The Outcast

4

As the days passed and Sorak traveled, alternating with the Ranger in dominance over his body, he drew closer to the Dragon’s Tooth. It was now less than a day’s journey away. The trek had been relatively uneventful. At this high elevation, he did not encounter any other travelers and there was not much wildlife above the scrub line of the mountain ridge. Once he had passed that point, the terrain became extremely rocky and desolate.

His body was in peak physical condition, but it needed rest, and even though Sorak could withdraw—“duck under”—when he grew tired, letting the Ranger take over, the body they all shared had limited reserves of energy. He camped for several hours each night so that his body could rest, and by alternating which persona was in control, Sorak was able to make excellent time. The few times he had encountered any animals that could be dangerous. Screech had come to the fore to communicate with them, and any threat was nullified.

Sorak did not fully understand Screech, not in the same way he understood the Guardian, the Ranger, Eyron, Lyric, Kivara, and the others. There were times when he did not understand Kivara all that well, either, but that was because Kivara was young and made no real attempt to understand herself. With Screech, it was different. Screech was not like any of the others. He was more like Tigra. He did not speak in any true sense, but he could understand the others and make himself be understood, albeit on a somewhat primitive level. It was the same as the psionic communication Sorak had with Tigra, and he would not have had that communication with the tigone were it not for Screech.

The others all had their own distinct personas, but Screech had an ability the others seemed to lack. He could either take over entirely or effect a blend of his persona with that of Sorak, resulting in a curious sort of overlay in which both were present and “out” at the same time. It was Screech who had effected the affinity with Tigra, but while the tigone had a bond with Screech, it felt a bond with Sorak as well, whom it knew as being separate from Screech, yet still a part of him. The beast did not concern itself with the complexity of such relationships, it simply accepted Sorak for what he was.

On the fifth day of the journey, a pride of tigones came very close to Sorak’s camp at night. Sorak, through the Watcher’s vigilance, had been aware of the pride trailing him for quite some time. Under ordinary circumstances, encountering a traveler alone, they would undoubtedly have attacked at once, but they were confused both by Tigra’s presence and by the psychic signature of Screech, which they detected with their own psionic powers. Here was something that was completely unfamiliar, totally unprecedented, and they had no idea what to make of it. On one hand, what they saw appeared to be a human, yet he smelted of both elf and halfling, and he projected Screech as a tigone signature. Plus, there was a tigone accompanying the strange creature. This disturbed the beasts and puzzled them, and they had trailed Sorak for the better part of an entire day, venturing closer only at night, after he had lit his camp-fire.

He made no moves toward them, either hostile or defensive, but Screech established contact with them, psionically projecting both a nonthreatening recognition and a subtle dominance. Tigra kept nearby, clearly indicating to the pride its rapport and relationship to Sorak. They approached cautiously and hesitantly, the braver ones—the young males—venturing ahead of the others with tentative sniffs, psionic probes, and challenge patterns of behavior, but Sorak and Screech both projected a calm security, an utter lack of fear, and a disregard of the challenge postures taken by the beasts.

Tigones being essentially large cats, after all, curiosity soon overcame their caution and they came into his camp to smell him and Tigra and get acquainted. They wound up settling down around the fire, yawning and stretching, and just before Sorak went to sleep, he saw Tigra trotting off into the bushes with one of the young females. He smiled and briefly envied his companion its ability to engage in an uncomplicated mating with a female of its own kind. It was an experience that he would never know. And with that sad thought, he went to sleep, surrounded by nine huge, predatory beasts who had accepted him as one of them.

For part of the next day, he traveled with the pride, but as he climbed high up into the mountains, heading toward the lower slopes of the Dragon’s Tooth, the huge, psionic cats went their separate way. Sorak wondered for a moment if Tigra would go with them and take its place among its own kind, but the tigone stayed by his side. The female Tigra had mated with the previous night lingered briefly, giving voice to a few plaintive roars, but Tigra paid her no mind.

“Are you sure, old friend?” Sorak said aloud, looking down at the beast by his side.

“Friend,” came back the tigone’s psionic reply. “Protect.”

With a dejected air, the female turned and ran after her pride.

