Thrall - Christie Golden [107]
“Blessed east,” Thrall said, his voice strong and steady. “New beginnings, where the sun rises. The home of Air, who inspires, and rules the mind and thought. I honor and—”
“They come!”
The anguished cry filled the air. Thrall’s eyes snapped open, his concentration shattered. Sure enough, he heard the familiar thrum of hundreds of leathery wings beating the air. The twilight dragons had come back for another round. And this time, they would win. Weakened as the Aspects were, once the revitalized Chromatus entered the fray, nothing they could do as separate beings could stop him.
Thrall tasted bitter despair. He had been so convinced it would work—so hopeful, and they had been so close. And now there was no time to complete the ritual.
Something flashed into his mind.
There is time, he remembered.
Pictures suddenly filled his mind’s eye: the sun rising, strong and life-giving. The joy that came with new ideas, lively conversation, breakthroughs and achievements and beginnings.
To his surprise, he saw the Aspects glancing at one another, nodding and smiling, and knew that somehow, through him, they could see the pictographs too.
And this had all transpired in the time it took the eye to blink.
Now the pictures in his mind were of campfires, the jungle climate of Stranglethorn, the baking lands of Durotar. This was Fire, whose home was the south, who gave all living beings the passion to achieve their goals and dreams.
Dimly, Thrall could hear the sounds of dragon fighting dragon all around him: the cries of anger, the bellows of pain. He could smell burning flesh. He kept his eyes tightly shut. In a moment they could help.
In a moment—
Swiftly came the images of the west: the realm of the Spirit of Water, oceans, tears in this place of the heart, of deep emotions.
And then the north, realm of Earth. Thrall saw mountains, and caverns, and the sleepy, calm veil of winter upon the land.
In the dancing pictures in their shared vision, they were no longer seated on cold stone on the top of a mountain at the roof of the world. He saw each of the Aspects, but not as they appeared now, clasping hands; not even as they appeared in their draconic forms.
Thrall saw not just what they were but who they were, and their beauty was almost overwhelming.
Gentle Ysera, a glowing green mist, the very essence of creation, shifting and pulsing. You are bound to the waking Dream of Creation. Nature is your realm, and all things have caught glimpses of the Emerald Dream when they sleep. You see them all, Ysera. And they see you, though they may not know it. Like the Life-Binder, you touch all living beings, and sing to them the songs of creation and interconnectedness.
The Aspects gasped softly, and Thrall understood that, somehow, he was hearing what one of the titans had said to Ysera so long ago, during that moment when she had received her powers. The voice in his head died away, but not the sense of awe and wonder it left in its wake.
Noble Kalec, a shard of gleaming ice, as beautiful as any gem, shimmering with the quintessence of arcane magic, the magic of power and spells and runes, even of the Sunwell, the magic of thought, of appreciation, of connection.
I believe that you will find that my gift to you is not just a profound duty—which it is—but also a delight—which it is! Magic must be regulated, managed, and controlled. But it must also be appreciated and valued and not hoarded. Such is the contradiction you must deal with. May you be dutiful … and joyous both.
The battle continued raging overhead. Thrall’s heart ached, but he shut out the sounds, shut out the desire to shout his battle cry and join in the fight. There would be time for that when—
Time—
The sands of time trickled up, and down, and in all directions—past and future and this precious moment.
Unto you is charged the great task of keeping the purity of time. Know that there is only one true timeline, though there are those who would