Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [103]
It was a land of tall mountains and deep valleys. Nothing grew on the towering mountains. The valleys were gashes cut into the stone with smatterings of grassy hillocks and the occasional scraggly pine or wind-bent spruce. The nomads who dwelt in this desolate region roamed the mountains with their herds of goats, eking out a harsh existence. These humans lived now as they had lived centuries ago, knowing nothing of the world beyond and asking nothing from that world except to be left alone.
As the goddess neared her destination, she shrouded the ship in clouds, for fear Majere, who was a solitary, reclusive god, would know of her coming and depart before she could speak to him.
“Gracious Lady, this is madness,” said the minotaur captain. He cast a haggard look over the prow. Whenever the clouds parted, he could see his ship sailing perilously close to jagged, snow-capped peaks. “We will smash headlong into a mountain and that will be the end of us!”
“Anchor here,” Zeboim ordered. “We are close to my destination. I will make the rest of the journey on my own.”
The captain was only too happy to obey. He heaved the ship to, and they drifted on the clouds.
Wrapping herself in a gray mist that she wound around her like a silken scarf, Zeboim descended down the side of the mountain, searching for Majere’s dwelling. She had not been here in eons and had forgotten precisely where it lay. Emerging onto a plateau that spanned the distance between two peaks, she thought this place looked familiar, and she lifted the veil of mist with her hands and peered out. She smiled in satisfaction.
A simple house, built of time, with spare, elegant lines, stood on the plateau. In addition to the house was a paved yard and a garden, all surrounded by a wall that had been constructed stone by stone by the hands of the owner. Those same hands had built the house and they also tended the garden.
“Ye gods, I’d go crazy as a blowfish, stuck here all alone,” Zeboim muttered. “No one to listen when you speak. No one to obey your commands. No mortal lives to tangle and twist. Except … that’s not quite true, is it, my friend?” Zeboim smiled a cruel, sardonic smile. Then she shuddered.
“Listen to me. I’ve been here only a few moments and already I’m talking to myself! Next thing you know I’ll be chanting and prancing around, waving my hands and ringing little bells. Ah, there you are.”
She found her prey alone in the courtyard, performing what appeared to be some sort of exercise or perhaps a slow and sinuous dance. Despite the bone-chilling cold that set the Sea Goddess’s teeth to chattering, Majere was bare-chested and bare-footed, wearing only loose-flowing pants bound around his waist with a cloth belt. His iron-gray hair was tied in a braid that fell to his waist. His gaze was turned inward, body and mind one as he moved to the music of the spheres.
Zeboim swooped down on him like a diving cormorant and landed in the courtyard right in front of him.
He was aware of her. She knew by the slight flicker of the eyes. Perhaps he’d been aware of her for a long time. It was hard to tell, because he didn’t acknowledge her presence, not even when she spoke his name.
“Majere,” she said sternly, “we need to talk.”
The gods have no corporeal forms, nor do they need them. They can communicate with each other mind-to-mind, their thoughts roving the universe, knowing no bounds. Like mortals, however, the gods have secrets—thoughts they do not want to share, plans and schemes they do not want to reveal—so they find it preferable to use their avatars not only when they need to communicate with mortals but also with each other. The god permits only a portion of himself or herself to enter into the avatar, thus keeping the mind of the god hidden.
Majere’s avatar continued with the exercise—hands moving gracefully through the thin, crisp air; bare feet gliding over the flagstone. Zeboim was forced to do her own dance—dodging out of his way, leaping to one side—as she sought to keep up with