“All right, Tigra,” Sorak said. “You and me.” It was very cold now, and Sorak bundled his cloak around him. As the dark sun rose higher in the sky, the temperatures down on the desert tablelands far below them were scorching, but at the foot of the Dragon’s Tooth, the wind whistled around them with a bitter chill. Sorak looked up at the towering, curved spire high above him and wondered how anyone could possibly make that climb. The pyreens were shapechangers, and so possessed certain unique advantages, but nevertheless, Elder Al’Kali was among the oldest of her tribe. She had lived for over a thousand years. If, at her awesomely advanced age, she still possessed the energy to shapeshift and scale such daunting heights, he marveled at what she must have been like in her prime.

“I would have to be a crystal spider to make that climb,” said Sorak, as he stared up at the cloud-shrouded summit of the peak. He glanced down at Tigra. “And you, old friend, could certainly never make it.” He sighed. “The twin moons should be full tonight. If she is there, then I shall have to call to her. But how?”

“Screech,” Tigra replied.

“Screech?” Sorak shook his head. “I do not think Screech could have made the call alone.”

“Perhaps Kether,” said the Guardian, within his mind.

Sorak breathed in deeply, exhaled, and bit his lower lip. “But I do not know how to summon Kether.”

“Nor do I,” the Guardian replied, “and nor do any of the others. But perhaps if the need is present, and we all give way, Kether will manifest.”

“And if he does not?”

“Then I shall have to do my best and hope it is sufficient to the task,” the Guardian replied. “We are much closer to the summit of the peak now than we were out in the desert. The call will not have to travel nearly so far.”

“That is true,” said Sorak. “The Elder Al’Kali may hear you... if, indeed, she is still alive to make her pilgrimage. In either case, we shall have to get out of this wind.”

He was about to start walking in search of shelter but discovered that the Ranger had already set his feet in motion. The terrain was barren and rocky, and it was quite steep. He had to lean forward as he walked. The icy wind whipped at his hair and cloak and the rough ground made for slow progress, but by late afternoon, he had found a niche where a depression in the rocky mountainside was protected somewhat from the elements by several large boulders that had fallen from the heights above. He squeezed into the niche and set his pack down, then took a few sips of water from his bag, squirting some into Tigra’s mouth, as well. The tigone was more in its element here than he was, but even the great cats seldom strayed very far above the scrub ridge. It was cruel, inhospitable country, offering almost nothing in the way of game or forage. One thing was certain. He would not be able to remain here for very long.

“Why do we even have to remain here at all?” asked Eyron.

“We must wait for the Elder Al’Kali,” Sorak said.

“For what purpose?” Eyron replied dryly. “To dig up a past that no longer bears any relevance? What will you gain from knowing the answers to these pointless questions you keep fretting about?” “A sense of self, perhaps.” “I see. And you do not now have a sense of self? The ten years you have spent at the villichi convent have taught you nothing?”

“The villichi could not have taught me that which they never knew.” said Sorak.

“So you do not know who your parents are. So you do not know the name that you were given at birth. Are these things so important?” “They are to me, if not to you.” “And if you were to learn these things, what would they change? You have never gone by any other name than Sorak. Your true name, whatever it may be, would now sit upon you like an ill-fitting cloak. You have never known your parents. For all you know, they may no longer be alive. Even if they were, they would be strangers to you.”

“Perhaps, but if they still live, then I could seek them out. I am still their son. In that sense, we could never truly be strangers to one another.”

“Have you considered the possibility that they may have been the ones to cast you out? You may have been unwanted, a living reminder of their folly and indiscretion. They may have regretted what had occurred between them. You would be a painful memory come home to roost.”

“But if they were in love—” “That is merely your assumption, nothing more. Lacking any evidence to the contrary, it is just wishful thinking. Elves and halflings have always been mortal enemies. Your father’s tribe may have attacked your mother’s, and you may be the offspring of the pillage.” “I suppose that is possible,” said Sorak uncertainly. “Imagine a mother forced to bear the child of a hated enemy, one who had degraded and abused her. A child that could never be accepted by her tribe. A child that would be a constant reminder of her pain and humiliation. What could a mother feel for such a child?”

“I do not know,” said Sorak.

“Enough, Eyron,” said the Guardian. “Leave him alone.”

“I merely wish him to see all aspects of the question,” Eyron replied.

“And, as usual, you dwell upon the negative ones,” the Guardian said. “You have made your point. What you have said is, indeed, possible. It is also possible that a mother could love such a child, and hold him blameless for any violence that may have been committed upon her... assuming that it happened that way, and none of us have any way of knowing that. If she felt nothing for the child but loathing, why then did she keep it for so long? Sorak merely seeks the truth.”

“If Sorak seeks the truth, then he should know that the truth may not be pleasant,” Eyron said.

