Seven Sorcerers: Book Three of the Books of the Shaper

by John R. Fultz

  He takes the chain from me, unafraid of the dancing flame. He does not think that it will burn him. Instinct tells him it is no earthly fire. He places the chain around his neck, and the blue flame leaps upon his narrow chest.

  His eyes grow large, his head falling backward, mouth slack. He gazes past the high canopy of leaves toward the glimmering starfields. For a brief moment (there is no real time here) the blue flame engulfs him, then it recedes back to his chest.

  No longer is he a boy, but the full-grown image of Vireon. A black crown set with many sapphires rests upon his head. The pain and wonder of memory shines in his eyes.

  “What do you remember?” I ask him.

  “Everything,” he says. He sits beside me upon the pillar and takes the iron crown from his head. He stares at it, as a man might examine a discovery that may or may not have some value. “A great beast swallowed me. It spoke to me with seven different voices that were the same voice.”

  “What did it tell you?”

  “That I was not the King of Storms,” says Vireon. “That I could not end its long curse.”

  “And what was your reply?”

  His blue eyes pierce me.

  “That I am the Son of Vod,” he says. “That I carry his blood.”

  “What else?” I ask.

  “I called out the name of my father. I called on his power. I rose up… I crushed the beast. I ended the curse.”

  “You awakened the power that lies within. Yet there is so much more.”

  Vireon’s eyes scan the deep forest, the crystal lake, the iron crown in his hands.

  “None of this is real,” he says.

  “Oh, it is,” I say. “And it isn’t.”

  He smiles at me, yet his handsome face retains its sorrow. “You always were one for speaking in riddles.”

  “This place is the seat of your soul. Your body is dying.”

  “I stood against Zyung and lost,” he says. “You were not there to aid me.”

  “I was… delayed. I ask your forgiveness. Yet I am here now to show you the secrets of your inheritance. To help you finish the journey you began in the Khyrein Marshes.”

  “Why?” His face turns to me, and for a moment I see the face of Vod.

  “Because otherwise you will die. The world still needs you. Your enemies march upon Uurz. After that they will take Udurum.”

  “No, I mean why do you care? You are immortal. The living world passes like a dream. Lives are but waves upon the sea, rising and falling, repeating an endless cycle of conflict and pain.”

  “There is also joy and love in this cycle,” I say. “You cannot have these things without their opposites. Have you lost your thirst for life, Vireon?”

  He breathes deep the fragrant air of bodiless harmony.

  “By inheritance you mean Vod’s sorcery.”

  “Simply another word for knowledge.”

  “You wish me to be Vod. Yet I am only Vireon.”

  “I wish you to be yourself. Giant-King, Son of Vod, Brother, Husband, Hunter, Slayer, Lord of Giants, Ruler of Udurum. Your father wished these things for you as well.”

  “No, he did not,” says Vireon. “My father wanted Tadarus to be King after him. I wanted to roam the wild, to be free of walls and thrones and towers. I never wanted the crown of Udurum, and I never wanted this second crown either.” He lifts the ring of iron and sapphire. “I am King of two nations, but it has brought me no happiness.”

  “None? What of Alua?”

  “She is gone,” he says. “Like my brother and my father.”

  His eyes turn again toward the deep forest. If he chooses to go there, he will not return to the living world.

  “No,” I tell him. “Alua is alive. I have brought her to Uurz.”

  He leaps off the pillar, eyes burning. “She lives?”

  “She is of the Old Breed. She cannot truly die. Even now she awaits your return. Let me show you how to heal yourself, and you will be with her once again.”

  “What of Maelthyn?” he asks.

  My hand touches his shoulder, spreading warmth to his soul-form. “Maelthyn was never your daughter. Only a ruse. A lie and an unforgivable crime. A creation of the Claw to house her disembodied essence.”

  “Yes,” he says. The bright thrill of Alua’s return is dimmed by a fresh current of sadness. “In my heart I knew this already.”

  “Here is another reason to return,” I say. “To make Ianthe pay for what she has done. She sails with Zyung now. If you choose to live, your rewards will be love and vengeance.”

  “No!” he rages at me. Again I see the child in his face. “I have had enough of vengeance. I will not make that mistake again.”

