The wizard brandished the staff. “My life is mine and no others, ogre!”
“You have chosen to bind your life to the Fire Rose. Therefore, your life is bound to his,” Sarth retorted, indicating Golgren. “To gain the prize, you must help him attain it.”
Tyranos grunted. “He’s this Xiryn’s creation and you want him to do exactly what the gargoyle king desires? That makes no sense!”
It was Golgren who understood what Sarth planned or, at least, hoped. “Yes. It is the only way.”
“But only if you’re strong enough. Against Xiryn, no one has been.”
The mage finally comprehended. He gave an evil grin. “You might as well hand it to Xiryn and bid him good luck with it! Besides, haven’t you forgotten another problem? The Titans, for instance?”
“The Titans were not planned for by either myself or Xiryn. They were, so I unearthed, one of the many convoluted plots of dread Takhisis-”
“Ha! So I always thought!”
Sarth ignored the outburst. “But though she is no more, another may have chosen them to be his messengers to the world.”
“Sirrion,” remarked Golgren.
The ancient gestured at their surroundings. “My parents and the others, they beseeched Sirrion to take back his ‘gift,’ but the god only grew angry, as he, being fire, oft does. In his furious departure, he scorched a part of the cavern, as you have no doubt seen. Sirrion simply answered my people’s first prayer; he sets no blame upon himself.”
“The gods, they rarely do,” the half-breed agreed. “The Titans … you think they serve Sirrion’s desire?”
Sarth shrugged. “We may all be serving Sirrion’s desire. Fire is conflict; we fuel it as if we had put wood to flame. Only peace and understanding can tame the fire, and peace and understanding are things long lost to our people’s thinking, Guyvir.”
“You have been warned not to call me that.”
“If you cannot forgive the hatred of your father, you cannot wield the Fire Rose successfully. If you do not wield it successfully, then whether it is Xiryn, the Titans, or Sirrion himself, the Fire Rose will forever change not merely the ogres, but the rest of Krynn … and not for the better. Sirrion wishes to be honored, and constant change is to him the greatest of honors. A Krynn in constant flux would be the most grand of temples dedicated to the fire lord.”
Tyranos rubbed the crystal, which flared brighter under his touch. “Sirrion isn’t Takhisis. He’s not evil.”
“No,” the half-breed interjected. “He is not good either.”
Sarth nodded, seeming like a pleased teacher. “And so you understand what about him, Guyvir?”
“That, being neither, he is more dangerous than the dark gods.”
“Madness!” growled Tyranos, stalking up to the shaman. “An indifferent god threatens the stability of Krynn? You think the others will just let it happen?”
Squatting, Sarth drew a symbol in the floor, his bony finger cutting through rock as if it were sand. The symbol, hidden from the view of the other two, flared bright for a breath then settled.
“In some ways,” he said, not looking up from his task. “Sirrion is dominant among them. Change currently envelops not only Krynn, but the gods too. They vie for places they never held before and come into conflict when they should not. If I were as mad as Xiryn, I would almost say that Sirrion stirs all of this … and possibly merely for his entertainment.”
The wizard turned on Golgren. “Are you hearing this? Do you trust this fool any more than you do the Titans? I wonder now if he really just wants to use you to get the Fire Rose for him? Have you considered that?”
The half-breed met Tyranos’s angry gaze with a calm, level one. “Yes, and he does not wish it.”
“And how can you be sure?” Tyranos turned to Sarth. “Tell us truly-”
But Sarth was gone.
The spellcaster swung the staff across the empty space once occupied by the shaman. Tyranos let out an oath that not only honored his minotaur lineage, but also would have burned the ears of some very hardy legionaries.
Golgren let the wizard rant. The half-breed went down on one knee to inspect what Sarth had drawn. There were, in fact, two symbols, not one. The first was a large, graceful wing, which did not in the least resemble those of a gargoyle.
The second was a slim tree that, despite its simplicity, very much resembled one very familiar to Golgren. He had seen it many times on the tapestry that had once hung in his palace.
It was an oak tree …
An oak tree and the wing of a large beast.
Golgren rose. He surveyed the chamber, including the gathered dead. His eyes suddenly shifted not to Sarth’s mother, but rather his father and something the half-breed recalled he himself had taken from the corpse and let Idaria wear.
A pendant that bore the symbol of the griffon, a creature whose wing was shaped much like that which Sarth had drawn.
“She will be there,” Golgren remarked in an almost matter-of-fact tone. “She has no choice.”
“What’s that?”
The deposed Grand Khan turned back to face Tyranos. “It is not merely Xiryn who desires Idaria to be there when the Titans are confronted, it is the dead who wish it as well.”
XIX
There was something odd about Chasm, something Idaria felt that she should be able to put her finger on but could not. At times, it almost came to her, but then her mind, suffering much weariness and concern already, always lost hold of the reason.
They had flown most of the night, the gargoyle silent throughout the majority of the journey to conserve his strength. They were drawing nearer to Garantha, though they still had far to go. The gargoyle might be willing to continue, and certainly in spirit the elf desired too, but Idaria needed a drink of water, if nothing else.
She spotted a likely place below. “Chasm, please descend!”
Grunting, the gargoyle shook his head and pushed on.
“Please! Only for some water!”
Her winged companion cocked his head. With a curt nod, he banked and began his descent.
There was indeed water below, a small river trickling down from a mountaintop. The elf eyed it gratefully.
The gargoyle set her down a few yards from the stream then fluttered over to a place a bit farther from her. With sudden, eager abandon, Chasm began slurping mouthfuls of cool water.
Idaria knelt by the river and began to sip. She had been slightly chilled throughout the long flight, and her shoulders were sore from the manner by which Chasm had been forced to carry her. The water, though, soothed her enough so that she could at last concentrate. She thought about Golgren, so desperately in need of her aid, but then her thoughts shifted. She wondered why Chasm had insisted that they leave so quickly; Idaria had not even had a moment to alert Sir Stefan.
Swallowing another mouthful, the slave peered at her companion. Idaria watched his movements. Her eyes narrowed in conjecture.
As if sensing the elf’s interest, the gargoyle straightened. With a slight flap of his wings, Chasm leaped from his location and descended again next to her.
Staring into the brutish face, Idaria began to register just what was wrong.
Before that could happen, though, a fearsome roar shook the area. Chasm whirled from her, the gargoyle responding to the menacing call with an equally powerful roar.
The elf also turned to the sound. “What is it?”
A muscular, winged beast threw itself at Chasm. Idaria jumped to the side as the pair collided. The gargoyle and his attacker rolled into the water, sending it splattering everywhere.
Idaria stumbled back, wanting to help Chasm but not certain what she could do. Her hand clutched at her breast, as if seeking out the medallion she had returned to Stefan.