“I know that,” Sorak said.

“Then why stir up the murky waters of the past?” asked Eyron. “What does it matter? With each passing day, your life begins anew. It is yours to make of what you will”

“Ours, you mean,” said Sorak. “And perhaps therein lies the key to this debate. I am not afraid to learn the truth, Eyron, whether it brings happiness or pain. What about you?”

“I? Why should I be afraid?”

“That is a question only you can answer.” Sorak said. “The questions you have posed have already occurred to me. If they had not, I am sure you would have found some subtle way to make me think of them.” He smiled wryly. “Perhaps you already have, and are now merely seeking to drive home the point, to build on the uncertainty already present in my mind. Well, I shall not shrink from the task that I have set myself, even if it takes the rest of my life to see it through. Perhaps, Eyron, you find a certain measure of security in our ignorance of our past. Not I. If I am ever to know where I am going in this life, then I shall first have to learn where I have been. And who I was.”

“And what of who you are?” asked Eyron. “That is something I shall never truly know until I discover who I was and where I came from,” Sorak said.

“That which you are, that which we all are,” Eyron said, “was born out on the desert tablelands.”

“No, that was where we almost died,” said Sorak. “And if I do not find the child who lived before, then he truly will have died, and some part of all of us shall die, as well. Now heed the Guardian and let me be. I must clear my mind and attempt to summon Kether.”

Of all the entities making up the tribe, Kether was the most mysterious, and the one Sorak understood the least. With all the others, he could see how parts of his fragmented persona had developed from the seedlings of character traits into distinct, individual identities with personas of their own. The high mistress had helped him understand how the female side of him, that female side that was present in every male, had fragmented and developed into the three individual female personas of the tribe. The Guardian encompassed his empathic, protective, and nurturing aspects. Kivara had developed from his sensual nature, which explained her passion and her curiosity and her apparent lack of concern for any sort of morality. The Watcher encompassed his alert, intuitive self and desire for security.

Among his male aspects, the Ranger represented an outgrowth of his pragmatic nature and his motivating force, as well as the inherited characteristics of his elf and halfling forebears. Lyric was his humorous, creative side, the playful child within him who took nothing very seriously and found innocent joy in everything around him. Eyron was the cynic and the pessimist, his negative aspect grown into a world-weary realist who weighed the pros and cons of everything and was wary of romantic optimism. Screech was an outgrowth of his halfling affinity toward beasts and other, lower creatures, a simple and uncomplicated aspect of his own animal nature. And the Shade was the dark, grim side of his subconscious, which manifested rarely, but with a frightening, primitive, and shockingly overwhelming force. There were at least three or four others who were deeply buried, such as his infant core. Sorak did not really know these personalities at all, but it was a lack of knowledge based on ignorance and not, as was the case with Kether, an inability to comprehend.

Perhaps, as the high mistress had suggested, Kether was an evocation of his higher, spiritual self. To Sorak, however, Kether did not seem to spring from any part of him at all. Kether had never spoken with the high mistress, so her only knowledge of him came from what Sorak had told her of his own infrequent contacts. With most of the others, what Sorak experienced was awareness and communication. With Kether, it was more like a visitation from some otherworldly being.

Kether had knowledge of things that Sorak could not account for in any rational way. They were things he could not possibly have known. And Kether was old, or at least he seemed very old. There was an ancientness about him, a sense of separateness more profound that anything Sorak had felt with any of the others. It was as if, when he had fragmented into a tribe of one, some sort of mystical gate had been opened in his mind and Kether had come through from some other level of existence.

Kether knew of things that happened before Sorak was ever born. He spoke of something called the Green Age and claimed to have been alive then, thousands of years ago. In the few times Sorak had been in contact with Kether, the mysterious, ethereal entity had not revealed very much, but what Kether had revealed were things completely outside Sorak’s knowledge and experience.

Eyron pretended an indifference to Kether because Kether did not “condescend” to speak with him. In truth, though, Sorak felt that Eyron feared him. Perhaps fear was not quite the proper word. Eyron was in awe of Kether because Eyron could not explain where Kether came from, nor could he understand precisely what he was. Kivara, on the other hand, simply never mentioned him. Perhaps she did not know him. The Ranger seldom commented on anything, so Sorak had no way of knowing how the Ranger felt about him. The Watcher was aware of Kether, but she, too, said nothing. And it was hard to get a straight answer out of Lyric about anything. Of all the others who made up the tribe, only the

Guardian had revealed any knowledge about Kether, but even she knew little. With her empathic abilities, she was able to ascertain that Kether was good, and possessed a purity of essence the like of which she had never encountered in any other being. But when Kether came, the Guardian went “under,” as did all the others, and her awareness at such times was limited only to the knowledge of his presence.

