She’d seen such floods on the surface, making their stately progress down volcanic slopes. Visually impressive but not a ferocious danger provided a body could maintain a fair walking pace, and at some point manage to get out of its way. However, there was another product of such eruptions that Thorn had shown her which was an altogether different magnitude of threat. Essentially, the molten rock superheated the air and water of the mass until it became a virtually frictionless surface. Instead of creeping, this type of flow took off at speeds a thoroughbred horse couldn’t match, roaring down mountainsides with the force of a tidal wave, consuming everything in its path.
This underworld river acted much the same, sweeping Elora helplessly along with such violence that it was all she could do just to keep from drowning. She knew she couldn’t stay, she could already feel the beginnings of a burn beneath her breastbone as her lungs protested the absence of a fresh breath of air. At the same time she also knew she’d only have one good chance at escape. The force of the current was too strong, it would take a supreme effort to work free, with no reserves left if she failed.
The joy of no alternative, she thought, it so focuses the concentration.
And, she hoped, the will.
She sidled herself as close as possible to the edge of the flow and then, before she could think anymore about the cost of failure and thereby lose all her nerve, tried to throw herself clear.
It was the strangest sensation, battling through total darkness, her imagination applying arbitrary values of color and sound to the unworldly perceptions passed along by her InSight. The lava flow she painted in varying gradations of red, dull scarlet at the edges to gold-edged white in the center. The layers of rock likewise had their appropriate shades, much cooler in aspect and exhibiting considerably more variety. At the same time there was a tremendous roaring, akin to an entire ocean’s worth of water plunging through an equally impressive cataract, highlighted by grumps and groans and tweaks and tears from the world about her. All her senses were involved—the stench of sulfur, the taste of pumice leavened by iron, a touch that struck an eerie chord with the memory of fingers struggling to grip a plate of ice—but she was well beyond the limit of what her mind would accept.
Making her way to the boundary of the flow was comparatively easy, but try as she might she couldn’t get any farther. She was caught in the geologic equivalent of a rapids, with no handholds on the bank she could use to pull herself free, or even simply anchor herself. Her final attempt almost brought her to disaster as the current folded her body over and in on itself, slamming her into the boundary wall where she was deflected back into midstream. Only quick reactions and the wit to tuck herself into a ball proved her salvation.
A pyrrhic victory, she feared, as the burn within grew to match that without, and her temples throbbed with her brain’s and heart’s mutual need for oxygen.
Brighter lights appeared within the body of the stream, but she gave them no thought at first, assuming them to be a product of ongoing delirium as they moved around and past her with the lithe and careless ease of serpents. It wasn’t until her infant companion put its version of her face in front of Elora’s own, and stuck its tongue out at her to tickle her nose and thereby get her attention, that she realized who had joined her.
As she watched, the firedrakes gamboled to the boundary and, arching along the whole length of their entrancingly sinuous bodies, with a kick of the tail end for good measure, slipped free. They almost immediately returned, and here Elora finally got a tangible sense of the flow’s velocity, for even the briefest of excursions left the elementals far behind. The speed was a revelation. Elora never imagined it was possible to move so fast.
She wished there were a way to harness the firedrakes so they could pull her free, but feared that doing so meant becoming more substantial, and along that road led catastrophe. Her only hope was to follow their example.
She stopped swimming as a person, with arms and legs, and instead tucked all her limbs in a line along her body. The firedrakes moved with a sinuous undulation from top to toe and so did she. It was awkward at first, since she had a spine to deal with and they did not. She doubted they had a skeletal structure of any sort and in this instance envied them for it. Her lungs were frantic in their demand for air, triggering all manner of backbrain images of panic and doom and despair. She thrust them vehemently aside, she knew she was dying, she didn’t need these herald pronouncements as confirmation. But in the past too many others had fought and sacrificed to save her, and more than a few had died. The least she could do was fight for herself as hard as they had.
She flexed and rolled and couldn’t help glorying in the sensations as she slipped with surprising ease through the folds and layers of the stream.
Hello, she heard from that well-remembered chorus of melodious voices, caressing her with warmth and affection.
In this cauldron she had neither air nor voice to speak with, she didn’t know how to answer. They didn’t appear to mind.
Hello hello hello hello.
With each greeting, a new shape slipped close beside her as each member of the school came forth to welcome her and, by extension, thank her for their rescue. Her hands stretched out of their own accord, but the firedrakes wouldn’t let her touch them. They treated this as some delightful new game, arching their bodies, twisting just fractionally out of reach, then flicking so close she could feel crackles of energy from their flesh to hers.
The infant took station right in front of her face, its tiny form transmuting yet again into its version of her own. Then, with a suddenness that made Elora gasp, it went straight for her, passing through human flesh and bone as if both were as intangible as air. That must have been some signal for the others because they all leaped at her, through her, filling her for those brief moments of contact with the most delicious of flames. They moved, she followed, only now there seemed to be no skeleton to limit the possibilities of her movements.