  His words make me smile. “You are wise, Vireon. Udurum needs a wise King. Are you ready to learn the depth of your father’s legacy?”

  “What if I say no? I could wander those woods until I reach the lands of the dead. My father, my brother, they wait for me there.”

  “Yet Alua waits for you in the world above, along with your sister Sharadza. And there is Dahrima, who carried your torn body all the way to Uurz.”

  His eyes flicker. He blinks at me.

  “She, too, loves you.”

  He says nothing.

  “Both Giants and Men will suffer if you choose death. Udurum will surely fall.”

  Vireon turns away from me and stares into the mirror of the lake. Slowly his hands rise to place the iron crown upon his head. He returns to me the Flame of Intellect on its silver chain. I set it once more on my own chest and slide down from the pillar.

  The Son of Vod has made his choice.

  As I once did with his clever sister, I instruct Vireon in the Knowledge Supreme.

  With Sharadza I had taken the role of the Crone, guiding her through physical metamorphosis, opening her mind and her senses to the forces that lay beneath the shapes and forms of the living world.

  Patterns.

  Yet there is no need for such transformations in the case of Vireon, for we do not inhabit the physical plane. These lessons grow from the core of his immortal essence to permeate his spirit and the stubborn flesh that houses it. In this place ideas grow into being instantly and without distraction. In the earthly world these concepts and revelations would require wholly different interpretations. Here at the center of Vireon’s awareness, I need only plant the seeds of understanding and bid them to grow.

  Sharadza learned much in a period of several weeks, locked into a timeless fugue. Yet her tutelage was limited by the material separation of Master from Pupil. As the wine decanter pours its contents into the goblet, so I poured knowledge into Sharadza’s mind. Yet Vireon and I are motes of light glinting on the surface of that wine, and it is a glimmering sea that spreads into infinity beneath us. Where his sister was showered with drops of wisdom, Vireon is immersed in the boundless source of that wisdom. I show him how to dive deep and seek out the truths that lie in its depths.

  There is no time or space in the realm of pure consciousness. The mastery of all powers lies in Vireon’s blood already. He need only call them forth, as he did in the belly of the beast. The spark of his legacy has been kindled, yet was nearly snuffed out by Zyung’s blade. I revive that flickering spark and stoke it to a blazing inferno. Vireon will burn in this crucible of transcendence, reforging himself.

  We begin with the Lesson of Patterns, followed by the Lessons of Unity, Action, and Elements. Each of these blossoms as a new tree about the lake. Vireon plucks and devours their ripe fruits as a reader devours words, the juices of cognition saturating his thoughts. His skin seethes with fresh colors, and his eyes blaze like the Flame of Intellect.

  Lessons that would take days, months, or years in the waking world he learns in an instant. More epiphanies follow, one after the other, a deluge of enlightenments.

  He imbibes the Lessons of the Worlds. First the Living, then the Dead, the twin illusions that comprise reality. This knowledge falls upon him as droplets of silvery understandi
ng. He drinks deep of the singular truth beyond duality, and it changes him further.

  “Now you see that Vod’s power has slumbered within you all this time,” I tell him. “You have called upon it often, without even realizing it. Your moods have conjured storms and cleared the skies. These were only the surface traits of your deepest nature. You have learned to be both Man and Giant, which makes you more than either.”

  “I sensed that this was true,” he says. “In the Valley of the Bull I called upon my father’s power again. Yet it was not enough.”

  “Your awareness had not fully blossomed,” I say. “Now you are that awareness.”

  The forest of ideas fades about us, replaced by a vast network of constellations, gleaming panoramas of light and energy. Countless forms emerging from a single field of infinite potential. We balance between nothingness and everything, floating at the very crux of eternity.

  Vireon inhales the winds of understanding that blow between the stars. We glide formless through the deeps of the astral universe, skirting the edges of reality, soaking in the rays of newborn suns.

  I am refreshed. Vireon is transformed.

  At last we step back into the flow of blood and ages. The world of form, locality, and time emerges from the pulsing cosmos. I guide him toward the threshold of his dying body. Already I am slipping away from him, yet he burns brightly in my wake.

