Chapter 38: Mysterious Powers
The khalasar traveled for four exhausting days, losing seventy or eighty horses in the process. They nearly exhausted their water and mare's milk reserves before finally encountering the advance scouts of the camel caravan.
Thus, the relay of supplies over a thousand kilometers was successfully completed.
With that weight lifted off her shoulders, Daenerys began to focus on her own concerns.
Two matters troubled her deeply: the witch Mirri Maz Duur's curse and the prophecy tied to the dragon seekers. These incidents made it clear to her—magic and sorcery truly existed in this world, beyond just her dragons.
She wanted to seek guidance from Quaithe.
As for why not the warlock? Well, for the past few days, the merchant Xaro had been whispering nothing but ill words about the warlocks.
"The warlocks once had their moment of glory," Xaro confided to her in hushed tones when the other two guests were absent. "Even the dragonlords of Valyria once regarded them with respect.
"But those days are long gone. Those blue-lipped fools are no different from aging soldiers in dockside taverns, boasting of past glories while forgetting that their strength and skill abandoned them long ago.
"They hide in the dusty halls of the House of the Undying, poring over decaying scrolls and drinking Shade of the Evening until their lips turn blue, hinting at terrible powers they no longer possess. Compared to their predecessors, they're nothing but empty shells."
"And what about Quaithe?" Daenerys asked.
"That woman..." Xaro's eyes flickered with a trace of awe. He hesitated before saying, "She's from Asshai, the Shadow Lands. There's an old saying: 'Better to swallow a scorpion than to trust a shadowbinder.' Her powers only make her more dangerous. Be wary of her, Khaleesi. Do not trust her."
Thus, Daenerys finally understood who had foreseen her existence.
It wasn't Pyat Pree, the talkative warlock endlessly preaching mystical arts. It was Quaithe, the unassuming figure who was so low-key that people often forgot she was there.
That woman was no ordinary person.
Finding an opportunity, Daenerys urged her camel closer to the masked woman wearing a lacquered wooden mask and softly asked, "Lady Quaithe, do you understand the art of prophecy?"
Now that camels were available for riding, Daenerys was quick to relieve her silver mare from its burden.
Quaithe, with her face obscured by both the mask and a wrapped scarf, turned her head toward Daenerys, her expression entirely unreadable.
"Daenerys, in Asshai, we don't use titles like 'lady,'" she said in a clear voice.
"Very well then, Quaithe the Mage," Daenerys replied smoothly. "Can you foretell if I will ever bear another child? Oh, my poor Rhaego... That witch Mirri Maz Duur cursed me, saying my womb would never again bear life."
As she spoke, her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she turned her head sorrowfully to hide her emotions.
Quaithe hesitated before finally saying something that made Daenerys want to cheer inwardly: "Let go of the sorrows of the past. The future holds more important matters for you. As for children... I cannot foretell such things."
"Why not? You've never met me before, yet you knew I hatched dragons and stayed at Whitecloud City," Daenerys said, pulling up her silk scarf to hide her tear-streaked face.
"Prophecy is a fickle art," Quaithe explained. "When the bleeding star appeared, I sensed magic surging back into the world, like a tidal wave sweeping over a coastal town.
"So I opened my eyes and tried to see the world—the truest version of it. And then I saw you, taming dragons in the wasteland. Do you understand now?"
"Not really," Daenerys admitted honestly.
"Mortals fear and scorn magic and sorcery because they believe it is knowledge beyond their reach. But at its core, it is as simple as observing the eastern horizon turn red and knowing the sun is about to rise," Quaithe said, her gaze fixed on Daenerys, as if asking if this explanation made sense.
"Perhaps I'm just an ordinary person, unworthy of such wisdom," Daenerys said with a bitter smile, still not fully understanding.
"An ordinary person? Do you think an ordinary person could stir a magical resurgence in this world?" Quaithe actually laughed.
Then, for the third time, she explained: "When I see the eastern sky painted red, I know the sun will rise. If I cannot see it or do not look, then I know nothing.
"Prophecy is simply the world presenting information to me. When I look, I know."
"Regarding whether you can bear children again in the future—there is no relevant information to analyze, no elements to deduce or speculate upon. Therefore, I do not know."
This time, Daenerys somewhat understood. Prophecy was akin to big data analysis, but with a twist. Prophets not only gathered information themselves but also received vague messages from the world's collective consciousness, as if guided by an unseen force.
The dragons had brought magic back to the world, creating immense ripples akin to powerful tides. Thus, Quaithe could clearly see the "waves" and, in turn, identify the source of the turmoil—Daenerys and her dragons.
As for the matter of children, while it might indeed have a significant impact on the future, at present, the "tide" had yet to rise.
In Quaithe's vision, the sea remained calm and unbroken.
Only a greater being, with the ability to pierce through the surface and glimpse the raging undercurrents in the ocean depths, might discern the answer.
For example, the greenseers.
"Can you teach me about magic?" Daenerys asked, her eyes filled with anticipation as she looked at Quaithe.
"I can," Quaithe replied quickly, her tone as if she had been waiting for this question. "You can come with me to Asshai. There, you will find all the knowledge you seek."
