Morgada just needed a little time. And, if truth be told, she needed to know just what had happened to Safrag.
She entered the private quarters that her status as apprentice to the master granted her. To the unwary eye, the stone walls of the room were just that. Only she and Safrag knew where the doorway lay and how to find the entrance.
The temptress smiled. Safrag had opened the way almost as many times as she had since he had taken over as the Titans’ leader, but only because she had allowed him to. There were times unbeknownst to him that, had he sought entrance, he would have been blocked without her secret acquiescence to his spell.
Morgada drew her personal mark and another secret mark just for that purpose. Safrag knew of a third mark, the one between her and him, which he thought she used to keep others from entering. Actually, without her two marks, once sealed, the door would admit no one. Not even Safrag, should he return suddenly.
The wall rippled. The gray, rough stone became like water, yet retained its solid appearance to all ignorant of the spell.
The female Titan stepped into the watery stone. The wall wrapped around her like honey, yet it did not cling to her as she passed through. Her hands broke through first, followed by one foot and her beautiful face.
Once inside, Morgada turned and drew the second symbol again. The wall inside her quarters solidified as normal.
With a satisfied smile, she gazed upon her pleasant chamber. It was both home and workplace. There was a squat, wooden chest in which she stored mundane matters, and a bookshelf upon which scrolls and tomes were stacked. There was no window, but a slight current of air wafted across her face anyway. Magic, of course, kept all the inner chambers in the vast citadel from becoming too stifling.
A silver platter of fruit and raw amalok meat lay on a black, wooden table to her right. Next to the black table was the open space where one might have expected a bed of some sort. However, as a Titan, Morgada did not rest as lesser ogres, elves, or humans did. Instead, on the floor of that space was a pattern of stars surrounded by a circle through which four dagger strokes had been etched. It was a pattern that could be found in each of the chambers used by the Black Talon, a pattern that served both to restrengthen and refresh their bodies and minds.
As for the female Titan, it held one more secret use.
She summoned a thick cut of the raw amalok meat from the silver platter on the black table-the fare she really preferred was not available to her. With savage gusto, Morgada tore into the morsel. Her powerful teeth ripped through the flesh, blood splattering both her face and robes. Almost like an animal, she devoured the meat, leaving not a single trace.
When she was done, the sorceress slowly licked her fingers, tasting a bit of the blood that had lingered on her lips because she had allowed it to. Running her open hand over her face and garments, Morgada magically removed all other stains.
Once again immaculate, the temptress strode over to the patterned floor. The short meal had been for more than merely sustenance. She needed extra strength, for it was not rest she intended to seek from the pattern.
Turning her back to the black table, she crossed her arms over her chest and lay back toward the floor. Her body softly tilted as if were connected to puppet strings. Midway down in its sloping angle, her feet and legs rose into the air. Morgada lay floating over the pattern, her rigid body more than two feet above the floor.
As she stilled, the pattern below her flared a blazing blue. Its radiant light shone upward to bathe her.
One hand moved over her heart, drawing an arched symbol not taught to her by any Titan. The pattern’s illumination shifted, growing so dark that it looked more black than blue.
Her eyes had been open thus far, but Morgada shut them. Her perfect, full black lips parted slightly as she breathed a single word.
“Xiryn.”
And in her head, a voice that gave no hint of being male or female whispered, I hear you.
XIX
Is that better? asked the voice, its intensity causing Golgren’s head to burn more fiercely than his flesh. He felt Idaria slump next to him and knew that she suffered the heat too.
“Ah! So tender! Forgive me again.”
The voice had become a true voice, but each syllable still struck with heat and force in the Grand Khan’s ears.
At least the heat was tolerable. Continuing to follow the elf’s warning, Golgren looked just below the imposing figure’s eyes. Sirrion-if indeed it was the god-stood just a little taller than Golgren, although clearly that was by choice, not by nature. The half-breed recalled widespread tales of Faros Es-Kalin’s supposed encounter with Sargonnas, and how it was said the god had the ability to appear in more than one shape or size. Sirrion could no doubt make himself look as mighty as a giant, or tinier than a gully dwarf.
“Born of elf and ogre, an impossible mix, an improbable mix. Well, to most,” Sirrion declared with some solemn humor. “And bearing the child of mine pleaded for by the High Ogres.” Golgren thought he detected a chuckle.
Golgren suddenly recalled the Fire Rose. He held it reverently toward the god. “It is yours?”
“Did I speak of any desire for it?” the fiery figure suddenly roared. “If I demand it, you will give it to me. There is no mistake!”
Flames erupted around the god. The heat once again grew suffocating.
Golgren, who had faced down all manner of beasts, mino-taurs, Nerakans, and, of course, the dread Titans, bowed low. “Forgive this humble one, oh god of fire. Never would I presume to know better than you what you desire.”
“There’s no need to apologize,” Sirrion responded, the fury with which the deity had just spoken utterly gone, and with it the terrible flames and heat. “But that is your choice, of course!”
Golgren dipped his head again. Sirrion was very much like the incarnation of his element. Volatile.
The god peered at them, his eyes shifting from the Grand Khan to the elf. “Branchala’s love. Another interesting blending! I find such change stirring!”
The flames returned, albeit in a more subdued fashion. They seemed to reflect whatever level of emotion Sirrion was feeling.
“Great is Sirrion,” Idaria said of a sudden. “For without fire, there would be no civilization.”
“So very true! And do you like my little flower, Grand Khan of all ogres? Does its sweet scent of possibility entice you? It did for those who begged it of me so long ago.”
“The Fire Rose is … glorious.”
Sirrion grinned. “Glorious or monstrous, the choice is yours! The choice always is all of yours.” “All of ours?”
“Oh, there are many coveting the prize, including one coming nearer by the moment! He seems very, very eager! How would he wield the Fire Rose, do you think? I’d be fascinated to watch.” The god of fire had started to raise his hand toward Golgren and the Fire Rose, but lowered it again. “But that would be against what has been set in motion!”
Despite the danger of stirring Sirrion’s anger, the half-breed dared ask, “What is set in motion?”
The deity spread his arms wide. The flames grew stronger, hotter. “So much, so much! Ah, how long I’ve sat back and watched, when the world constantly cried for change!” He looked at Golgren, who barely managed to keep his own gaze from being trapped again. “You are set in motion, child of elf and ogre! For evil and ill, for good and fortune, you and others are set in motion! Krynn has grown, and in growth some things must give way, some things must grow stronger! You and they choose that my flower blooms again, after being buried for so long.”