The Outcast

3

“There was no reason for you to step in. You only made things worse by interfering.”

“I was merely trying to protect you from—”

“I do not require protection from Ryana, or from my own feelings!”

Had any strangers been present to observe this conversation, they would doubtless have assumed that Sorak was a madman. All they would have seen was Sorak sitting on a large, flat rock in the middle of the pool and apparently having a one-sided conversation with himself. They would have heard what Sorak said, for he spoke aloud, but seemingly to no one. The Guardian’s remarks were inaudible, for they were spoken only within Sorak’s mind. Sorak was capable of carrying on conversations with his other aspects entirely without speech, but he was angry, and he felt that if he tried to keep it all inside, he would explode.

“The girl was being obstinate and selfish,” said the Guardian. “She was not listening to you. She was making no attempt to understand. She was thinking only of her own desire.”

“She was confused,” said Sorak. “And she was angry, because she felt I’d kept things from her. The way you spoke to her was needlessly harsh and cruel. She has always been our friend. And more than just a friend. She cared about us when no one else did.”

“The high mistress cared.”

“The mistress cared, yes, but that was not the same. She recognized our talents and our condition and felt compelled to help. She understood what we had suffered and took pity on us. She felt an obligation to the Elder Al’Kali. Ryana cared without any cause or condition. It was shameful for you to treat her as you did. And it was shameful for us to have deceived her all these years.”

“No one deceived the girl,” the Guardian replied. “To withhold information is not the same thing as deception.”

“Words!” said Sorak angrily. “The fact remains she was deceived. Had she known from the beginning, this never would have happened!”

“Perhaps not,” the Guardian replied, “but you seem to be forgetting something. You, yourself, did not know from the beginning, and when you did know, you feared the others would discover that we were both male and female. You questioned your own masculine identity. It caused you great concern, and so the three of us held back and bolstered your own image of yourself. Then, later, when you and the girl—”

“Her name is Ryana!”

“When you and Ryana had grown close, there was a part of you that felt afraid to tell her, because you feared how she might react. If there was deception, then you were a part of it yourself.”

“Perhaps a part of me was afraid to tell her,” Sorak admitted, grudgingly. “But I could have told her now, and much more gently than you did. Now she is hurt and angry and confused, through no fault of her own. We have led her on and caused her to expect something that we could never give.”

“I did not lead anybody on,” the Guardian replied. “Villichi do not take mates, and for the most part, remain celibate. How was I to know that she was different? How was I to know what was on her mind?”

“Liar! You are the telepath among us!”

“True, but I could not read Ryana’s mind when you were out, and when I spoke to her myself, you always cautioned me to be properly respectful, to treat her as our friend. One does not read a friend’s thoughts unless one is invited.”

“You always have some ready answer,” Sorak said, sourly. “But then, should I be surprised, when you know my thoughts as well as I know them myself?”

“Sometimes I know them better.”

“Sometimes I wish I could drag you out and throttle you!”

“If an apology will help, then I shall apologize.”

“I do not need your apologies!”

“I meant to the girl, not to you,” the Guardian said. “As usual, you think only of yourself.”

Sorak winced. “And, as usual, you strike right to the bone.”

“We are what we are, Sorak,” the Guardian said. “I could no more lie with the girl than you could lie with a man. Kivara... well, Kivara has no shame.”

“I heard that,” said another voice. Had it spoken aloud, it would have spoken with Sorak’s lips and throat, and sounded male. But it had spoken within Sorak’s mind, and therefore sounded very female. It was a young voice, and a saucy one.

“Stay out of this, Kivara,” Sorak said.

“Why should I? Does this not concern us all?”

“It should concern you least of all, since you apparently have no decisive inclinations, one way or the other,” the Guardian said wryly.

“How can I, when I have had no experience in such things?” Kivara countered. “I’ll leave it all to you and the Watcher, we shall always remain ignorant in this regard. The girl is comely, and has always treated us well. Could it have been so bad?”

