"You said you were born in Mirien. Have you no accent?" The image of the Great Cliff of Mirien spontaneously returned to Toren's mind.
"I left my home ninety years ago, and have used the speech of the Calinin ever since in one form or another. I have a good ear, and I had started to learn it as a child. I have my quirks, of course, but they'll not handicap you. Convenient, is it not, to learn a language in only three days?"
"Three days?"
"Well, three nights, to be precise. It's now the third morning since you went to sleep."
Toren nodded. Some part of him had kept track. "My tribe's shaman took a week to put my ancestors' spirits into me."
"That doesn't surprise me. It would have taken Struth and Janna that long to put them back had the pathways not been forged already. The part that took me so long was sorting out information. No need to transmit the tale of my life-you've enough going on in your head as it is. The language, the cultural referents, were all that were necessary. I shielded the rest. It's a technique you can use, by the way; it will help you keep your ancestors cooperative. Search within and you will find you already know how to summon that ability, a fringe benefit I thought you might appreciate."
For the first time, Toren realized he was not having to strain to muzzle the voices of his totem. "Thank you. I do appreciate it."
Toren trusted Obo. He remembered enough of the wizard's life to know that a good man sat across from him. This security, even more than the cultural transferral, mitigated the shock of being in an alien land. In all his life, the only "person" he had trusted at such a level was the collective voice of his totem, and with the latter disrupted, he valued the chance to talk with the old man.
Obo yawned. His lids drooped. In the full light of day, his pallor stood out all too clearly. His hand wavered unsteadily as he lifted the kettle lid.
"Are you well? Have you slept?" Toren asked.
"The spell did not exhaust me, if that's what you're concerned about. My part took only a few hours each evening. The rest of the time you were sorting the information, tucking it away. I am simply very old. Breathing tires me."
Suddenly he shrugged off his somber tone. His eyes regained their spark. "Enough of this serious talk. The food's ready. Let's not waste it. You have an audience with Struth today."
Starting gradually, Toren began to make up for his long fast. Either the potion had sharpened his taste buds, or the fruit and bread he ate were exceptionally flavorful. The meal almost banished the dread of confronting the frog god again.
XX
IN JANNA'S AUDIENCE CHAMBER, Toren sat across from the high priestess, the fingers of their left hands interlaced, knees touching knees. Her gentle lecture carried softly over the hushed murmurs of the "sea" outside the dome. Her perfume wafted lightly up his nose, mixed with the scent of the perspiration brought on by her spellcasting-a pheromone that inspired Toren to vivid reminiscences of his lovemaking with the mother of his son. But his arousal was a side effect, not the intent of either participant. Toren put the memory aside, taking small notice of his body's craving. A deeper sort of lust preoccupied him.
"Like we did yesterday," Janna said, her whisper crystal clear and penetrating. "Remember what Struth told you. Yes. You're getting close. Can you tell?"
"Yes." Toren strove to channel his excitement; it would aid the sorcery. He concentrated, eyes closed. The room faded. The divan on which he sat dissolved into empty air. The only sensations that remained were the sound of Janna's voice, the pressure of her fingers and knees, and her scent. He floated, free of constraints, anchored only by the high priestess's presence.
"Keep your mind calm, and open your eyes," Janna said.
He did so. The first glimpse of the scene before him nearly jostled him out of his trance, but unlike the previous day, he kept his attention steady. Only one week after his arrival in Headwater, he already had the confidence vital to successful spellweaving.
He viewed the temple amphitheater, the Oracle of the Frog God, as if he were sitting on top of the great statue's head. His back rested against the ridge of one of the frog's eyes; Janna leaned against the other. Below, petitioners shuffled forward in their line. A crone dropped two copper errons in the pool and asked whether she would live to see another spring. The oracle did not reply. The woman spat in the water and stalked away. From the vigor of her angry steps, Toren guessed she would survive twenty more cycles of the seasons.
They watched for a few minutes. The wandering glances of the people in the line proved they could not see Toren and Janna. Yet Toren felt as if he were actually there. He moved normally, except that he made certain not to break contact with the priestess. The stone on which he sat resounded with cold substantiality. When he peered too far over the nose of the frog, vertigo teased him.
Gradually he noticed that the entire top of the statue glowed with a faint network of bright lines. The tendrils emitted a fragrance of thaumaturgy. On a hunch, he tried to thrust his hand beyond their perimeter. His fingers encountered a soft but definite barrier. He strained, pushing an inch or two further, until the resistance grew so firm that it hurt his hand.
Janna smiled at him. "Good. I was hoping you'd notice that without my help." She resumed the position she had occupied when they had first materialized. "Time to go back. Your control is slipping."
Her words rang true. Toren shook unsteadily as he sat back. He closed his eyes.
An instant later he opened them, and saw Janna's dome. An octopus and a pair of sea snails clung to the transparent wall, presenting a dramatic perspective of their suckered appendages. The divan cradled him. Across from him, the glazed look left Janna's pupils.
"Good!" she cried. "Much better! How do you feel?"
"Light-headed," Toren replied.
"You should be. That was a great deal of progress for one session. Go rest for the remainder of the day. Tomorrow Struth will adjust your energies a bit more, and you and I shall try the same journey with your eyes open. And after you've become used to that, you can work on projecting all by yourself. Now, any questions?"
"Yes. Were we there, at the oracle, or not?"
"No. Our bodies were here the whole time. Only our awareness travelled. It's the same technique Struth uses to listen to the supplicants."
"She sends her voice, too?"
"Yes. An adept can even send a visible image. If you continue at your present rate of advancement, I'll teach you that next week. Struth uses the technique not only at this oracle, but to visit her temples in other cities."
"Is there no limit on distance?"
"Not really, though it's a little harder to project oneself to the other side of the world. The handicap is that you must have visited your destination at least once in the flesh, otherwise you won't know where you're going. And, of course, there must be a reception zone ready to catch your projection."
"Like the net on the statue's head?" he asked.
"Exactly. It took sophisticated sorcery, and a great many days, to create that. There was no choice, however. I know of no person or being so powerful as to be able to project himself to a random location. At least the zones are permanent once woven; they last until the weaver dies."
Janna slid her hand from his. His skin tingled where she had touched it. Hints of his earlier arousal returned.
"More questions?" Janna asked, blowing the sweat between her fingers dry.
"No," Toren said, startled. At her gesture, he excused himself. He found the door using his magical senses-a test Janna had foisted on him earlier in the week-and took his leave.
Deena found Obo sitting in a gazebo inside the garden of Struth, one of the many small hideaways tucked within the temple grounds. On the table before him steeped a pot of tea, and next to it sat three empty cups. A chunk of honeycomb oozed on a small plate. The wizard put away the scroll he had been reading and filled two of the cups.