Thrall - Christie Golden [108]
And Alexstrasza—
Thrall loved her. How could he not? How could anyone, any thing, not love this fiery, tender essence of pure heart energy? She was a brazier on a cold night, the life contained in a seed, or an egg, all things growing and bright and beautiful. No wonder flights of all colors adored her; no wonder she had been the last thought of Korialstrasz as he took action that would destroy so much, but preserve more.
This is my gift: compassion for all living things. A drive to protect and nurture them. And the ability to heal that which others cannot, birth what others may not, and love even the unlovable—who surely need such grace more than any other souls.
And himself—
He felt rooted, solid, deeply wise. Thrall well knew that it was not his own knowledge that he was experiencing but the knowledge of the earth. This was where the ancients dug their roots; this was where bones, over time, turned into stone. He felt bigger than he had ever been, expansive, for all this world was his to mind.
My blessing upon you will seem humble compared to those which have been bestowed upon the others: the managing of time, of life, of dreams and magic. I offer you the earth. The soil, the ground, the deep places. But know that the earth is the basis of all things. It is where we are rooted. Where you must come from, if you are to go to. Here is whence true strength comes. From deep places … within the world, and within oneself.
The blessing had not been intended for his ears originally. But it was now.
The energies of five Aspects stood together, as they had not done for millennia.
And then it happened.
The images that the Aspects and Thrall had become in this spiritual realm exploded. Not violently, or angrily, but as if the joy could no longer be contained in anything resembling structure or form. Like fireworks, the essence of who and what each Aspect truly was soared forth.
They met, hues of each one, bronze and green and blue and red and black, and twined about each other, weaving the colors together.
Like strands of thread on a loom.
… To unravel part of the piece, all you need to do is pull on a single loose thread.
No, Thrall suddenly thought as the words of Medivh, spoken to him in the timeways, rushed back to him. Not weaving. Threads could be pulled, or broken. They must not interweave; they must blend. …
Thrall visualized his color, a pure, peaceful black hue, merging with the other dancing plumes of the Aspects. They understood at once, and each yielded its boundaries. The colors began to blend, turning a single uniform hue of—
“He comes!”
The voices of the lookouts shattered the moment. Thrall struggled to stay in the sacred space, to detach calmly, but there was too much urgency. Even before he had opened his eyes, the four Aspects had all leaped upward, shifting back into their true forms and climbing skyward. For a moment, as the dragons sprang upward, wings beating fiercely, Thrall thought he would be left behind. An instant later he was snatched up by a giant paw. He craned his neck to see Tick, who swiftly placed the orc on her shoulder.
Sure enough, the rotting chromatic dragon was flying full-tilt toward his adversaries. “Did you really think we would not come for you?” called a voice that did not belong to Chromatus. Thrall peered, straining to see in the moonlight, and realized there was a small figure perched on Chromatus’s gigantic back.
It had to be the Twilight Father.
What cultists were left after Torastrasza’s razing of their ranks had also climbed on dragonback. They wielded weapons Thrall could see glinting in the dim light, and doubtless others knew spells and would be even more dangerous foes at a distance. He realized that they intended this to be the final confrontation, and the Twilight Father was clearly