The Watcher, as usual, said nothing, but Sorak felt her apprehension. The Watcher hardly ever spoke, but she was always there, alert, taking everything in. Unlike the others, who slumbered from time to time, the Watcher never slept. Sorak always felt her quiet presence.

“Enough!” he said. “I can see no way to resolve this problem except to remain celibate. It seems a small enough price to pay to avoid this noisome discord.”

“It may be a greater price to pay than you think,” Kivara said.

“Sorak has decided,” said a new voice, cutting through the discussion like an icy wind. Kivara instantly “ducked under,” submerging herself deep within the recesses of Sorak’s mind. Even the Guardian fell silent. They all did when the Shade spoke. Sorak took a deep breath, trembling as if with a chill as he felt the Shade’s grim presence, but the dark persona spoke no more and slithered back into Sorak’s subconscious.

Sorak suddenly found himself alone again, or as alone as it was ever possible for him to be. He was no longer sitting on the flat rock in the pool, but standing on the pathway leading back to the convent He did not remember how he got there. The Ranger must have set his feet back upon the path while he was arguing with the others. It was typical of the way the Ranger did things. He did not have the time or the patience for arguments or social intercourse. The Ranger was nothing if not entirely pragmatic. “Yes,” said Sorak to himself, as he realized that he had once again, in the intensity of his dispute with the others, managed to forget his body. It happened occasionally, though with considerably less frequency than it once did. “It was past time I started moving.”

He heard the high mistress say, “Enter,” and he opened the door of her private chambers. She looked up from her loom as he came in and smiled. “Sorak. Come in. I was watching you train with Tamura this morning. She tells me that you are going to be taking over the training of the novices. You should feel honored. It appears that she has chosen her successor.”

“I fear that I shall not be lightening Sister Tamura’s burden, Mistress,” Sorak said. “That is why I came to see you.”

Varanna raised her eyebrows. “Oh?”

“Mistress...” Sorak hesitated. “I feel the time has come for me to leave the convent.”

Varanna nodded. “Ah. I see.”

“Do not misunderstand. It is not that I am unhappy here, nor that I am ungrateful—”

Varanna raised her hand. “You need not explain,” she said. “I have been expecting this. Come, sit beside me.”

Sorak sat down on a bench next to the loom. “I have been very happy here, Mistress,” he began, “and you have done more for me than words alone can say. Yet I feel the time has come for me to go.”

“Does Ryana have anything to do with your decision?”

He looked down at the floor. “She has spoken with you?”

“Only to request a period of solitary meditation in the temple tower,” said Varanna. “She seemed very distraught. I did not ask her why, but I think I can guess.”

“It is all my fault. I was aware of how she felt—how I felt—and I should have done something to discourage her long before this. I should have tried to make her understand, but a part of me still nursed the hope that...” He shook his head and sighed. “I suppose it makes no difference now. I have caused her pain without intending to, and she would be better off if I were to leave.

“Besides, Ryana is not the only reason I must go. I have grown up thinking of you all as my family, but the fact remains that I know nothing of my real family. I know nothing of my parents or where I came from. I do not even know my real name. The desire to know these things has grown over the years until I can think of little else. I long to know who I truly am, Mistress. Or, perhaps I should say who I was before I became what I am now. I can remember nothing of my past beyond the point where the pyreen elder found me in the desert. Sometimes, in dreams, I seem to hear my mother’s voice singing to me, but I can never see her face. And I have not even the slightest memory of my father. Had I ever even seen him? Had he ever even known about me? I go to sleep each night wondering who my parents were. Do they still live? Are they together? Were they cast out, as I was? So many questions, and not a single answer.”

“Have you considered that the answers, if you should find them, may be painful ones?” Varanna asked him.

“I am no stranger to pain, Mistress,” Sorak replied. “And better the pain of an answer that settles things than the torment of an unrelenting question.”

