"Mendaros only exercised his Right of Counsel once," Senya said, "and he brought a friend from Khorvaire-a human, or he seemed to be-with him. I assume that human was actually the dragon you described. Mendaros asked questions about the Storm Dragon, and received answers similar to what you and I heard on our visit. They went on to ask about the Time of the Dragon Between, and the Time of the Dragon Below. Mendaros, apparently, was particularly interested in the Blasphemer."
"The Blasphemer?"
"My ancestor, in her wisdom, perceived that, while Mendaros's human companion fancied himself the Storm Dragon, Mendaros imagined himself to be the Blasphemer."
"Dragons fly before the Blasphemer's legions," Gaven said, and visions of bone-white banners danced in his memory.
"And apparently, as dragons winged across the sea to attack Aerenal, Mendaros commanded a fleet of warships full of his mercenary legions."
Gaven sat back and ran his fingers through his hair. "And when was that?"
"That was in 537."
"So more than four hundred years ago. What happened? You said it was a devastating invasion."
"It was. Taer Senadal was burned to the ground, and both Var-Shalas and Shae Thoridor were in flames before the dragons were routed."
Gaven had studied maps of Aerenal before, but the names meant little to him. Taer Senadal was a fortress-he could figure that much from the name. He nodded for her to continue anyway.
"Mendaros made land near Var-Shalas," Senya continued, "and tried to bring his legions upriver to the town, but they didn't get very far. He was killed in the battle."
Gaven rested his forehead in his palm and tried to make sense of this information. The dragon had sought to become the Storm Dragon more than four hundred years ago, and then, when its memories found their way into Gaven's mind, he had followed along a similar path. Mendaros had set himself up as the Blasphemer four centuries ago, and now a new Blasphemer had arisen out of the Demon Wastes. Was the Prophecy fulfilled in cycles, so that every age had its Storm Dragon and its Blasphemer? Or were Mendaros and the dragon deluded, pursuing the Prophecy when the time of its fulfillment was still far off? Or perhaps they were all deluded-neither Gaven nor the dragon actually fulfilled the Prophecy of the Storm Dragon, and the warlord from the Wastes was no more the Blasphemer than Mendaros had been.
Senya got up and stood before Gaven, filling his nostrils with the smells of incense and spice. She held out a hand, and Gaven took it.
"Why did you come here?" she asked again.
Gaven's eyes stung. "I was hoping someone could tell me what it is I'm supposed to be looking for."
Senya nodded. "Come with me." She squeezed his hand, and he stood beside her.
Senya led him out of her room and back down the stairs, her hand soft and warm in his-so alive, in contrast to the death mask on her face. She led him to the tall doors across from the entrance, and there she released his hand.
"Just a moment," she whispered.
Gaven watched in silence as she busied herself around one of the braziers outside the doors. Scented smoke billowed up from the coals, and she moved to the other and sent another offering of smoke into the air. Then she stood before the doors and sang softly in Elven. Gaven caught only a few words speaking of honor, reverence, death, and wisdom. She touched a few of the carved images as she sang, and when she was finished with the song the doors swung open like arms reaching to enfold her.
She was smiling when she turned back and extended a hand to him. He stepped forward and took her hand, and she drew him into the interior of the temple. The doors swung shut behind him, and he was in darkness.
His eyes, growing accustomed to the dark, found the dim glow of coals just before they flared to life at Senya's touch. The tiny fires did little to illuminate the cavernous room, though. Gaven wasn't sure what he had been expecting-something more like the small tomb where Senya's ancestor had granted them an audience in Shae Mordai, he supposed. Instead, the room was the size of a grand temple of the Sovereign Host.
Senya took his hand again and led him to the center of the room. "Kneel," she whispered, and he obeyed. A woven mat of dried reeds offered a meager cushion between his knees and the stone floor.
As Senya drifted away again, Gaven found himself wondering how old the temple was. Shae Mordai was ancient-the elves had started its construction more than twenty thousand years ago, although surely not every building could be that old. But when had the population of Aereni in Fairhaven grown sufficiently large to support a construction project on this scale? It felt old, but he suspected that had as much to do with the burning incense and the presence of the deathless than with the actual age of the building.
Two more braziers flared to feeble light in front of him, where Senya stood in front of a carved altar. The altar looked as old as anything he'd seen in Shae Mordai, and Gaven wondered if it had been brought from Aerenal, perhaps as sort of a foundation stone for the whole community of Aereni here.
Senya turned and smiled at him, then sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the altar and closed her eyes. In the half-light of the flickering braziers, her face was an ornately decorated skull floating above her shoulders. When her eyes were closed, they could easily have been gaping sockets. He watched her chest rise and fall three times with slow, even breaths, and then her eyes shot open.
Her eyes, though, were no longer sparkling orbs of sapphire blue, but pale yellow flames that seemed to dance in empty sockets. And when she spoke, her voice had become the cold, clear voice of her long-dead ancestor.
"Gaven, Storm Dragon, dishonored child of Lyrandar, what do you seek?"
Gaven pressed his forehead to the ground as he had seen Senya do in Shae Mordai, surprised to find tears already welling in his eyes.
"I-" His voice caught in his throat, and he cleared it as he rose to look at Senya again. "I don't know."
"How can you hope to find it, then?"
"I thought…" Gaven peered at her. "Senya?"
"My daughter cannot hear you right now. Speak to me."
"I'm sorry. Senya's… you told me, in Shae Mordai…"
"The third time, you will finally find what you seek."
"Yes."
"And you hoped I could tell you what your desire is? Only you can name that, Gaven."
Gaven sighed. "There's so much."
"And you don't want to appear greedy? Is that it?"
Gaven frowned. "I suppose it is."
"I have not promised to grant you any wish you might voice, Gaven, and I cannot magically solve all the difficulties facing you. I offer you counsel, even though you have no right to claim it-it is my gift to you."
"Why do you offer this gift?"
"Three times you have come to me now," Senya said. "The first time, you were a dragon seeking the power of the Storm Dragon. The second, you were a man dreading that mantle, as the dragon's thoughts within you encouraged you to seek it. Now you are a man, and you have been the Storm Dragon, but you did not choose the path that the dragon before you sought. You have shown insight and restraint. I am pleased to offer my wisdom to aid you."
"I am grateful." Gaven bowed to the floor again, trying to collect his thoughts. "The first time, though-that wasn't me. It was the dragon." The name surfaced in his memory. "Shakravar."
"And who are you?"
"I'm Gaven. Just the man, not the dragon anymore."
"Here, then, is my gift of wisdom for you. You cannot cut time with a knife, as if the present were utterly separate from the past and the future. Who you are now is who you have been and who you are yet to be. You are Gaven. You are the Storm Dragon. You are a dishonored child of Lyrandar, cut off from your line but still a product of it. You are Shakravar, and you are the murderer of the Paelion line."