She understood where they were now, and where the firedrakes wished to lead her. This was the heart of the world, the fiery core that warmed and nurtured this globe from within as the sun did from the sky above. It spun with a life of its own, far faster than the shell that encased it, and sustained a blaze whose life span stretched far beyond Elora’s ability to comprehend. She could apply numbers to the years but those numbers were meaningless to her. The essence was that here was another living thing, as finite in its way as she and as full of passion.
She remembered the Nelwyn catechism: The first realm is Fire.
It burns, the firedrakes cried, as though they’d sensed her thought. Perhaps they had, as their forms became more and more alike. We burn. All things burn.
Their existence was as simple as it was primal and the image came to her of them as the sparks that ignited the first celestial fires.
But who strikes those flames? she wondered.
Follow us. Follow follow follow. And see!
They broke from her, singly and in groups, to dive into the world’s core. From her vantage point, Elora could somehow see them burst out the other side. The substance of her perceptions was stretching along with that of her body, right the way around the center until it seemed that the firedrakes were swimming in and out of her. That she was in small measure the heart and soul of things.
Her eyes, such as they were by then, turned upward, and the thought came to her of the second verse: The second realm is Earth. Because earth restrains fire and gives it purpose. From the interaction of those two come the final realms of the Circle of the World: Air and Water. For without the blend of all four primal elements, the second circle, that of the Flesh, has no hope of existence.
Without her, according to prophecy, that circle—and the other two bound to it—has no hope of survival.
This is wrong, she said, unaware that she spoke aloud and that her voice was much like the firedrakes’, as was her
body. I would love to stay, I’m happy here. But I cannot.
Wrong, they cried, turning her own words into a protest. Here is safety. Here is family. Here is joy.
It was true. It didn’t matter.
Her whole life she’d been in hiding. People who loved her were afraid for her, and some she knew afraid of her. Somehow that fear had transmitted itself to her like a sickness. She was too precious, too important, too young, too fragile; a whole host of reasons not to act, all of them sound and logical as they led her inexorably to disaster.
She found the infant pacing her again, wearing her visage a final time, only the face Elora beheld wasn’t entirely human, as though the reflection presented a version of Elora Danan that was defined more by spirit than flesh. She tried to fix the physical details in memory but the images dissolved like quicksilver. They could be seen but not retained. Only the eyes held her, pools of cobalt gazing into her own with a gravitas and maturity the infant could not possibly possess. Nor Elora herself.
And yet she knew, this face was hers.
I must go, she said. And then, to anchor the decision, she spoke it to herself in her own voice. “I must go.”
She popped out of the ground like a projectile, burped straight up well past the nearest treetops. Habit and momentum kept her wriggling right to the moment gravity reasserted its hold on her and brought her back down into water.
She flailed like a soul accursed, forced suddenly to deal with the presence of arms and legs as she beat them every which way to no purpose whatsoever and decided after the fact that it was a modest miracle she didn’t end up properly drowned. Fatigue helped, she was too exhausted to sustain so much activity.
A residue of common sense prompted her to roll over on her back, at least long enough to gather in a brace of decent breaths. The air was wondrous sweet, the water deliciously cool, tempting her to stay immersed until she shriveled. The corner of her gaze revealed a bank not too far distant and she began to propel herself in that direction with clumsy paddles of the hands and feet. She’d have attempted something better but the weight of her waterlogged clothes was more than her muscles could overcome.
She knew she’d reached shore when her head bumped into it. The ground fell into the pond along a gentle slope, which allowed her to lie still awhile and gradually recover. Her lungs pumped like a bellows, a faintish hah sound on the inbreath, a hoarse and flat-sided hunh when she exhaled. All her might was required to draw the air in, but letting it go felt like an anvil was dropping on her diaphragm as she excavated her lungs to their very dregs. Each pulse was so violent she half feared she’d pop her ribs out through her skin, like a too worn piece of hide stretched too tight on its rack, finally giving way from the endless, unendurable strain. Her heart was going so fast she couldn’t keep count of its beats and the phantom spikeblossoms that had taken root within her chest underground had decided to migrate north to her skull, refusing to take her hint that, since they’d traveled so far already, why not complete the journey and depart her body entirely?
Yet, for all the upset, each breath was a victory, trumpeted in the loudest and most majestic of fanfares.
I’m alive, she thought, and the realization made her as giddy as a firedrake. I’m alive! I’m alive!
When at last her eyes were open and functioning as they should, she wondered if some kind of mist was occluding the surface of the pond, before realizing with raised eyebrows of genuine amazement that it was steam. Her body was throwing off as much heat as a well-stoked furnace and was acting on the cooler mountain springwater accordingly. A cockeyed glance down at herself reassured Elora that her clothes had survived their ordeal none the worse for wear. Apparently, the same could be said for her.
She needed food, she’d never felt so hungry, but sleep refused to be denied. She tried to elbow herself all the way onshore but the best she could achieve was to heave her shoulders clear. That, she decided, would have to do.
* * *
—
The sun didn’t appear to have moved much across the sky when she awoke, but the chill stiffness of her limbs, the pressure of her bladder, told Elora that some considerable time had passed.
At least the leaves are still green, she thought, and then giggled, unless I’ve slept the year through, from one summer to the next.
Doubtful, she decided upon inspection, since her hair hadn’t grown, nor her nails. A day then, perhaps a few.