Varanna nodded. “I cannot dispute that. Nor, as I said, does this come as a surprise. You are free to go, of course. You took no vows to hold you here.”

“I owe you much, Mistress. It is a debt that I shall never be able to repay.”

“You owe me nothing, Sorak.”

“Nevertheless, you shall always have my eternal gratitude and my deepest affection.”

“I could ask for no greater reward. Have you thought where you will go from here?”

Sorak shook his head. “Not really. I had hoped, perhaps, you could tell me how to find Elder Al’Kali. Perhaps she could tell me where it was she found me, and I could begin my search from there. Still, the trail is old by ten long years, and I have not seen her in all that time. Perhaps she is no longer alive.”

“Perhaps. She is one of the oldest of her race,” Varanna said, “but the pyreen are long-lived. Finding her will not be easy, however. The druid peace-bringers are wanderers, and they do not often reveal themselves in their true form. Still, I think I know something that may help you. Each year, she makes a pilgrimage to the summit of the Dragon’s Tooth. It was there she heard your call, ten years ago.”

“But I do not remember where it was,” said Sorak. “Or how I called to her.”

“The memory is still within you, as is the ability,” Varanna replied. “And you have skills now that you did not possess before. Reach down deep within yourself, and you shall find the way. As for the time, when next the moons are full, it shall be exactly ten years to the day since Elder Al’Kali brought you here.”

“Then it would be best if I were to leave at once,” said Sorak.

“What of Ryana? She has requested a period of solitary meditation. I have granted her request and must abide by it. She cannot be disturbed until she decides to leave the tower.”

“If I am to reach the Dragon’s Tooth in time, then I cannot delay. And I think it will be easier this way. Tell her...” He moistened his lips. “Tell her that I never meant to hurt her. But the name you gave me is a fitting one. Sorak is the nomad who must always walk alone.”

“Before you leave...” Varanna said, getting to her feet. “Wait here a moment.”

She left the room and returned a few moments later with a long, narrow, cloth-wrapped parcel in her arms. She laid it down on the table.

“This was given to me as a gift many years ago, in token of some small service I performed while on a pilgrimage,” she said, as she carefully unwrapped it “I have never had occasion to use it. I think that it will suit you much better than it has ever suited me.”

She removed the final layer of cloth wrapping and revealed a sword, nestled in a leather scabbard.

“I would like you to take it, in remembrance,” Varanna said, holding it out to him. “It is only fitting that it should be yours. It is an ancient elvish blade.”

By its size, it was a long sword, but unlike a long sword, it had a curved blade that flared out slightly at the tip, rather like a cross between a sabre and a falchion, except that its point was leaf-shaped. The hilt was wrapped with silver wire, with a pommel and cross guards made of bronze.

Sorak unsheathed the sword and gasped as he saw the intricate, wavy marks of folding on the blade. “But... this is a steel blade!”

“And of the rarest sort,” Varanna said, though steel itself was rare on Athas, where most weapons were fashioned from obsidian, bone, and stone. “The art for making such steel has been lost for many centuries. It is much stronger than ordinary steel and holds a better edge. In the right hands, it would be a very formidable weapon.”

“It is truly a magnificent gift,” said Sorak. “I shall keep it with me always.” He tried a few practice swings with the sword. “It is balanced well, but the shape of the blade is an uncommon one. I thought elves carried long swords.”

“This is a special sword,” Varanna replied, “the only one of its kind. There are ancient elvish runes etched upon the blade. You should be able to read them, if I have not wasted my time in teaching you the language of your ancestors.”

Sorak held the sword up, cradled in his palms, and read the legend on the blade. “Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith.” He nodded. “A noble sentiment, indeed.”

“More than a sentiment,” Varanna said. “A creed for the ancient elves. Live by it, and the sword shall never fail you.”

“I shall not forget,” said Sorak, as he sheathed the blade. “Nor shall I forget everything that you have done for me.”

