery.
The Mer-Queen’s eyes settle upon the ladies behind me. “Sharadza of Udurum, Daughter of the Great and Honorable Vod.” She smiles, baring teeth bright as pearls and sharp as fangs. “You are most welcome here.”
Sharadza performs her royal curtsey and offers a smile that is worth far more than my own words. “It has been too long, Majesty,” Sharadza says. “Since last we spoke, I have gained and lost a Queenhood. I am no longer of Udurum, though my heart still dwells there. Allow me to present Alua, Queen of Udurum, wife of my brother Vireon, King of Giants. Perhaps you have known Alua by another name long ago, for she is of your kind. And this is—”
“Vaazhia,” says the Mer-Queen. Recognition glimmers in her yellow orbs. “My cousin.”
The lizardess bows and her forked tongue darts in and out.
“I did not know you still lingered among us,” says Indreyah. “Yet I am glad to see you.”
“Empires may rise and fall,” Vaazhia says, “but the Old Breed are forever. Your realm is one of beauty and splendor.”
Indreyah turns her gaze upon me again. I remain kneeling before her dais, knowing that to do less would be unwise. “Iardu, what scheme of yours brings these great ladies together?”
I smile at the subtle nature of her insult. “No scheme but urgent need, Queen of Coral. Zyung has finally reached across the great water. He would conquer the Five Cities and all their peoples. I would not trouble you if the circumstances were not so dire. I come on behalf of Sharadza and her kingdom, as well as the kingdoms of Uurz, Yaskatha, Mumbaza, and even dark Khyrei, to ask for your support in the greatest struggle of this age.”
The Mer-Queen’s bubbling laughter fills her throne room. Her soldiers and courtesans join in her mirth, unsure of the reason for it.
I look at Sharadza, who understands what I need her to do.
“Majesty,” Sharadza says, “Iardu speaks truly.” She describes the Hordes of Zyung, the legions of Manslayers, the vast armada of airborne dreadnoughts. She elicits the threat of Zyung as eloquently as I could have done myself, perhaps even better. The Mer-Queen listens attentively and says nothing to interrupt her. Sharadza finishes her well-spoken plea and the Sea-Folk watch her as if they too understand. Perhaps some of them have studied the dry tongues.
“I have no wish to battle with this God-King of the Dry Lands,” says Indreyah at last. “I remember the power of Zyung from the time before Man walked the continents. Let him rule the world above the waves if that is what he wishes. He is no threat to me. If what you say is true, he will bring peace and order to the kingdoms of the Five Cities. If he wishes to parley with the underwater realm, I will speak with him as an equal. Yet I do not think he cares for my deep kingdom. I will not condemn my people to fight a war that does not serve their interests. I am afraid that you have wasted your time in coming here, though you are always welcome, Daughter of Vod.”
“Indreyah…” My tone is pleading. “You are far more than the Queen of the Sea-Folk. You are of the Old Breed! Do not forget what this means…”
“I am what I wish to be,” Indreyah says. “As are we all.”
Her amber eyes smolder with pent flames.
“Is there nothing I can do to sway you?” I ask. “I returned your great pearl years ago. Do you still begrudge me so?”
“I begrudge no one,” Indreyah says, spreading her long webbed fingers. “I will not seek war when there is nothing to gain from it. Only fools and madmen do so. Perhaps you should consider negotiating with Zyung instead of forsaking his dream of peace.”
“I have already achieved peace between the Five Cities!” I almost lose my temper. She has to see the tragic irony of what befalls us. “There is peace now above the waves–for the first time there is no war among Men! Ianthe no longer rules Khyrei. There is a chance for a new and brighter world here, far from the oppression of Zyung’s empire. A dream I never thought possible has been fulfilled only to face extinction from the other side of the world. I cannot let everything I have worked so long to build be crushed beneath his heel.”
“Everything you have built?” She mocks me. “Your manipulations are like those of Zyung, yet you realize it not. How many Kings have you tricked into following your designs? How many Men and Giants have given their lives to your scheming? How many lost races and crumbled kingdoms? You speak of freedom and liberty, but you have always been a tyrant where it concerns your personal stakes.”
The remnants of old arguments have risen like hungry krakens to tear at our hearts.
“You never did understand me,” I tell her.
“I have spoken,” says the Mer-Queen. “You may stay here as honored guests, or depart on the moment. But I will not join your war.”
Sharadza is silent. She knows there is nothing more to be said.
“Time grows short,” I say. “We cannot linger. There is one last ally we must try to win.”
Indreyah glides from her throne to hover above our airy sphere.
“Go then with my blessing,” she says. Then to Sharadza, Vaazhia, and Alua: “Return to me when you have no favors to ask. I would enjoy your company.”
“If we live to see victory,” says Sharadza. “I promise that I will.”
The Mer-Queen glides into a shadowed hallway, followed by a coterie of silver-scaled attendants.
The air inside our glowing sphere has grown thin. The guards lead us into the courtyard where I will the sphere to rise, taking us as fast as I dare toward the surface. I had hoped Indreyah’s fondness for Sharadza would win her to our cause. I should have known better. Like Vod himself, the Queen of the Sea-Folk would never forget or forgive the ways in which I had wronged her.
“I am sorry,” says Sharadza, her hand on my shoulder. I can only smile at her. I promise myself now that I will never give her cause to hate me as Indreyah does. As Vod had done.
“You plan to seek the Maker of Mountains,” says Vaazhia, guessing my next move.
“You would disturb his long sleep?” she asks, reptile tongue darting nervously. “Do you not fear risking the wrath of Udgrond?”
I cannot lie to her, or the others.
“Yes,” I say. “I do. But we have little choice.”
“Who is Udgrond?” asks Sharadza.
“The Maker of Mountains,” I answer. She need not know more at this time. Our sphere breaks above the waves, and Alua weaves the white flame about us once again.
I close my eyes and look inward, seeing a vision of the Jade Isles wracked by typhoon and wave. Beyond that scene, cleaving the very heart of Khama’s wall of storms, the Holy Armada of Zyung approaches. Khama and the Southern Kings will not long delay him. I cannot dwell on the hundreds of ships and the thousands of lives that will be soon lost. Instead, I plant a vision of our destination into the mind of Alua, and the flaming sphere carries us across the sky.
For a fleeting moment I consider sending my companions across the continent to join Vireon’s forces in the Sharrian valley. Or to the Jade Isles, perhaps to lessen the inevitable slaughter. Then I realize that all our powers might be necessary in this current endeavor. We must go together if we are to have any hope. We have only a day, perhaps two. Three at most.
“And where does one find a Maker of Mountains?” asks Sharadza.
I want to take her in my arms and hold her close, but I cannot do this.
Instead I answer her question.
“At the blazing heart of the world.”