Daenerys hesitated, a sudden realization dawning on her. No one would help you without reason—unless they loved you.
Clearly, Quaithe did not love her. So what did Quaithe love?
Her dragons.
"I am Daenerys Stormborn, Princess of Dragonstone. Reviving the Targaryen dynasty is my duty and my destiny. My goal lies in the West—Westeros. I cannot stray from that path," Daenerys declared.
At that moment, she felt as if she wasn't alone in her struggle—she was accompanied by the spirit of Murong Fu.
Murong Fu claimed he would restore the Yan dynasty. Who could doubt him?
Naturally, Quaithe believed her without question.
Returning to her usual reticence, Quaithe seemed uninterested in Daenerys if she had no intention of going to Asshai.
With Quaithe's path closed, Daenerys turned to a backup plan.
"Great Warlock, I've heard that magic incantations are a unique language separate from ordinary speech?" This time, Daenerys didn't hold back. Instead of waiting for a private moment to ask, she raised the question loudly after dinner when everyone was settling down to rest.
The warlock, Pyat Pree, loved speaking with Daenerys. When he wasn't boasting about Qarth's greatness and prosperity, he regaled her with bizarre, often unverifiable stories about sorcerers and mystics.
Hearing Daenerys' question, Pyat Pree lit up with enthusiasm. "Khaleesi, you possess the courage and wisdom to explore the arcane. Indeed, there are many professions tied to mystical forces in this world. Shadowbinders, warlocks, alchemists, moon singers, red priests, dark sorcerers, necromancers, sky wizards, pyromancers, blood mages, torturers, judgment knights, poisoners, priestesses, nightwalkers, shapeshifters..."
The warlock listed dozens of magical professions in one breath, leaving Daenerys gaping in astonishment. She was utterly dumbfounded.
Is this a low-magic, low-combat world of A Song of Ice and Fire, or had she somehow arrived in Faerûn's Baldur's Gate?
Pyat Pree took a breath and explained, "Your ancestors in Valyria had their own system of blood magic. Essentially, every true mystical system with real power has its own magical language, which takes the form of incantations."
"Why doesn't everyone just share a single system of incantations?" Daenerys asked, puzzled.
"This..." The warlock hesitated, his blue-stained lips moving awkwardly. "Perhaps it's because the origins of each sorcerer's tradition are different, like how we warlocks and the Valyrian blood mages come from two distinct civilizations with different languages."
That explanation was utter nonsense. Even if two civilizations were separated by 100,000 light-years, their understanding of physical formulas would be the same. Their mathematics classes would still teach that 1+1=2. Truths might not be eternal, but they would share commonalities. Magic, as he described it, seemed entirely arbitrary.
The truth was likely that they had not mastered the true essence of the world. Their incantations didn't touch upon the fundamental nature of reality; they were merely pretentious tricks.
Seemingly sensing Daenerys' skepticism, Quaithe spoke up.
"What is this?" she asked, holding up a piece of wood toward Daenerys.
It was nothing more than a short, smooth, yellowish-brown stick. Daenerys described what she saw.
Quaithe nodded, then turned her palm toward Jorah. "What do you see?"
"A man?" Jorah hesitated.
Quaithe nodded again and directed her palm toward the Dothraki handmaiden Irri. "What about you?"
"A woman?" Irri glanced nervously at the shadowbinder, speaking in a timid voice.
Finally, when Quaithe pointed her palm toward Aggo, he said it was a lion.
Quaithe fully opened her palm at last. In the flickering torchlight, they could see a finely carved wooden figurine standing on her hand—a three-headed statue. One head was a roaring short-haired warrior, another a gentle long-haired woman, and the third a snarling lion.
Daenerys understood now. Quaithe had only shown fragments of the statue to each person, so each made a different judgment.
"Do you see now?" Quaithe's wooden mask reflected the wavering red torchlight as she addressed Daenerys.
"The greatest of sorcerers cannot grasp the entire truth," Daenerys nodded.
In simple terms, the magical world was like a group of blind men touching an elephant.
Jorah suddenly asked, "Warlock, earlier you mentioned skinchangers. Were you referring to the Children of the Forest?"
Every Northerner grew up hearing terrifying tales about skinchangers. They might not have heard of moon singers or sky wizards, but the term skinchanger was as infamous as the "Rat Cook."
"Once?" Pyat Pree chuckled and shook his head. "Andal, I understand your perspective. To you, the Children of the Forest and skinchangers are just myths. The world, as your maesters would have it, is devoid of any miraculous power."
"They've been gone for thousands of years," Jorah frowned.
"They never vanished. You've merely chosen to sever and forget them," Quaithe said coldly. "When I left Asshai to seek my destiny in the West, I even purchased alchemical ingredients from a skinchanger. His falcon could pluck crimson lotus flowers from mountain peaks."
"All the skinchangers fled to Asshai?" Jorah's surprise was accompanied by a palpable sense of relief, as if he were thinking: Good, the monsters are gone.
Daenerys, however, was unsettled. She distinctly remembered that in A Game of Thrones, skinchangers were described as tied exclusively to the Old Gods.
How could there possibly be skinchangers outside of Westeros?
(End of Chapter)
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