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  Can you hear it, or maybe I am losing it for real? It’s so…well, I’ve never heard anything like it!

  Bulliwuf did not reply, but he took Atar into his arms. Atar struggled against him, and Bulliwuf held his chin for a long kiss. Atar wasn’t in the mood. The music was pulling at him. Aching muscles were forgotten as Atar swung his stinking body onto the saddle and urged Ishria out into the slanting light. The sun was sinking and it bathed the land in rich golden light. The sight did not cheer Atar. It made his heart sink with apprehension. He felt the calling so strong that it was actual physical pain. He knew somehow, deep in his soul, that where he needed to be was a far distance away, so he wasted no time. He might kill Ishria with the exertion he was going to put the animal through, but if he didn’t make it to—to what? He himself would die.

  Chapter Thirteen

  From below the revelers, family members, and even politicians gathered at the mountain’s base to watch the solemn, nervous faces of the magi and magi-to-be walk by. The magi were all dressed in their best, most ornate, garments. Evening light drenched the scene in a fiery glow, glinting off gold brocade and jeweled sword hilts, making the sight seem even more magical. The One Hundred Years Ceremony was beginning and the electricity hung in the air, noticeable even to those who had no magic at all. They walked with measured steps up the mountains to a secret location to perform their ceremony.

  Evening deepened, the first stars made their appearances and still the magi came. From all Seven Kingdoms, from outlying provinces, and from all walks of life, the great Summons called to the Shamans, the medicine folk, the mystics, and even to those who never realized they were gifted. They walked up the mountain, dwindling out of sight, hearing a music that no one else could. As you can imagine, these mysterious activities fired the imagination of everyone not taking part in the ceremony. Desperately, hundreds of eyes scanned the mountains, trying to see any sign of the magi. There were even some young fools who followed the magi, but did not hear the Summons themselves. They never came back.

  The curiosity of most would never be resolved. Far above them, on a vast plateau, the magi gathered before a huge unlit bonfire. The woodpile could have built a village of houses, except that no villager could possibly afford the type of wood that was resting in that great heap. It came from far and wide, from exotic places, as well as from common ones. Sandalwood, cedar, black walnut, and every other tree that grew on the earth had at least one stick in the heap. From far and distant lands, the one thousand fires had been lit and one smoldering coal from each rested on the great pile, in addition to the rest of the wood.

  The seductive music thrilled and pulsated around them, affecting some more than others. Zohak stood still, closer to the great heap than respect decreed, with a satisfied, smug smile on his face. He’d heard the music, as had his despicable father, Dahaka. He was a little apart from the rest of the quiet crowd because none would dare venture so close. A vision of the Idiot, helpless and alone in his pit kept flashing in his mind. It was so perfect. All the unorganized pieces of his life seemed to be falling into place. He ran his tongue over his lips, tasting the power that was to be his in a few moments. The world would tremble at his feet.

  Dahaka was by Zohak’s side. He felt a nagging sense that all was not as it should be. He had waited so long for this. He would not let silly worry darken this moment. He looked around to size up his competition. There were women with eyes that seemed to glow red. There were witches and wizards from so many countries. Some were the color of a black horse, with wiry hair that emanated sparks of red fire. Some were dressed in exquisite diaphanous robes and had hair the color of flax. Some had slanted eyes like the people of the Horde, and yes, some of their shamans were there too. Some of the magical people were not people at all, but shape-shifters. He watched as a woman took the shape of a fantastic bird and then shifted back. She smiled at him, and although she was young and most beautiful, she had no teeth. Yet, he knew that he, the nephew of the present Firestarter, the son of the crown, and yes, the son of the powerful immortal wizard Dahaka, would be the Chosen One. He, and he alone was deserving of the title of the Firestarter. He mused in this way, but an unpleasant thought burned its way into his mind, making his anger spring up. Yes, but if the Idiot had lived…

  There was no talking, not even a whisper disturbed the perfect melody of the night as the magi waited for the moon to reach its zenith. The beautiful, charged music kept gaining in intensity and volume and the gathering of magi grew.