What was Kether, exactly? Sorak had no way of knowing. He felt that Kether was a spirit, the shade of some being who had lived far in the past, or perhaps a representation of all his past lives. There was, the high mistress had told him, a continuity throughout the many generations of life that most people were not aware of on any conscious level, but it was still there, nevertheless. Perhaps Kether was a manifestation of this continuity. Or perhaps Kether was some other sort of being entirely, a spirit being who was able to cross over from another world to possess him.

“Questions,” Sorak mumbled to himself as he huddled in his cloak, drawing it around him tightly as the wind whistled through the niche where he had taken shelter. “Nothing but questions, never any answers. Who am I? What am I? And what is to become of me?”

Tigra huddled closer to him, sensing his need for warmth. He ruffled the huge beast’s massive head and stroked it gently. “Who knows, Tigra? Perhaps I shall simply freeze up here in these rocks and that will be an end of it.”

“You shall not freeze,” said the Guardian. “If would have been foolish to come all this way only to fail. Clear your mind, Sorak. Still your thoughts. Perhaps Kether will come.”

Yes, thought Sorak, but from where? From within me somewhere? From within my own fragmented mind, or from somewhere else, some place that I can neither see nor feel nor comprehend?

He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, repeating the process several times as he tried to still himself and settle into a state of serene, thoughtless drifting. He concentrated on his breathing and relaxed his muscles and listened only to the wind and the sound of his own breaths. As he had been trained in the villichi convent, he gradually settled down into a calm, meditative state, shutting his eyes and breathing regularly and deeply....

“Sorak?”

His eyelids flickered open. The first thing he became aware of was that night had fallen and the twin moons hung full in the sky. The second thing he noticed was that he was no longer cold. The wind had not abated, though it no longer blew so fiercely. Even so, he felt very warm. And finally, he saw the figure standing just outside the niche where he was huddled, leaning back against the rock. It was a slight figure in a hooded cloak, an old woman with long white hair trailing down her chest and shoulders.

“For the second time, you called to me, and I have come. Only this time, I find not a child, but a full-grown elfling.”

“Elder Al’Kali?” Sorak said, getting slowly and a bit unsteadily to his feet.

“There is no need to be so formal,” she said. “You may call me Lyra.”

“Lyra,” he said. “I... called to you?”

“Your powers have not diminished,” she said. “In fact, they have grown even stronger. I was right to take you to the villichi convent. It seems they have taught you well.”

He shook his head, feeling a bit dazed. “I do not remember... It seemed that but a moment ago, it was still daylight and...”

Then he realized what must have happened. He had lost a period of time, as had happened many times before when any of the others would fully manifest. However, in this case, neither he nor any of the others had any memory of what had happened during those missing hours. Though he felt slightly cramped from sitting there for so long, he was suffused with warmth and a sense of deep, inner tranquility. Kether. Kether had come, to manifest and make the call that neither he nor any of the others could have made, the call that reached Lyra Al’Kali at the summit of the Dragon’s Tooth, as it had ten years before.

“Come,” said Lyra, holding out her hand to him. “There is a dry gulch running down the mountainside a short distance due west of here. Follow its course until you reach a briny pond, where it ends. Make your camp there and build a fire. It will be dawn soon, and I have my devotions to perform. I shall meet you there shortly after sunrise.”

She turned and started climbing up into the rocks, heading toward the summit. The wind whipped at her cloak as she ascended with firm, purposeful steps. Her cloak seemed to billow out like wings, and then she suddenly took flight. The metamorphosis had taken place in an instant, faster than the eye could follow, and Sorak watched with astonishment as the pterrax rose high into the sky, its large, leathery wings spread out as it rode the wind currents. Within moments, he lost sight of it.

The campfire had burned down to embers. It was just past dawn when Sorak awoke by the shore of the small mountain lake. He felt sated, and knew the Ranger had hunted while he slept. There was no sign of the kill. The Ranger was always careful not to confront Sorak with evidence of flesh-eating, knowing his aversion to it, so Sorak had no idea what had nourished his body. He preferred it that way. His hair felt damp, so he knew that the Ranger, or perhaps one of the others, had washed in a freshwater pool beside the briny lake. The lake was at a significantly lower elevation than the lower slopes of the Dragon’s Tooth, so the morning was pleasantly cool, a welcome change from the biting cold of the previous night.

