“Over fourteen thousand?” I said. “How can a polar bear cub possibly be over fourteen thousand years old?” “It can’t. That’s why I asked what race the cub was when it was born.” “What’s its name? What’s its birth name? I don’t know what Wyrga calls it, but I’d have to assume she’d lie if I asked.” “I almost can’t bring myself to ask.” “Do it, anyway.” Senera concentrated on the artifact in her hand and then wrote out a single word. “If I’m right…” Cherthog. Cherthog, the Yoran god-king of winter. We both stared at the word. Senera said, “Fuck.”