  Atar let out a roar of rage and urged Ishria to greater speeds. Leaping over fallen boulders, charging through mountain streams, they plunged on heedless of danger, conscious only of the Summons. The inexorable, magnificent force that demanded Atar to follow left no room for thoughts of any kind in his head. Bulliwuf darted ahead of Ishria, checking out the path, not trusting his young friend to exercise the caution he normally displayed. The truth however was hard to ignore. They may not make it in time.

  The moon crept across the sky, serene, untouchable, and uncaring. Every face on the plateau turned up to watch its progress. It was almost time.

  A tiny dot of sparkling blue light danced above the heads of the spectators, pausing now and again, as if examining the faces. Surprisingly few noticed the small orb until it settled above the woodpile and split into three twirling balls of light. Two dots of light spiraled down, splitting, and splitting again until the glowing mini constellation of stars began to take shape.

  The moon was now in place, high and proud in the night sky, watching. Anacharsis stood on the mountain of exotic wood, looking down at the huge congregation of magi.

  Atar’s breath came in pants and shallow gasps. The landscape was getting harder and harder to traverse. In the back of his mind, he was aware of the pity his friend felt for him and rage darkened his vision of the blurring moonlight path. He had no moonlight shadow, he realized. How long had it been? No, he would not give up. He would not look at the sky to see the high moon. He must get there.

  The great man—the Firestarter, stood for a moment and a slight wind tugged at his long white beard. The living legend had made his appearance and the sight of him made the crowd even stiller, if that was possible. Some of the watchers thought they saw a frown darken the mysterious face, as if anything could trouble the great mind of the Sage of Sages, the Hero of Heroes. It was gone in an instant and with great dignity, the man began to float down the mountain of wood.

  Zohak would have stepped forward then, but Dahaka’s grip on his arm prevented him from doing so. Bony fingers dug into his flesh and Zohak let out a muffled cry of pain. Anacharsis slowly turned his head and gazed at Zohak, who felt cold, paralyzing fear. His soul was exposed to those eyes. He felt the light of the great man’s understanding touch the most private sins he had committed. He unconsciously stepped back and merged into the rest of the crowd, head reeling with embarrassment.

  A long fingered, elegant hand beckoned to a young woman in the front. The first mage was then recognized.

  Atar watched his shadow grow with horror. He wondered why he was still rushing. It was too late. It must be. Yet, here he was, racing through the night, fearing like he had never feared anything in his life before. Ishria fairly flew over the treacherous uphill path, agile as a mountain goat. Atar closed his mind like a book. He refused to think, which was probably the wisest thing to do since it kept him sane. Focusing on the narrow path, he continued ever upward, battling the emotions that demanded to be recognized.

  Anacharsis’ hand dropped. He had recognized the last magi and his ancient heart cried a silent tear of farewell. He had hoped—but he knew better. Now the time had come for him to hand over his own title, a thing he was anxious to do, since he had served his one hundred years as Firestarter. There were so many realms that he wanted to explore. His spirit yearned to be free of its mortal obligations. Yet, he had hoped the way for him would be clearer. His was a position of immense power. It could not be handed over to someone light
ly.

  Power was the key. The new Firestarter had to be strong mentally and magically to fend off constant attack. His gaze fell upon the impertinent new mage who had attempted to step forward in the beginning of the Ceremony. Dahaka was by his side. Dahaka, who should have been dead. Anacharsis himself had torn out the man’s heart. This was the proof that he was using the worst sort of black magic. This made Anacharsis snarl inwardly.

  And what was the connection between the hopeful mage and Dahaka? He saw something. Something bound them. Could it be? For the first time in fifteen years, Anacharsis wondered if his decision to stay out of politics was wise.

  He looked into the mage’s eyes again, but came up with the same conclusions he had drawn earlier. The man was immensely strong magically, but his mind needed work. There was hope for him. Many people undergo changes in attitude and there was a good chance that this one would develop into a fine, just, and wise mage. He would never be truly exceptional. He lacked the strength of character. It would be a gamble, but Anacharsis thought it would be worth it because his magic was the most powerful.