As Sorak rose to a sitting position, he saw a rasdinn come trotting along the lake shore toward him. Tigra’s ears pricked up at the scent of the doglike creature, its silvery hide gleaming in the morning sun. The animal was no danger to Sorak, its diet being exclusively vegetarian. Its amazingly efficient system enabled it to extract trace metals from almost any type of plant, even poisonous ones, to which the rasclinn was immune. This gave its hide an extremely tough, almost metallic texture, a hide highly prized by hunters, who sold it for armor. Rasclinn were usually small, standing no more than three feet at the shoulder and weighing no more than about fifty pounds. However, this one was a larger specimen, and when it spotted Sorak, it trotted eagerly toward him instead of running off in the opposite direction. The tigone made no move toward it, and a moment later, Sorak saw why. He blinked and saw Lyra getting up from all fours, brushing her hands off on her cloak.

“These old bones are creaking more and more these days,” she said with a sigh as she approached Sorak’s camp. “And they feel the chill more with each passing year.” She settled down on the ground next to the burning embers of the campfire, tossed a few pieces of wood on, and warmed herself by the flames. Her ancient face was as wrinkled as old parchment, but her eyes still sparkled with vitality. “I don’t suppose you have any Tyrian brandy with you?”

“I have only water,” Sorak said, “but you are welcome to it. The waters of the lake are fresh and cool, and I have refilled my bag from it.”

“Then water shall do nicely,” Lyra said, accepting the water bag and squirting a stream into her mouth. “Ahh. Traveling is thirsty work. And since I am always traveling, I am always thirsty. But some Tyrian brandy would have been very welcome after that cold trek.”

“What is Tyrian brandy?”

She raised her eyebrows with surprise. “Ah, but of course. You have lived a sheltered life in the villichi convent. As I recall, the villichi make a most excellent wine out of bloodcurrants.”

“I have tried it,” said Sorak, “but it was not to my liking. I found it much too sweet for my taste”

“Well, then, you may like Tyrian brandy. It is not sweet, but tart, and wonderfully smooth. But see that you approach it with caution the first few times you try it. More than a goblet will make your head spin, and you will likely wake up the next morning with a frightful headache and an empty purse.”

“I am no stranger to headaches,” Sorak said, “and I do not even own a purse.”

Lyra smiled. “You will have much to learn, if you should ever venture down into the cities.”

“I have much to learn, in any case,” said Sorak. “And that is why I have sought you out I had hoped that you could set my feet upon the path to knowledge.”

She nodded. “You have left the convent then to find your own way in the world. That is as it should be. The convent was a good training ground for you, but the school of life has much to teach, as well. What knowledge do you seek?”

“Knowledge of myself,” said Sorak. “I have always felt a lack from not knowing who my parents were, or where I came from. I do not even know my true name. I feel that I must know these things before I can discover a purpose in my life. I had hoped that you could help me, since it was you who found me and brought me to the convent.”

“You thought that I could tell you these things?” she asked.

“Perhaps not,” Sorak replied, “but I thought that if I had said anything when first you found me, you might remember. If not, perhaps you could tell me where you found me, and I might start my quest from there.”

Lyra shook her head. “You were near death when I found you in the desert,” she said, “and you spoke not a single word. As for where I found you, I can no longer remember. I had followed your call, and I had not marked the spot. One stretch of desert looks much like any other. I cannot see how that would be of help to you, in any case. How long has it been, ten years? Any trail would have long since been eradicated, even psychic impressions left behind would have been blurred, unless they were extremely powerful, such as those sometimes imprinted on the land by some great battle.”

“So then you cannot help me?” Sorak said, feeling disappointment welling up inside him.

“I did not say that,” Lyra replied. “I cannot provide you with the answers that you seek, but I may be able to help you. That is, assuming you will accept my advice.”

“Of course I shall accept it,” Sorak said. “Without you, I would have had no life. I owe you a debt that I shall never be able to repay.”

“Perhaps you can repay it, and help yourself at the same time,” said Lyra. “You know the purpose of the peace-bringers? You have been educated in the Druid Way?”

Sorak nodded.

“Good. Then you have been taught about the defilers and the sorcerer-kings who drain the life out of our world. You have been taught about the dragons. What do you know of the avangion?”

