The Irda

The Keeper of the history of the Ogre stood alone and unassisted on the platform, though she was as ancient as the stone walls of the castle. She had buried the bones of all her friends, of her children, and still she lived, because of the Gift, which she alone possessed.

She opened her mouth, and it came, the Gift of the gods. A voice as pure and clear, as bright and beautiful, as stars shining in the darkness of a night sky. The ribbon of sound pierced the air. The words wove the History of the World, of the Ogre, firstborn of the gods.

By the hammer of the gods, the universe was forged from chaos.

From the sparks of the anvil, the spirits were scattered,

Cast to glimmer and dance in the heavens.

From the forge of the gods, the world was wrought,

Playground of the gods.

The spirits were singing, their voices like starshine,

Shining like the gods themselves, pieces of the heavens.

The gods looked upon them and found them most wondrous.

The gods looked upon them and coveted their souls.

The world shuddered.

Battlefield of the gods.

The High God looked down upon what his god children had destroyed;

His wrath was mighty, his pain transcendent.

From the fire of his anger,

From the divine breath of Takhisis,

From the heart of the flames, the races were born.

Takhisis, Sargonnas, Hiddukel, gods of the Dark,

Made the stony Ogres.

Gifted with life, gifted with beauty,

The Ogres turned their faces earthward.

Children of the stars.

Firstborn of the gods.

Paladine, Mishakal, Those of the Light,

Made the willowy Elves.

Cursed them with goodness, cursed them with virtue.

Those of the middle, Gilean, Reorx, Gray gods all,

Made the plodding humans, set them to serve.

Watchers of the darkness are the mighty Ogres,

Cast down to rule the world from the lofty mountains.

Hair colored of the shadows, eyes like the moon,

Fairest of all and truly immortal.

Singers of starshine, masters of all created.

Rulers of the low ones; the animals, the elves, the humans.

Within our hearts, all dreams are dark.

Within our souls, all pain is pleasure.

We turn our faces upward.

Born of the stars, chosen by the gods.

“My dear, you know tbat magic, beyond tbat necessary for daily needs, is forbidden to all but the Ruling Families.”

Lord Teragrym Semi, eldest of the five Ruling Council members of the Ogres, considered by many in the royal court to be the most powerful, plucked a piece of fruit from the bowl sitting at his elbow.

“Yes, Lord, I know. But . . . there have been exceptions.”

Eyes cast down, the young Ogre who kneeled before him allowed her voice to trail off. Her eyes, so strange and black, stole upward, then back down too quickly to give offense.

Teragrym pretended to examine the fruit, searching the fuzzy red skin for blemishes, then tossed it back into the bowl with a sneer. He did not deem it vital to mention that the punishment for disobedience of the law was death. He assumed she was willing to risk death.

Magic danced in the air about her, well concealed but barely controlled. Powerful enough so that he could sense it without casting a “seeing” spell. Just that feeling, coming from one not of a Ruling Family, was enough to condemn her.

Her fingers twitched, and he imagined he could see the spell she was longing to cast dancing between them. It would probably be something spectacular, designed to impress. No doubt she knew more than just spells of fire and water, of mischief and play.

For a race renowned for its beauty, she was striking and exotic, dark where most of the Ogres were silvery. Pale of flesh where the norm was emerald and indigo and raven black. Her black eyes were almost elven, and there was a warmth to the gem-green paleness of her skin that reminded him of the pale-pink flesh of humans. It was an almost repellent mixture and strangely compelling.

With her billowing robes spread about her in a perfect fan, she made a fetching picture. A perfect, ripe flower, offering herself. “You are very beautiful. Young. Healthy. Well placed at court. You could make a brilliant match. Be secure. Why do you risk telling me this?”

“I can make a match for myself, yes,” she whispered. “Or my uncle will make one for me, and himself. Perhaps it would even be a brilliant one, with a well-suited family. But I do not wish to be some family’s adornment.”

Teragrym snorted, almost laughing in her face. This particular Ogre did not strike him as being malleable enough to be anyone’s adornment.

“I would never be allowed to learn magic as I wish to.” She glanced up, smiled with beguiling sweetness. “Please, Lord, families have been known to take in someone who showed promise, who could be of use . . . who would vow undying devotion in exchange for . . . considerations.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “That is true. At least, it was, before the clans were united by the council. Now . . .” A great many things had changed in the time since the Ruling Council had gained power and the king’s supremacy had declined. “But now, I think such a person would have to convince me that I need a mage in my household who is not of my clan.”

“My lord, you toy with me.” There was sharpness in her tone, carefully controlled disapproval. Perhaps even a hint of anger.

He responded with mild rebuke, thin-lipped lechery. “Did you expect there would be no obstacles?”

“I will meet any test you see fitting!”

He laughed, delighted in spite of himself. With a nonchalant flick of his wrist, he cast a spell. Wordlessly, so effortlessly it was mocking.

A snarling, slavering thing appeared at her elbow. A creature of shadows and decay.

She flinched, edging away from the vision. With the slightest effort, she snuffed the enchantment, using a powerful “dispel.”

Her triumph was short-lived.

“That is no proof of worthiness.”

“Lord, set me a test. I will pass it!”

‘“But my dear, that is the test. Prove yourself.” Before she could protest or question, he motioned for his assistant, indicating that the interview was over.

“Send for Kaede,” he ordered the aide who scurried to his side.

She almost protested. Her long, thin fingers twitched. Her chin came up. At the last moment, with obvious effort, she bowed. “Thank you, Lord Teragrym. I will provide suitable proof.” As she rose, smoothing the folds of her robe, she said softly, “Proof of worthiness.”