  “The time has now come, for me to appoint my successor,” Anacharsis said, his voice ringing out into the night. The moonlit faces of the new magi were all watching. Reluctantly, Anacharsis beckoned to Zohak. He looked into the man’s eyes and suddenly his mind was filled with a vision, a pale form at the bottom of a pit. A flash of doubt blazed through the Great Mage’s mind.

  Suddenly a speckled bird of prey screamed in the night and plunged down through the darkness hurtling toward Zohak. Instinctively, the magi shielded their faces, all except Anacharsis. The bird landed on Anacharsis’ shoulder, but the tremendous rumbling that shook the ground overshadowed this unusual event.

  It grew louder and louder and louder. It was unearthly, urgent, and at the same time, it seemed right somehow. The magi were all a flutter. What could this portend?

  Suddenly a deep snarl cut through the air. Screams and shouts of fear marked Bulliwuf’s progress as he cleared the way, snapping vicious fangs.

  Then Atar burst into sight, hair flying, bleeding chest heaving with exertion. Charging through the magi, he raced toward Anacharsis.

  “Stop!” he shouted with his own voice for the first time. “Am I too late?” Atar gasped, dismounting clumsily. He wobbled crazily on his feet, looking utterly fatigued.

  Anacharsis rushed at the figure, feeling his mouth go dry. Heedless of the audience, he yanked at the tiger skin that hid the young man’s features. But even that was not necessary, one look into those deep blue eyes, so much like his own, gave him the answer that he longed for.

  “My son!” Anacharsis cried, throwing his arms around the young man’s neck. Tears flowed down his cheeks as he held his long-lost son close to him in a tight embrace. “My God, I thought you were dead! Here you are my precious boy, alive, barely anyway. I cannot believe it, all these years you were alive and I did not know it. You know not how I scoured the land in search of you!”

  Atar did not recognize the words he spoke, but he did understand them, such was the power of his father. He was in a daze. His father broke away and turned his son to the great heap of wood.

  “Now, my child, you shall fulfill your destiny,” he cried. From behind, he raised Atar’s hands and began to chant softly in a language that was infused with humming power.

  Atar felt a tingling pleasure in his fingertips and as the chanting grew louder, it poured down his arms and spread through the rest of his body, awakening senses he had not known he possessed. He felt the words that Anacharsis spoke. He became those enchanted words, his spirit weaving in and out of the sweet syllables. Power filled him, and he knew, even as it happened, that it was all his own. He recognized the taste of it.

  His entire body glowed with blue light and the pain and fatigue he felt earlier vanished. He stood before the woodpile, a man in his prime. He felt like he could do anything. The peace and ecstasy he felt were like nothing he had ever experienced.

  Atar raised his hands to the woodpile and felt an invocation fall from his lips. He did not know where the prayer came from, but it felt as natural to him as breathing. Suddenly the mountain of wood burst into flame, illuminating the awed faces of the other magi. The new Firestarter had been recognized. Atar turned to his father, full of questions, thrilling with the new sense of power he felt. But Anacharsis was not there.

  Atar heard a voice caress his mind, as gentle as a summer breeze. “I leave you, my son.”

  “No! No, Father come back, I need to…”

  A shriek of rage exploded from Zohak. His face was savage. His hands fisted and un-fisted as he glared at the new Firestarter. Next to him, Dahaka’s face was undergoing a change. His eyes became glowing coals in a skull-like face. His lips appeared to thin until they exposed wicked fangs. Horns spiraled up from his forehead and he let out a terrible scream of pain and rage. His body appeared to be a burned thing writhing in his wizard’s robes.

  A chilling moan near Atar’s ear interrupted his agitated entreaty. All turned to see what had made such a noise. The moan kept rising in pitch until it became a scream. Atar gasped, terror freezing him in place. Gliding towards him rapidly, a hulking figure hurtled through the night, red eyes glowing from under a deep hood. Atar dashed aside, barely mastering his terror. The scream had lowered in pitch and had now become a snarling growl. The figure stood between Atar and the fire, silhouetted in the glow. It raised its hands and removed the hood, laughing in a deep, rich baritone.