“A legend,” Sorak said, with a shrug. “A myth to keep hope alive for the downtrodden.”

“That is what many people believe,” said Lyra, “yet the story is much more than a legend. The avangion is real. It lives. Or, I should say, he lives, for the avangion is still a man.”

“You mean that someone has actually begun the metamorphosis?” asked Sorak, with surprise. “Who?”

“No one knows who he is,” Lyra replied, “and no one knows where he may be found. At least, no one I have ever met has claimed to know the hermit wizard’s whereabouts, or even his true name. He is known only as the Sage, for knowledge of his true name would give power to his enemies, which include all the sorcerer-kings. However, there are those who are aware of his existence, and who receive communications from him from time to time, for it gives hope to their cause. The Veiled Alliance is one such group, the pyreens are another. And the high mistress of the villichi is aware of him, as well. And now you know.”

“Mistress Varanna knew?” Sorak said. “But she never spoke to me of this. And what has this hermit wizard to do with me?”

“Varanna gave you Galdra, did she not?” Sorak frowned. “Galdra?”

“Your sword,” said Lyra.

Sorak picked up the elvish sword and scabbard lying by his side. “This? She made no mention of its having a name.”

“It bears writing on its blade, does it not?” said Lyra. “There are ancient elvish runes that spell out the legend: ‘Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith?’”

“Yes,” said Sorak. “I said it was a noble sentiment, and the mistress replied that it was more than that, it was a creed. That so long as I lived by it, the blade would always serve me well.”

“And so it shall, unless, of course, it was not given to you, and you stole it.”

“I am not a thief,” said Sorak, his pride offended. “I did not think you were,” said Lyra with a smile. “But it is good to see that you have pride. That means you are strong in spirit. And so long as your spirit remains strong, Galdra will be true in temper. Its blade is forged in faith, the faith of whomever wields it. So long as your faith is true, Galdra’s blade shall never fail you, and its edge shall cut through whatever obstacle it may encounter.”

Sorak slowly pulled the sword partway out of the scabbard. “Why did the mistress not tell me any of these things?”

“Perhaps she meant for me to tell you,” Lyra said.

“Why?”

“Because it was I who had given her the sword,” said Lyra. “And she knew that by giving it to you, she would be sending me a message.”

Sorak shook his head. “I do not understand. This sword was yours? I thought it was an elvish blade.”

“It was, a long, long time ago,” said Lyra. “And the sword was never truly mine. It was given to me in trust, and in time, I gave it to Varanna for safe keeping.”

“She said it was given to her as a token of some service she had performed,” said Sorak.

“So it was,” said Lyra, with a smile. “And now she has performed it.”

“You speak in riddles.”

Lyra chuckled. “Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to confuse you. I shall start at the beginning. There was a time, many centuries ago, when the elves were very different from the way they are today. These days, the elves of Athas are scattered far and wide, with no unity among the different tribes, and they have fallen into decadence. Or perhaps been driven into it. The nomadic tribes are frequently engaged in smuggling and thievery, while those who reside in the cities are merchant traders of questionable reputation, likely as not to cheat their customers or sell them stolen goods. You will hear the expression, ‘As crafty as an elf’ or ‘With no more honor than an elf,’ but there was a time when the elves were a proud and honorable people. They were skilled artisans and warriors, with a rich culture all their own, and rather than being scattered bands of wanderers who live from day to day and hand to mouth, they were strong tribes who were unified under one king.

In my youth, I knew such a king. His name was Alaron, and he was the very last of his line.

“Alaron had no less than a dozen wives, yet he could sire a son with none of them. He had been cursed by Rajaat, the most powerful of the defilers, with a spell that made him sterile. Rajaat sought to destroy the kingdom of the elvish tribes, for they were a threat to him. He worked first to destroy the royal line of succession, then to sow discord among the tribes about whose right it would be to sit upon the throne when Alaron’s rule had passed. To enlist the aid of elves among those tribes, he used bribery when he could, and magic when bribery would fail, and in the end, he succeeded in driving the tribes apart into warring factions. The kingdom fell, and Alaron was forced to flee into the forest, where he expired of his wounds. I found him, as I found you, half-dead. Unlike you, however, he was beyond my help. Before he died, he gave his sword to me, a sword famed among the elvish tribes as Galdra, the sword of kings. He knew it would not serve him anymore, for he had lost his faith, and he was dying.

