He wanted to discuss it with Ryana, but could not speak of it without risk to the Sage. Only among the Veiled Alliance, who fought the same secret war against the dragon kings, could they ever speak of it, for the Alliance, too, awaited the avangion. But no one, not even the Sage, knew how long the metamorphosis would take.
With each painfully completed stage of the complex transformation, an immense amount of energy was expended, and no further progress could be made until recuperation was complete. Then, once more, the whole process would begin again. In a way, thought Sorak, it was like dying and being reborn, over and over and over.
He wondered what his grandfather would look like when the transformation was complete. Exactly what sort of creature was an avangion? Its name appeared only in a few half-forgotten myths, and in none of them was the avangion described, for no one had ever seen one. In all the long history of Athas, there was no record of a living avangion. Still, the world’s history was shrouded in myth and legend. Much was unknown about the ancient days, and it was almost impossible to separate fact from folklore.
Most likely, the avangion was a creature that existed only in potential. The spells to create an avangion were what existed in fact, but they had never been successfully employed before. Until now. It took a mage of a very advanced level even to attempt those spells, and great skill in magic was not all that was required. To undertake the long and arduous process of the metamorphosis required a degree of dedication, discipline, and self-sacrifice few people would possess.
In many ways, the process was similar to that followed by the sorcerer kings in their transformation into dragons. Each step in the long and complex metamorphosis required the casting of many intricate spells, even the simplest of which took weeks or months to prepare. The casting of each of those many spells had to be performed in an exacting, flawless manner, linking them together to initiate each separate stage of the transformation. It drained the adept almost to the point of death, and when the final spell in each stage was cast and the activating invocation spoken, there came the incandescent pain of the incremental transformation as the powerful magic went to work, restructuring the body, tearing it apart and reconfiguring it in ways that would leave the adept writhing on the floor and screaming in agony for days on end. And the pain never went away completely. Once the metamorphosis was under way, there could be no turning back, and the adept had to resign himself to living with the pain until the transformation was complete—a process that took many years.
Sorak remembered how the Sage had looked when they finally came face to face. His grandfather had seemed able, and in good humor, but was in great pain. Sorak could not imagine what it must be like, living through each day in constant pain, knowing that at best, there would be periods during the recuperative stages when it lessened in intensity, but never went away completely. He did not know if he would have the strength for that. He had thought his quest to find the Sage had taxed him, but now he knew that it was nothing compared to what his grandfather had to live with every day.
Sorak had not seen any family resemblance. His grandfather’s appearance had changed greatly as a result of the transformation. His tall, lean elven frame had become even thinner beneath the loose, floor-length robes he wore. His hands had grown frail and delicate, the wrists astonishingly thin, the fingers long and almost skeletal, like talons… birdlike. Yes, that was it. His grandfather’s nose was aquiline, and the facial bone structure was sharp and prominent, the skin stretched taut, the brow ridge more pronounced, the eyes sunken and hooded, like those of a desert hawk. He walked in a shuffling manner, slightly stooped over due to his shoulder blades, which had protruded as if they were growing… sprouting into wings.
Sorak looked out at the evening sky as the dark sun disappeared over the horizon and imagined an avangion in flight, a huge, hawklike creature, part bird, part man. Or, in this case, part elf. And he thought, what better fulfillment to the elven prophecy? The Crown of Elves, indeed. Sorak had not been a king, but a kingmaker. How could the tribes fail to unite behind such a potent symbol?
The ferry captain’s cry of “Raise oars!” interrupted his reverie. The drummer stopped, raising the small cudgels he used to beat out the pace, and the rowers raised their oars. Almost immediately, the ferry slowed, then drifted to a stop in the thick brown silt. The passengers, who had been conversing among themselves, fell silent and stared out into the darkness. The rowers sat utterly still. The sudden atmosphere of tension on the boat was palpable.
“What is it?” asked Ryana, and was immediately shushed by the other passengers.
“Silence!” said the dwarven captain. “Listen!”
And then Sorak heard it, unmistakable, a sound cutting through the darkness, slowly growing louder. It was a swishing sound, punctuated at intervals by a curious sucking noise followed by a low, deep, muted thud.
Something was moving through the silt, something very large…
…the sound of footsteps.
The ferry captain screamed out, “Giant off the starboard side! Full ahead, double the beat!”
The drummer instantly pounded out the new pace with his cudgels, two beats to the second, and the rowers bent to their oars with urgency, their muscles straining as they pulled the ferry through the silt. They dipped their oars to the first beat, then the heavily corded muscles on their arms and backs stood out in sharp relief as they pulled with the second.
The passengers, a mixture of dwarves and mercenaries, were all standing now, staring off to the right, straining to catch a glimpse of the