  Devayani! The features were unmistakable, even though they were distorted with rage and something else. She convulsed suddenly, her body writhing. A genuine scream of pain ripped from her throat. Staring into her face, Atar saw a lump in her cheek wriggle and dart about under the skin like a rat seeking an exit. It darted down her throat, but two other lumps darted into her face and did a crazy dance, disappearing into her scalp. Devayani herself seemed to be swelling. Her skin was stretched so far it shone with stress. Atar heard her billowing robe rip and it floated gracefully to the ground exposing Devayani’s hideous, swollen body.

  The lumps were everywhere in a crazed state of motion darting here and there. From under the taut skin of her abdomen, five claws, clearly outlined against the thin barrier, pressed against her skin as if testing it. The hand was so large it covered the width of Devayani’s not inconsiderable belly. Black, shining claws pierced her skin and racked down. Devayani kept swelling, the skin-popping under the pressure, leaving great streaks of raw flesh visible. She was now at least twice her normal size.

  Two massive feet were growing out of Devayani’s chest, her arms rotated, flipping onto her back, and elongating into wings. Her skull and neck had lengthened, the red, glistening flesh not fully covering yellow fangs, and there were places where the whiteness of her skull still showed. She opened her massive jaws, still swelling. A piece of skin dangled off her chin, waving as she reared onto her massive haunches. Much of her previous body fell to the ground like an old rag. She was raw now like a piece of meat, except where patches of skin still dangled.

  She was immense. Her head rose above the roaring flames of the sacrificial fire. She stretched her wings, which had only fragments of membranes on them. Throwing back her head, she roared in triumph, shaking the earth with her mighty cry.

  This horrific transformation took place with astonishing rapidity. Atar had only the briefest moment to get his mace in his hands. When he turned around, Devayani loomed above him, mouth slightly ajar as she appeared to revel in the freedom from her old body.

  “Crap,” Atar said.

  Screams erupted from the crowd as panic seized them. Devayani lowered her head and lunged at Atar, one massive paw swatting at him. A high cackle of delight floated through the air as Atar was flung off his feet. Dahaka looked up at the nasty creature and croaked, “Well, well my beloved, you look as beautiful as ever!”

  Beside him, Zohak gazed at his foster mother and lover with a combination of terror and disgust
. Dahaka advanced on Atar’s prostrate form, grinning savagely with his skull-like visage, but suddenly Bulliwuf was there, snarling ferociously. He lunged at the mage with deadly accuracy, his powerful teeth, filled with ancient magic, sinking deep into the treacherous man’s neck. The deadly magic shot through the man who had betrayed his own wife, Cunaxa the Pure.

  Bulliwuf raised his head slightly from his kill, his body one taut muscle, and gazed at Zohak, blood dripping from his fangs. Zohak screamed and lost control of his bowels. He fell to his knees and covered his eyes.

  Atar was trying to get to his feet, but his senses were still addled from the tremendous blow.

  Devayani took a ponderous step forward.

  Atar ran around the fire, putting it between them. He closed his eyes, feeling his power build, flexing it, thrilling in the sensation. His hand tightened on his mace. He only had a second, and then she was upon him, scooping him up in one mighty hand. He looked into her eyes and felt her slowly tighten her grip. A sharp claw dug into his neck. With superhuman strength born of fear, Atar wrestled the powerful grip that held him. The points of his mace dug into the creature’s palm and she let go with a howl. Falling to the ground, he landed painfully on his side.

  He screamed in pain then scrambled up, facing his opponent, teeth bared, mace at the ready. She lowered her head, neck curved, with her long teeth snapping. She roared at him, but Atar roared back. He lunged at the lowered head and swung his mace for all he was worth, bringing it crashing down on the monster’s lowered skull.

  She tossed her head up, wrenching the mace from Atar’s numb fingers. She seemed a bit dazed, but she recovered rapidly. Atar’s courage fell. He had given it his best.

  She was coming at him again. Atar turned and ran around the fire once more. In his headlong flight, he did not see the body that lay in his path. He tripped over it then turned to face the monster, searching Dahaka’s body for a weapon of any kind. His hand closed around Dahaka’s poisoned dagger.