“He bid me take it,” she said, “and keep it safe, so that it should never fall into the hands of the defilers, for the blade would shatter if they tried to use it. Alaron did not want the symbol of the elvish royal house destroyed. ‘I was cursed never to have a son,’ he said, ‘and a proud tradition dies with me. The elves are now a beaten people. Take Galdra and keep it safe. My life span is but the blink of an eye to a pyreen such as you. Perhaps, someday, you will succeed where I have failed, and find an elf worthy of this blade. If not, then hide it from the defilers. I can at least deny them this.’ And with those words, he died.

“Alaron always was my friend,” Lyra continued, “and I could not deny him. I hid the blade, and as the years passed, I moved it from one place of concealment to another, never being satisfied that it was truly safe. Then, one day, after many years had passed, I met a young villichi priestess on a pilgrimage, and that priestess was Varanna. I had been surprised and injured by«a young dragon, which mistook me for a human, and I was too weak to properly heal myself. Varanna stopped to help me, and I sensed the goodness in her heart, and saw that fate prepared her to be high mistress. I realized that nowhere would the blade I had been entrusted with be kept as safe as in the villichi convent. I gave it to Varanna, and told her what it was, and what it represented, and she has kept it all these years.”

Sorak glanced down at the sword, then looked up at Lyra with a puzzled expression. “But... why, then, did she give it to me?”

“Because she knew I would approve,” said Lyra, with a smile. “Varanna understood why I had brought you to her. Ten years ago, when I heard your call, I felt your power, and when I found you, I sensed what you were... and what you could be. The sword has been a special bond between Varanna and me, but it was held only in trust.”

“For me?” said Sorak, gazing at her with a puzzled expression. “But I am not of the elvish royal house. If the line died out with Alaron, as you say, then I could not possibly have any claim to this blade. And I am not even a full-blooded elf.”

“Nevertheless, there is elvish blood flowing through your veins,” said Lyra, “and Alaron knew that Galdra could never pass to his successor, for the line would die with him. His only hope was that someone worthy of the blade would come along one day. Varanna believed that you were worthy, and I perceive the potential that you have within you, but you have yet to prove that worth. Not to me and not to Varanna, but to yourself and to the blade. You seek answers to the question of your origin. I cannot provide those answers, but I know who can. Only the preserver magic of the Sage would be strong enough and pure enough to serve your needs. But first you shall have to seek him out, and in your quest for him, you shall serve his needs, and mine, and that of your forebears.”

“How?”

“By aligning yourself with him against all defilers,” said Lyra. “The Sage is very powerful, but he has many enemies, which is why he must remain hidden in seclusion. The path of metamorphosis into an avangion is long and arduous, and it entails much pain and suffering. Each stage of the transformation requires rituals that take years to perform. Distraction is the enemy of every mage, and there is no distraction quite so profound as being sought after by those who wish to take your life. The Sage is the most hunted wizard in all of Athas, for he represents a threat to the power of the defilers. And yet he is the most vulnerable, for if he were to direct his energies against the defilers, it would interfere with the transformation process. Remember, also, that defilers can accumulate their power much more quickly than those who follow the Path of the Preserver, and while the Sage works to complete his metamorphosis, the powers aligned against him grow ever stronger.”

“I still do not see my part in all this,” Sorak said. “Your part has already been written by the fates, Sorak,” Lyra replied. “You were raised by the villichi in the Way of the Druid, to follow the Path of the Preserver. In itself, that places you in opposition to defilers. In searching for the Sage, you must also align yourself with him, for that is the only way that you shall ever find him. But be warned that it shall not be an easy quest, and it will be dangerous. Those who seek to find the Sage and kill him will also seek you, just as they seek the members of the Veiled Alliance and all preservers who are aligned against them.”

“So then my part is to support the Veiled Alliance and all those who take a stand against defiler magic while I seek this hermit wizard,” Sorak said. “You are saying that to find him, I must somehow make him aware of the fact that I am seeking him, and prove myself to him by deeds against his enemies.”

Lyra nodded. “Remember that, for many years now, all the sorcerer-kings, their templars, and their minions have been searching for the Sage, and they have employed both magic and subterfuge in their efforts.”

“So proving myself will not be easy,” Sorak said with a nod. “I understand.”

“There is, of course, another choice,” said Lyra. “It all depends on you. Your life is yours to direct in the manner that you will. Perhaps there is a way that you may find the answers to your questions without needing to consult the Sage. Or, perhaps, knowing what you risk, you may no longer feel those questions bear so much importance. When you leave here, you may choose to follow a different path and take no part in the conflict for the soul of Athas. That is entirely up to you, and if you should make that choice, I shall respect it. All you need do in that event is return Galdra to me, and you will be free to do whatever you desire.”

