He needed help. For what, he did not know, only that he needed it He tried to call for that hel Then, piercing the stillness, a sound. A sound so sweet that it cut through the ice surrounding him, so pure it could only have come from the mouth of a goddess. The goddess called to him from across the ice, sounding in his mind from all directions.
She's singing to me, he thought with wonder, sud- denly recognizing the sound as song. Thoughts became a little clearer. Who is she?
He turned his attention inward, away from the room of crystals and into the light. The light sur- rounded him, then broke into a delicate snowfall, falling around him with muffled softness.
The snow cleared, parted, like the parting of a thin white curtain. The goddess stood at the edge of a large lake, beside a tree that, despite the season, bloomed with tiny, white flowers. She wore a gown of white that flowed over her body in gentle folds, like a frozen fountain, and she sang a song of sweetness and power, calling to the birds and animals, gentle commands to do her bidding. As she raised her hands, the beasts surrounded her, ready to obey. The birds opened their beaks and joined her song with a hundred songs of their own.
A shaft of light suddenly illuminated him from above. She turned to him, smiled, and began singing directly to him again, this time calling a name.
"Alaire, my son," she sang, and he became con- fused, disori Son?
Alaire?
The light spread from him to her; it illuminated her clearly, and he saw that this was no goddess, but a mortal woman, older than h Mother?
She smiled. With that identification came other memories. And recognition; she was performing some kind of magic. Anxiety for her overcame him. She should not do this, magic was dangerous!
Is this why I'm here?
"You see who I am. Remember who you are," she sang. "Remember what you are, and sing yourself into being!"
What I am? he thought. He had a name, Alair He had a mother. He must have had friends, com- panions. The Dark Elf. .. he was a teacher, he helped me become what I am. What am I?
"I will help you," she continued. "With music. With what brought you here. You will use your music to break free of this spell imprisoning you."
Imprisoning me? How was he imprisoned? He seemed free enough at the moment.
And yet, the dim memories that flitted just out of reach seemed to argue against that.
"I will help you," she repeated. "I will help you remember. When you were an infant, there was a creek that flowed near our summer cottage in the mountains. You used to sing with it, gurgling like any baby, except that your baby-sounds were music -- "
He saw the cottage, a rustic chalet on a ridge of hills, surrounded by fields of daisies and lavender. He wondered how the woman -- no, my mother -- was putting these things in his mind, and then saw these were memories, of things he actually experienced before, in another form. I wasn't like this, then, he thought I was a human, a baby barely able to walk.
"Then when you were six, we brought you a lute, and then a harp, and you began to play in the palace nursery -- "
He remembered more as the woman spoke. And as she talked to him, her story became a song, and then she was singing to him, about his past, his hopes, his aspirations.
"And then you met Gawaine, who told you about the magic that went with the music. And you began to learn what that magic could do."
He held tightly to the memories, the clear and per- fect slices of his life that now sprang free of the fight and cold that had stolen them. With every memory came the hints of more, and he used those hints to retrieve others, and his life began to take shap His mother's voice faltered, and she herself faded, until she was gone and her voice was a barely audible murmur, echoing in the distance.
Mother, no! Come back!
"Remember" she sang, a mere whisper of sound.
"Remember and sing...."
He struggled to retrieve the words and the music, and suddenly, he did remember singing. The song came from within him, vibrating against the prison of the crystal, surrounding him with light and warmth, and millions of memories. He sang as loud as he could, until the song roared against the walls that held him here. Cracks appeared, and then fissures; lancing through the cold light.