He waited until the heavy stone door had slid silently closed behind her, leaving him alone in his audience hall.

The room was small but high ceilinged, ornate, plush. Teragrym breathed deeply, allowing the pleasing surroundings to relax him as he motioned his aide closer.

“Watch her,” he told the young Ogre. “I think she could be dangerous.”

“The Prince of Lies will speak to you,” the High Cleric said. “Or not. Accept you. Or not.”

Lyrralt nodded, not trusting himself to speak, for surely it would be unseemly to reveal his excitement, his agitation, before the altar of Hiddukel, the dark god of gain and wealth.

He had been preparing for this moment of being judged worthy or not worthy for all of his young life, for perhaps two hundred of his three hundred years.

To a human savage from the plains, it would have been many lifetimes; to the long lived elves, a fraction of a lifetime. For an Ogre, it was a pittance of time.

The High Cleric was placing the bowl of scented water before him, folding away the light robe she’d brought.

The room was devoid of furniture save for the altar, a huge block of marble bearing the broken scales, symbol of his god, and the small chest on which lay the garment, symbol of his hope. There was no carpet on the floor, no hangings on the walls to insulate the chill of stone.

Lyrralt rubbed his bare arms and stared with open envy and longing at the High Cleric, at the delicate runes marking her emerald skin. They marched from shoulder to wrist on both arms, symbols of her devotion, symbols of Hiddukel’s blessing.

The High Cleric faced him one last time before leaving him to his test. “Let Hiddukel set the runes rightly,” she said softly, bowing her head, both to him and to the altar. Then she left him alone in the cold, dim room.

He took a deep, deep breath, told himself he was not cold, then knelt on the cold marble floor and bowed low, palms open and exposed.

Lyrralt took up the silver bowl which sat at the foot of the altar, sipped of the scented water. He rinsed his mouth and spat delicately into a smaller bowl carved from bone. He dipped his fingers in the water and touched the liquid to ears and eyelids. Then he scooped a handful of the cold liquid and splashed it on his shoulder and upper arm.

Ritual complete, he was ready to ask Hiddukel’s blessing.

He closed his eyes, concentrated with all his strength, and prayed. “Please, Mighty One, Lord of Fiends and Souls, Prince of Lies, accept me as your servant.”

He paused, feeling nothing but his clammy, wet skin, then squeezed his eyes even more firmly and prayed even more fervently. He promised undying devotion, unquestioning obedience. He glanced at his shoulder. The indigo skin was unblemished, perfect.

He prayed and he pleaded. He made promises. He bowed until his forehead was touching the floor. The water evaporated from his skin, but he felt no response from his god.

It was not fair! Lyrralt rocked back on his heels and sat, palms on thighs, breathing heavily with the exertion of his entreaties. He had wanted only this for so long, neglecting his duties on his father’s estate, shirking his responsibilities as eldest son and older brother.

He had thought of little but the things he would gain as a cleric of Hiddukel. The esteem, the advantage, the wealth. Oh, the benefit the robes of the order would give him once his father was dead and he was master!

A strange, sharp sensation smote his left shoulder, so hard it knocked him to the floor, slicing into his bones.

He gasped as though his lungs had emptied of all air.

Sensations too varied, too contradictory to assimilate, flashed through his muscles, across his skin.

Heat and cold, pressure from within and without, pain and pleasure. Blissful pain, as if his flesh were being peeled from his body.

Lyrralt opened his mouth wide and screamed in agony . . . and joy.

As quickly as it had come, it ended.

He sat up, shivering but no longer cold. He touched his shoulder. There was no pain, but his perfect skin was flawless no longer. The bone-white runes, stark against his dark complexion, marched in three rows across his shoulder.

The door opened, and the High Cleric entered, followed by others of her order, and they gathered around him, exclaiming happiness and welcome. The High Cleric sank to her knees beside him and gazed at the markings on his shoulder.

“What do you see?” Lyrralt demanded.

She smiled at his impatience and ran a fingertip across the sigils. “Many things. You have many paths you may follow, young Lyrralt. Many possibilities.”

“Tell me.”

“I see a beginning. Hiddukel shows . . .” She lifted an eyebrow, impressed. “The Dark Queen. Perhaps you will be called upon by the Dark One herself.”

Lyrralt shuddered to think of being honored by Takhisis herself, Queen of Darkness.

“No, perhaps it means only darkness or death to a queen. A dead queen. It is not clear.”

“But we have no queen!”

“Hiddukel will guide you,” she admonished gently and continued to examine the runes. “There is family here. Someone close. There is mischief. Revenge. Success.”

The High Cleric motioned to one of the others, and he brought Lyrralf s robe.

As Lyrralt stood, he asked, “It’s not very clear, is it?”

“Never in the beginning, but the Prince will guide you.”

The lamps danced in the mine, bright pinpricks of light stabbing through darkness as thick and black as ink. The timbers that shored up the walls and ceiling creaked, and the rocks they held back groaned, singing a song eerie and sad.

“The slaves say the earth is crying for the gems and stones we take out of it.”

Igraine, governor of Khal-Theraxian, largest province in the Ogre civilization, smiled indulgently at his daughter, Everlyn. In the dim light, he could barely see her, but he knew her eyes were dilated with excitement, her deep-sea complexion darkened to emerald.

Only child, pampered, spoiled, raised in the brightness and cheer of one of the finest estates in the mountains . . . He couldn’t explain why she preferred the darkness, why she preferred the rocks and minerals his slaves dug out of the earth over copper and gold and polished gems.