She unlaced boots and trousers where she lay and slid herself out of them. Pulling them after proved to be a small struggle. Sodden as they were, saturated through and through with water, they were as heavy as she, if not more so. Her cloak, once she’d squirmed her way free, she was certain weighed more. She unfolded it to its fullest expanse on the ground and hoped it would dry out in less than her lifetime. As for the rest, she checked the angle of the sun, found a fallen tree trunk whose broken limbs would support her clothes, and stripping to her skin, hung them out to dry. This was one practical advantage of having a magician for a mentor: A housekeeping spell Thorn cast about her possessions not only made her outfits proof against most extremes of weather but ensured they would keep their shape. Normally, leather wet as this would shrink to nothing as it dried. Not hers.
That taken care of, she basked in the sun and rummaged through her pouches, another gift from Thorn, both for something fresh to wear and something good to eat. A sleeveless shift fulfilled the one ambition, but all she could find to satisfy the other were a couple of sandwiches and what remained of her pickings from the bazaar. Plus, thankfully, a flask of water to wash them down. Bread on a dry throat was bad enough, but sharp cheese was murder.
She didn’t eat it all, much as she wanted to stuff herself until she was sick. She had no real idea where she was, and caution prompted her to husband what resources she possessed.
The sun was intense and she let its warmth and light fill her until she was sure she was glowing. In the two years she’d spent with Torquil, her trips outside had been few and far between, none of them beyond the confines of the valley that held the bazaar. She hadn’t realized how easily she’d fallen into the rhythms of the Nelwyns’ lives, accepted their values and their limits. Their tunnels were their haven, where they were safe. Beyond lay danger, and doubly so for Elora herself if she were ever recognized. Also, theirs wasn’t that hospitable a land, possessing little to make it attractive beyond its stark and primal beauty and the richness of its ore.
A breeze stirred the trees, setting a grove of aspens across the pond to rustling with that shhhhhh sound she loved, and wafting the scent of a meadow of high-country honeysuckle over her. She’d already concluded she was still in the highlands. The problem, she feared, was which highlands. The shape of the mountains, the lay of the land, told her she was nowhere close to the Rock Nelwyn caverns. Beyond that, she had no idea. She could be anywhere.
Her clothes were still damp, so she decided to give her legs a stretch and some exercise with a brief stroll. She followed her ears, clambering up the jumble of rocks that formed a small waterfall at the head of the pond and making her way to the meadow beyond. The golden flowers cut a long slash along the field, the field interspersed with enough fallen logs and stumps to tell her that a terrible fire had raged here in the recent past. There were hills on every side, some with gentle slopes, a couple at her back formidable enough that she wouldn’t attempt a climb without specialized equipment.
With apologies to the flowers, Elora gathered a few handfuls of blossoms as she walked and idly began to braid them into a crown. It was a lazy afternoon, utterly without complications. While she knew she should be making plans for her survival—finding food and a place to sleep tonight—she relished the sudden and absolute lack of household obligations.
The crown didn’t fit quite right, she’d made it a tad too big, it kept slipping down irreverently over one eye. She had a mirror in her pouch, on impulse decided she
wanted to see what she looked like, and quickened her step back to the pond.
It was such a careless, carefree moment, one of a rare few in her life, that she didn’t watch her step bounding off the rocks. She put her right foot into something viscous and yellow brown in color. It had the consistency of mud and gave off the most incredible stench.
Momentum carried her a couple of steps farther on, which she managed as a succession of left-footed hops while she made a face and an even more horrid noise of dismay at the sludge that enveloped her past the ankle. She didn’t want to touch it, but when sluicing her foot in the pond didn’t wash the mess clean, she had to crouch over and scrub. Only when she was done did the smell fully register.
Troll dung.
It was a fresh pie. Just how much so became shockingly clear as a scabrous, dun-colored form rose from its hiding place in the brush and bushes. By sight, trolls were disgusting enough, with skin that looked baked and blistered, as though the creature had been hosed down by a stream of flame. Hair sprouted from its body like a lawn haphazardly planted, in tangled clumps and sprouts. Additionally, they seemed to attract filth. As a species, trolls possessed not even the slightest sense of personal hygiene.
This one stood head and shoulders taller than Elora, broader in the shoulders, with long, lanky arms and legs. Beneath a heavy brow was a face more disgusting than fearsome, especially when it opened its mouth to reveal teeth so discolored and worn the mere sight of them turned the stomach. But Elora had seen folk ripped and torn by troll bites, and slashed by the equally jagged and hooked claws that tipped every finger and toe. The creatures were almost naturally septic and consequently there was a certainty of infection, which often proved as deadly as the initial attack.
Worst of all, that description didn’t even begin to take into account their smell. Like ghouls, trolls ate their fill of carrion, and at some point in their history the stench of rot grafted itself permanently into their bloodline. Unlike ghouls, however, trolls eat the dead by choice, because they are basically lazy. Deprived of that particular source of sustenance, a ghoul will starve. Trolls, however reluctantly, go hunting. And despite their appearance, trolls are neither stupid nor are they poor hunters.
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