“When all are gathered together in the hall for supper, I shall announce that you are leaving,” said Varanna. “Then everyone will have a chance to say good-bye to you.”

“No, I think I would prefer simply to leave quietly,” said Sorak. “It will be difficult enough to leave without having to say good-bye to everyone.”

Varanna nodded. “I understand. I shall say your farewells for you. But at least you can say good-bye to me.” She held out her arms.

Sorak embraced her. “You have been like a mother to me,” he said, “the only mother I have ever known. Leaving you is hardest of all.”

“And you, Sorak, have been like the son I never could have borne,” Varanna replied, her eyes moist. “You will always have a place in my heart, and our gates shall always remain open to you. May you find that which you seek.”

“The mistress sent word that you are leaving us,” the gatekeeper said. “I shall miss you, Sorak. And I shall miss letting you out at night, too, Tigra.” The elderly gatekeeper reached out with a wrinkled hand to ruffle the fur on the tigone’s head. The beast gave a purr and licked her hand.

“I shall miss you, too, Sister Dyona,” Sorak said. “You were the first to admit me through the gates, and now, ten years later, you are the last to see me go.”

The old woman smiled. “Has it really been ten years? It seems as if it were only yesterday. But then, at my age, time passes quickly and years turn into fleeting moments. Farewell, Sorak. Come, embrace me.”

He gave her a hug and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Farewell, Sister.”

He stepped through the gates and headed down the path with a quick, purposeful stride. Behind him, the chime was sounding, calling the sisters to supper in the meeting hall. He thought of the long wooden tables crowded with women, laughing and talking, the younger ones occasionally throwing food at one another playfully until the table wardens would snap at them to desist, the bowls of food being passed around, the warm, comforting sense of community and family that he was now leaving behind, perhaps forever.

He thought of Ryana, sitting alone in the meditation chamber at the top of the temple tower, the small room to which he himself had retreated when he needed time to be alone. Her food would be brought to her and slid through a small aperture in the bottom of the heavy wooden door. No one would speak to her, no one would disturb her. She would be left to the privacy of her thoughts until she chose to come out. And when she did come out, she would find him gone.

As Sorak strode away from the convent, he wondered, what must she be thinking? They had grown up together. She had always been very special to him, much more so than any of the others. As Ryana herself had said, she had been the first to extend a hand to him in friendship, and their trust had grown into something that was more than friendship. Much, much more.

For years, she had been a sister to him, not a sister in the same sense as all the women at the convent called each other “sister,” but a sibling. Right from the beginning, they had formed a bond, a bond that would always be there, no matter where they were or how much distance separated them. But they were not true siblings, and they each knew it, and it was that knowledge that precluded true sibling love. As they had grown older and started to feel the sexual stirrings of approaching adulthood, those feelings had become stronger, deeper, and more intimate. It was something Sorak had been aware of, though he had always avoided confronting it.

“Because you always knew it was something that could never be,” the Guardian said within his mind.

“Perhaps I did,” said Sorak inwardly, “but I allowed myself to hope, and in hoping for something that could never be, I betrayed her.”

“How did you betray her?” asked the Guardian. “You never promised her anything. You never made any vows to her.”

“Nevertheless, it feels like a betrayal,” Sorak said.

“What is the purpose of dwelling on this matter?” asked Eyron, a bored voice that sounded faintly irritable in Sorak’s mind. “The decision was made to leave, and we have left. The girl has been left behind. The thing is done, and the matter has been settled.”

“The matter of Ryana’s feelings still remains,” said Sorak.

“What of it?” Eyron asked, dryly. “Her feelings are her own concern and her own responsibility. Nothing you can do will change that.”

“Perhaps not, Eyron,” Sorak said, “but in becoming a part of her life, I bear at least some responsibility for the effect that I have had on her.”

“Nonsense. She has free will,” said Eyron. “You did not force her to fall in love with you. That was her choice.”

“Had she known you, Eyron, perhaps she might not have made that choice,” replied Sorak harshly.