  “Use what you have learned,” I say. “Weave the pattern of this torn flesh and make it whole again. Distill the light of these stars and fill your veins with their blood. Heal yourself, Son of Vod.”

  I emerge from the wound even as it closes, leaving not even a scar on his broad chest. My spirit-self sinks back into my body, and my eyes flutter open. Still Sharadza holds my hand. The pink light of dawn seeps in through the chamber windows. The braziers burn low.

  I stand up between Sharadza and Alua. We watch Vireon’s flesh regaining its healthy shade of bronze. Sharadza gifts me with an embrace. Alua squeezes Vireon’s hand.

  Vireon opens his eyes.

  His great arms pull Alua close to him. Their kiss is long and deep.

  Sharadza kisses me on the cheek. My second gift, though I am undeserving of it.

  D’zan and Vaazhia rouse from their chairs. There is joy in the chamber now, and laughter. Even the Uduri smile as they celebrate the risen King.

  Dahrima kneels with spear in hand, her face no longer shadowed by a pall of worry. The tears of a warrior swim in her eyes, yet she refuses to let them fall. The mystery of her emotions is her own secret to keep.

  Vireon rises from the bed, whole and full of new strength. He is no longer a Man-Giant caught in the immense shadow of his father’s legend. No longer a vessel built to carry the Blood of Vod and wear an unwanted crown. He is reborn.

  He is a sorcerer, like his father before him.

  Servants bring wine, meat, and fresh loaves to quench his hunger. We drink, eat, and forget momentarily that our enemies will soon be upon us.

  In the war room of the dead Emperor of Uurz they gathered about a great oval of black marble. Vireon had risen from his deathbed only hours ago. The news of his recovery had spread across the palace, into the courtyards, and along the streets of the nervous city. Dahrima heard the cheers of commoners and soldiers from where she stood before the door of Vireon’s chamber.

  Sharadza had cleared the room so the Giant-King and his wife might enjoy their reunion in privacy, if only for a little while. The Udvorg guarding the outside corridor were replaced by the Uduri. None of them cared to argue against Dahrima’s order that they join the rest of their blue-skin brothers and get some rest.

  “Soon you will defend this city against the same forces that slaughtered us in the valley,” she told them. “So sleep, eat fresh meat, and swill royal ale while you can.” They had not forgotten her murder of their shamaness, but they knew that she had saved Vireon from the God-King’s death blow. They took her advice with nary a grumble.

  Dahrima had placed her own back to the Serpent-carved doors while her sisters lined both sides of the hallway. Their eyes searched her face for signs of heartbreak, but she gave them nothing. The King and his Queen were reunited, and Dahrima guarded him once again. All was as it should be.

  The sun moved slowly across the blue above the golden spires. A sudden shower sent rainbows to gleam outside the corridor’s leaf-shaped windows. After the rain the sky turned to shades of pink and purple, a palette of clouds smeared across the heavens. Dahrima tried not to imagine Vireon and Alua making love in the chamber behind her. She heard no sounds of passion seeping through the doors, and she was grateful for a handful of quiet hours. Soon chaos would rise again to deafen Men and Giants with its red thunder.

  A herald came when the sun’s rim touched the top of the western battlements. The pink sky was crimson now, the purple clouds deepened to the black of bruised flesh. The messenger carried word from Lord Mendices: Vireon and Alua were requested in the council chamber at sunset, to meet with the Warlord and his allies. Now that the Shaper and his sorcerers had finally arrived, it was time to plan the defense of Uurz.

  Shortly after the herald’s departure Vireon emerged from the chamber. Alua walked arm in arm with him. She looked much the same in her gown of white fabric and cloak of snow-bear hide, blonde hair streaming in wild curls down her back. The King wore his crown of iron and sapphires thanks to Vantha the Tigress. She had taken it from the battlefield while Dahrima had grabbed up Vireon’s body.

  Vireon wore a corslet of gilded bronze, the rising sun insignia of Uurz set in emeralds across the breast. His broad belt supported a kilt of bronze plaits. His northern-made boots had been replaced with Uurzian sandals. There was much of Tyro about him in these accoutrements, but the cloak pinned at his shoulders was the deep purple of Udurum. He carried no blade or weapon yet to replace his ruined greatsword; the armory of Uurz would soon stand open to him.