Sorak picked up the sword, holding the scabbard across his palms as he gazed down at it. “No,” he said. “If not for you, I would have died out in the desert. And if not for Mistress Varanna, I would have had no home these past ten years. And if not for these questions that have plagued me all my life, I would have possessed, perhaps, some peace of mind. I shall keep the blade, and undertake this quest.” He smiled, wryly. “Besides, I have nothing better to do.”

Lyra chuckled. “I never doubted for a moment that you would answer that way.”

“But how should I begin my search?” asked Sorak. “Make your way to the nearest city,” Lyra said. “That would be Tyr, which lies to the west in a valley at the foothills of these mountains. When you reach the lower elevations, you will find trails leading to the city, and you shall be able to see it from the ridge. The city of Tyr was once ruled by the sorcerer-king, Kalak, but he was killed and his chief templar, Tithian, attempted to succeed him. Now, Tithian has disappeared, and in his place, Tyr is being ruled by a Council of Advisors, whose leaders have the support of the people. It is, however, an unstable government, and the defilers who are still in Tyr will surely seek to topple it Also, word has reached the other cities that Tyr no longer has a sorcerer-king, and that Tithian and the rest of Kalak’s templars are no longer in power. Tyr may be ripe for an invasion. It will be a place of intrigue, with many factions vying to gain power, and new arrivals will be considered with suspicion. Be wary. Remember, you have led a sheltered life among the villichi sisters. A city such as Tyr offers numerous temptations and is rife with criminals of all description. Trust no one, look for hidden motives behind every friendly offer. And above all, watch your back.”

“I shall,” said Sorak. “What must I do when I reach Tyr?”

“You must try to make contact with the Veiled Alliance,” Lyra said. “This will not be easy. Kalak is dead, “Tithian is gone, and the power of the templars has been broken, but those who make up the Veiled Alliance have seen the power shift too many times to come out into the open. They will be on their guard. Remember, they will have no reason to trust you. For all they know, you could be a spy sent to infiltrate their covert network. They shall not welcome you with open arms. Expect to be sorely tested.”

Sorak sighed. “It all sounds so very different from the life that I have known.”

“It is very different,” Lyra agreed. “But if you seek answers to your questions and a purpose to your life, you must be prepared for new experiences. In many ways, you are better prepared than most, for you have trained and schooled in the arts of combat and psionics. But you will find that it is a very different matter to put that training to good use in the outside world. Tread softly and think carefully.? “I shall,” said Sorak. “Will I be seeing you again?” Lyra smiled. “Perhaps. If not, then you know where you may find me—each year at this time. And if I should fail to make my yearly pilgrimage, then you will know I have passed on.”

“I want to thank you for your help, and for your kindness to me,” Sorak said. “I owe you my life. That is something I shall never forget. If there is ever anything that I can do for you—”

“Succeed in your quest and follow the Path of the Preserver,” Lyra said. “That is all I ask. Do that, and I shall be well repaid.”

“I only wish there were something more I could do,” said Sorak. He turned and reached for his pack, opened it, and rummaged around inside. “I know it is not much, a small thing, really, but save for Galdra, it is the only thing I have of value. There was a girl back at the convent, someone very special to me, and... well, when she used to brush her hair, I would take the stray strands from her brush to plait into a cord. She never knew, and I had thought to... well, that is not important. It is all I really have to give, and I would be honored if you would accept it.”

He found the cord plaited from Ryana’s hair and took it from the pack, then turned to offer it to Lyra. “Consider it a token of my...” His voice trailed off. The pyreen was no longer there. He glanced around quickly, but there was no sign of her. And then he looked out over the lake and saw a small wind funnel skimming over the water’s surface, receding rapidly into the distance.

“Keep it, Sorak,” Lyra called back to him, psionically. “I know what it means to you. The offer in itself is a gift that I shall always treasure.”

And then she was gone.

Sorak glanced down at the thin, tightly plaited cord he’d braided from stray locks of Ryana’s hair. She belonged to his past now. He had wanted to give something to Lyra, and this was all he had that he truly valued. All he had left of the life that he had left behind, and of his dreams about what might have been. Galdra, the sword of elvish kings, represented what yet might be. One talisman for the past, one for the future. It was fitting.

He tied the plaited cord around his neck.