“Had she known me, she would not have suffered under any misapprehensions,” Eyron said, “for I would have told her the truth from the beginning.”

“Indeed?” said Sorak. “And what is the truth, as you perceive it?”

“That you are infatuated with her, that Kivara is curious to explore new sensations, that the Guardian feels threatened by her, and the Watcher feels threatened by everything. The Ranger could not have been less concerned, one way or another, for love has no pragmatic aspects, and the Shade would have frightened the wits out of her.”

“What of the others?” Sorak asked.

“Screech is little better than the great, dumb beast that trails at our heels, and Lyric would never have been capable of taking her seriously, for Lyric takes nothing seriously. And I will not presume to speak for Kether, since Kether does not condescend to speak with me.”

“Little wonder,” said Kivara.

“No one asked you,” Eyron said.

“Enough!” Sorak said out loud, exasperated. “Give me some peace!”

A moment later, he began to sing. The words rang out bright and clear as he walked along the trail, singing an old halfling song about a young maiden and a hunter experiencing love for the first time. It was Sorak’s voice that sang, but it was Lyric and not Sorak who sang the words. Sorak did not know them. Rather, he did not consciously remember them. It was a song his mother often sang to him when she had held him cradled in her arms. As Lyric sang, the Ranger guided their feet along the path leading through the valley toward the mountains. The Guardian gently drew Sorak down into a slumber and cradled him in solitude, isolating him not only from the others, but from the outside world, as well.

Tigra sensed the difference in him, but the beast was not surprised by this. It had never known Sorak to be any other way. The Ranger walked with a long and easy stride, Sorak’s light leather pack and water skin slung over his shoulders, the sword hanging at his waist. He wore the only clothing that he had, a pair of woven, brown cloth breeches tucked into high, lace-up leather moccasins, a loose-fitting brown tunic with a leather belt around his waist, and a long, brown, hooded cloak that came down almost to his ankles, for warmth against the chill of the mountain air. The only other things he carried were a wooden staff, a bone stiletto knife rucked into his moccasin, his steel sword, and a hunting blade in a soft, leather sheath at his belt.

At the convent, the diet had been strictly vegetarian. On occasion, there was need for skins and leather, and at such times, animals were taken, but always sparingly, with great solemnity and ceremony. The hides would be dressed out and used, and the meat would be salted and cut up into jerky for distribution to the needy by whichever priestess next left on a pilgrimage. Sorak had been taught a reverence for life, and he followed and respected the villichi customs, but elves were hunters who ate meat, and halflings were carnivorous to the extent of feasting on their enemies, so the tribe of one had found its own compromise. On those occasions when Sorak had gone out into the forest on his own, the Ranger hunted game while Sorak slept. Only then did the tribe eat their fill of a raw and still warm kill. The tribe did so now.

When Sorak next became aware of himself, some time had passed and night had fallen. He was sitting by a campfire he did not remember building, and his belly felt full. He knew that he had killed and eaten, or rather, that the Ranger had, but he did not feel ill at ease over the idea. The thought of eating raw, freshly killed meat did not appeal to him in the slightest, but he understood that it was in his blood and that there was no getting away from his own nature. He would remain a vegetarian, but if his other aspects chose to be carnivorous, that was their choice. Either way, the needs of the body they all shared were seen to, one way or another.

He looked up at the stars and at the silhouetted mountains, trying to orient himself so that he could determine how far the Ranger had traveled while he had been asleep. He got up and stepped away from the firelight, scanning his surroundings. Elves had better night vision than humans, and Sorak’s night vision, as a result, was quite acute. In the darkness, his eyes seemed lambent like a cat’s, and he had no difficulty in making out the terrain around him.

The ground sloped away, down to a valley far below. He had climbed almost to the summit of the crest, and in the distance, he could just make out the tower of the temple, poking up over the scrub. He wondered if Ryana was still in there, and then quickly pushed the thought from his mind. Eyron had been right, he thought. There was little point in dwelling on it now. He had left the convent, probably never to return, and what had happened there belonged to part of his life now in the past. He had to look to the future.

