The Morgs approached from
either side, eyes wide in wonder, the ocular dropping to Belmok’s chest and
bouncing on its ribbon. The lights danced increasing closer to each other, and
then suddenly, fiercely, coalesced into a figure, almost ten feet high, formed
as much of emptiness as of light, towering over them and looking down with eyes
that blazed like stars.
“Welcome to the one wizard
human male, and to the one promised agent Morg male, whichever he may be. And
to the unexpected third, also a welcome with much question.”
Although the figure had a
mouth, or an unmoving approximation of a mouth, the fluting timbre-less voice
did not seem to come from it, but instead issued from somewhere in the middle
of its chest. It tilted its head quizzically, as if examining the group in
curiosity.
“Hello, Wellolellenlerenwol, my
friend,” Dunwolf said, bowing his head in greeting. “I apologize for the third,
but it was of necessity.” He looked up again, eyes blinking. “Could you
contract yourself a little more? It is awkward talking with you at this
height.”
“Difficulties to this one for
the level of required concentration,” the other replied impassively. “But for
better expressions of this meeting this one shall effort produce.”
Belmok put his eyeglass back in
slowly and watched in fascination as the towering figure started to shrink down
into itself, growing more defined and brighter as it did so. At last, it was
only a little taller than Dunwolf himself, a slim, silver-blue, almost
featureless figure, with tendrils streaming and coiling around its head like
hair fighting a strong wind.
“This one itself feels some
consternation emanating from these Morg males … hmmm … strangers, because of
its designation,” the Ivra said. It made another short humming sound. “For
simple expressions of this meeting, and after, one may be addressed as Leren
without insult to one.”
Dunwolf bowed his head
respectfully.
“We are honored.” He turned to
the Morgs. “Their names are long expressions of their natures,” he explained.
“The name had already been considerably shortened into one I could just
remember, with some effort. The fact that, um, Leren is willing to undergo this
further abbreviation for your ease is a great concession of dignity.”
He turned back.
“Leren, may I present High
Master Belmok of the Tronduhon Library School, the best institution of learning
on the continent, and the King’s Envoy Lieutenant Thron of Morg City.”
Belmok inclined his head
shortly at the introduction. “Charmed, I’m sure,” he said drily. Thron simply
glared at the figure, as if weighing it up and trying to come to some kind of
judgement, perhaps of where he might stick a sword into it with best effect.
The glowing shape looked back and forth at the bearded figures of the Morgs. It
buzzed and hummed to itself for a moment, as if trying to make a correct
estimation. At last it addressed Dunwolf.
“One did not expect … in point
of fact one requested with most clear stressings … only one agent is required
this mission to accompany. The overlapping hadrahamatala … there is no
word … makes this one’s attentioning already with difficulty. Which shall
attend this one on the … hmmm … task? One requests the other be removed some
space.”
“I’m not going
anywhere,” said Thron, shifting his feet to plant his boots more firmly in
place. “I have my orders.”
“Please,” said the wizard.
“Just a little way? Perhaps beyond the standing stones. You must understand
that, even when we are not speaking, it is as if we are yelling all at once
right into his ears.”
“That’s as may be,” said Thron
grimly. “But I have to witness this thing. For the king.”
“I’m afraid I must agree with
the lieutenant,” Belmok spoke up as he moved forward, leaning on his staff. “As
unnecessary and awkward as it may seem, this meeting is under the auspices,
ultimately, of the realm, and may well involve its safety. For now, Thron
should and must remain.”
Both the wizard and the warrior
looked up at the scholar in surprise. Thron gazed at him incredulously, then
turned in triumph to the old man.
“You heard him.”
Dunwolf sighed deeply.
“Then I suppose I must
withdraw,” he said simply. He turned to the Ivra, who had been following the
dialogue with attentive, curious, bird-like turnings of its head.
“Wellolellenlerenwol, I had hoped to help speak between you and guide
understanding, but I shall stand off a space, for your comfort. Please know
this is a social matter with the Morgs, and is, for them, a necessity. If you
need me, call.”
The wizard looked at the Morgs.
“Stand a little more apart,” he
said. “That should help, too.” He walked off, treading carefully, into the
falling shadows beyond the stones. The glowing figure of the Ivra watched him
with no change of expression, but Belmok thought he could sense consternation
and anxiety somehow in its unusual stance. The tall Master turned gruffly to
Thron.
“You heard the man. Move over.”
Without waiting to see if the soldier would obey, he turned to the Ivra. “I
thank you, Master Leren. I have indeed been chosen to accompany you. I think
you will find me a valuable companion. Among my qualities, besides being
strong, adaptable, and hardy (which many Morgs are), I have an extensive
knowledge of history, both ancient and modern, an analytical mind, and, quite
frankly, a talent for languages which I think will help both you and I learn to
communicate with each other.”
There was a pregnant pause as
the silvery figure buzzed and hummed to itself. Belmok felt he was being examined,
both outside and in, with a most thorough scrutiny. For a moment he almost drew
back. Then he braced himself, standing straighter, and looked right back into
Leren’s impassive face as if he could inspect the other’s intentions himself.
They stood so for a tense moment. Finally, the Ivra broke the silence.
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