  Vireon paused as the chamber doors swung shut behind him. His blue eyes met Dahrima’s own. He stood at the size of a Man now, yet his aura was still that of a Giant.

  “Come with us, Axe,” he said. “You too must sit on this council of war.”

  Dahrima followed him through the winding halls and soaring galleries of the palace, skirting the empty throne room and at times ducking to avoid low lintels. The council chamber lay above the Grand Hall and to its south. Inside it Lord Mendices shared the great table with D’zan, Iardu, Sharadza, Vaazhia, and the Feathered Serpent, who sat at ease in his Man shape.

  Khama seemed wholly recovered from his deep wounds. He wore the white-green robes of an Uurzian lord, without his Mumbazan headdress or feathered cloak. The braids of his long, dark hair were thick as adders, and his brown face was lined with worry. Dahrima sensed the grief hanging like a yoke about his thin shoulders. The King he had watched over from boyhood was dead. Khama resembled nothing less than a father who had lost his son.

  Crystal flagons of red and yellow wines cluttered the tabletop, along with jeweled cups and jasper bowls piled with grapes, olives, and pears. Iardu was the only one drinking as yet. Sharadza sat between the Shaper and D’zan, though she spoke to neither.

  Vireon and Alua took the chairs assigned for them, and the Giant-King announced that Dahrima would share their council. Dahrima wanted to stand nearby as she was accustomed to doing, but Mendices ordered a chair brought for her. Now Vireon sat between Dahrima and Alua. Dahrima displayed nothing at all of the discomfort this placement caused her.

  The walls were thick with tapestries depicting ancient battles, including the exploits of Vod slaying Omagh the Serpent-Father. Dahrima did not recognize any of the other historical figures, most of them Uurzian heroes. Two great windows allowed the scarlet sunset to spill within, but the chamber’s chief light came from six braziers suspended by chains from the high ceiling. The warm air of evening blew in through the casements, and stars glimmered to life above the rooftops of Uurz.

  Mendices the Regent, who was honor-bound to per
form the duties of his fallen Emperor, was the first to speak. “Friends and allies,” he began. “The Gods of Earth and Sky allow us to assemble here in unity. We have suffered a great defeat and survived it. We have seen two valiant Kings fall at the hands of our enemies. Our losses have been staggering, and we will mourn them at a more appropriate time. Yet our spirit remains unbroken, and we live to face our enemy again. This will happen soon. As the standing Regent of Uurz, I welcome you all in the name of the Stormlands and the City of Sacred Waters.”

  The Warlord raised his cup and most of those gathered returned his toast. Only Dahrima, Sharadza, and Alua chose not to drink. “First, let it be known that my duties as Regent will last only until the remaining Son of Dairon returns to claim his crown. A delegation sails even now to retrieve the Scholar King from his exile in Yaskatha. Yet we must face a new battle and a siege without him. I will take the Sword King’s place at the head of our legions, though I cannot hope to inspire them half as well as Tyro did.”

  D’zan sat next to Mendices. His bandages were hidden beneath a long-sleeved tunic of black silk stitched with the Sword and Tree insignia of Yaskatha. Mendices placed a hand lightly upon his shoulder.

  “King D’zan, who fought bravely in the valley of Shar Dni, chooses to stand with us once again. Yet his Yaskathan legions will not reach us before Zyung’s siege, which falls upon us tomorrow. The Feathered Serpent of Mumbaza also stands with us to avenge the death of mighty Undutu, who fell among a sea of enemies. As with Yaskatha, we can expect no aid from the legions of Mumbaza for several weeks. The loss of the great southern fleets means a land-bound journey for both these armies. So we must face Zyung’s horde with the twelve Uurzian legions at my command, a single legion of surviving Udurumites, and–our greatest asset–a legion of Giants who march at Vireon’s command.”

  “I have sent word to Ryvun Ctholl for five more legions,” said Sharadza. She had married the King of Yaskatha eight years ago, but still she was the Princess of Udurum. It was her right to rally the northern forces while her brother lay wounded. “Yet they will be at least two weeks in arriving, even at a hard march.” She turned to Mendices, whose grim nod agreed with her.