In the distance, beyond the crest of the mountains encircling the secluded valley, he could see the higher peaks of the Ringing Mountains like shadows cast against the sky. The Dragon’s Tooth loomed prominently over them all, ominous and foreboding.

Its name came from its appearance. Rising from the higher mountain ranges, it was wide at its base, but narrowed sharply as it rose until its faces were almost completely vertical. Near its summit, it angled up even more sharply, so that its faces were not only vertical, but curved along one side, like a gigantic tooth or fang scratching at the sky. Far removed from the civilized cities of the tablelands, a trek across the desert and up into the mountains to even reach the lower slopes of the forbidding peak would have been arduous in itself. The deadly hazards one would encounter on the ascent discouraged most adventurers from climbing the Dragon’s Tooth. Of those few who had attempted it, all had failed, and most had not survived.

Sorak did not know if he would have to climb the mountain. At least once before, his call had reached the pyreen where she stood atop the summit of the peak, and he had been all the way out in the desert, some miles from even the foothills of the Ringing Mountains. Yet, since then, he had never been able to summon up his psionic powers to any such extent. He had no idea how he might have done it. The Guardian, who was the telepath among them, had not made the call. Neither had any of the others. Or at least, they could not recall having made it. With the body they all shared pushed to its last extremity, they had all been either senseless or delirious at the time. Perhaps, in their delirium and desperation, they had all somehow united in the effort, or one of them had tapped hidden reserves. Or, perhaps, someone else had made the call, one of the deeply buried core identities that none of them knew about

There was, Sorak had learned, a very deeply buried “infant core,” one he could not access on any conscious level. Huddled and cocooned somewhere deep within his psyche, this infant core had once been his infant self, but whatever pain and trauma had caused his fragmentation had also caused this infant core’s retreat deep into his subconscious, where it remained in some state of frozen stasis, its development arrested and its senses numbed. Not even the Guardian could reach it, although she was aware of it. There was something—or perhaps someone—shielding it somehow. And that shielding, whatever it was, suggested that there could well be other core identities within him that were not so deeply buried, but were buried just the same, constituting levels between his infant core and his more-developed aspects.

There are so many things about myself I do not know, thought Sorak. How could I possibly have hoped to... With a deliberate effort, he pushed the thought away once more, before his mind became preoccupied with Ryana once again. He purposely turned so that he could no longer see the convent. It was time now to look ahead. But to what?

Beyond seeking out the pyreen, he had no idea what lay ahead of him. Would she be able to recall the place where she had found him? And if she did, what of it? He could attempt to retrace his steps, but to what end? Elves, at least those who did not dwell in the cities, were nomadic. Halflings lived semi-nomadically around a tribal grounds, and certainly didn’t live on the flat lands. Whether elf or halfling, the tribe that had cast Sorak out would be long gone by now. How could he possibly hope to pick up a trail that was ten years old?

The answer was, of course, he couldn’t. At least, not in any conventional way. But with his psionic abilities, there was a chance he might be able to pick up some sort of psychic impression that may have been left behind, imprinted on the landscape, some telltale aberration that might provide a clue. Failing that, he would simply have to strike out on his own, in whatever direction fate took him.

Mistress Varanna had warned him that the answers he sought would be difficult, if not impossible, to find. It was likely he would spend the remainder of his life looking for them. But at least he would be actively seeking those answers instead of merely wondering about them. And along the way, he might discover a purpose for his existence. At the convent, he had led a sheltered life, one of training and contemplation, but it had been necessary to teach him how to live with his own unique nature. He owed the Elder Al’Kali a debt of gratitude for having the foresight to take him there. He only hoped that he would find her, so that he could properly express that gratitude. Soon, the twin moons of Athas would be full. And then, perhaps, he would begin to know his fate.