The Nomad (29 page)

After a while, she called out to Sorak to stop for a moment so they could rest. Sorak came back down several steps to join them. There was room for only one person to go through the narrow, winding stairwell at a time, so he simply sat down on the steps a bit above them. Kara sat down just below, and Ryana gratefully sank to a lower step and leaned back against the wall.

“How much farther?” she asked wearily. The long run through the city streets and the struggle against the undead had left her thoroughly exhausted. All she wanted to do was lean back and close her eyes and not move another step.

“We are almost at die top,” said Kara.

“Well, at least it will be easier going back down,” Ryana said with a sigh.

Sorak lifted the Breastplate of Argentum from his pack. It filled the stairwell with its soft, warm blue glow. “Well, we have found what we came here for,” he said to Kara. “Now what? What lies ahead at the top of the tower? Another message from the Sage? Another task we must perform for him that will take us to who-knows-what forsaken corner of the planet?”

“That is not for me to say,” Kara replied.

“Who is to say, then?” Sorak asked. “How do we find out what to do next? Where to go? Will the Sage contact us in some manner? Have we not proved enough to him by now? I have grown weary of this ceaseless quest!”

“As I told you,” Kara said, “you will find your answers at the top of the stairs.”

Sorak exhaled heavily. “Fine,” he said. “So be it, then. Whatever new tests he will devise to try our worth, we shall undertake them all. We shall not be dissuaded or discouraged. But I cannot help wondering how much more we have to prove to him before he is convinced of our sincerity.” He put the talisman back in his pack, stood, and started climbing once again.

With a sigh of resignation, Ryana got up to follow. They climbed on, and suddenly, somehow it started to seem warmer. They could no longer hear the sound of the cold wind wailing outside. And perhaps it was only her imagination, but as they passed one of the narrow windows, Ryana thought she could hear birds singing out there in the darkness. Then, just ahead of them, there was a light. They reached the top of the tower, and as Ryana was coming up behind Kara and Sorak, she heard him swear softly. A moment later, she saw why.

The top of the tower was one large circular room, with carpets on the floor and carved wood furniture placed around it. There was a large table covered with numerous vials and beakers, scrolls and writing quills and inkstands, and a huge round scrying crystal. A fire burned brightly in the hearth built into the wall. All around the circular chamber at the top of the tower, there were large shuttered windows, but the shutters were open, letting in the warm night air. And as Ryana looked out through those windows, she could see the moonlight illuminating not the city of Bodach, or the silt basins beyond, but a lush and verdant valley, beyond which lay a stretch of desert.

A large, six-footed, black and white striped kirre lay on the carpet in the center of the room, slowly wagging its heavy, barbed tail back and forth. It raised its huge head with its ramlike horns, looked up at them lazily, and emitted a deep growl. Sorak and Ryana simultaneously reached for their swords, but a large, hooded figure stepped between them and the beast, shaking its head. It emitted several loud clicking noises.

Sorak stared apprehensively at the hooded figure. It stood just over six feet tall, but its proportions were bizarre. Its shoulders were extremely wide, even wider than a mul’s, and its upper torso was huge, tapering to a narrow waist. Its arms were unusually long, ending in four-fingered hands that looked more like talons, and from beneath its robe, there hung a thick, reptilian tail.

“Never fear,” said a white-robed figure standing bent over with its back to them, poking at the fire. “Kinjara is my pet, and though she growls, she shall not harm you. Takko, please show our visitors in. They must be very weary from their long journey.”

The hooded figure clicked some more, then beckoned them inside. As Sorak approached it, he could see that the face within the hood was not even remotely human. It had a long snout full of rows of razor-sharp teeth, and eyes with nictitating membranes. The creature was a pterran, one of the race of lizard-men that lived in the Hinterlands beyond the Ringing Mountains. Sorak had never even seen one of them before, and he could not help staring. When Ryana first saw the face of the creature she gasped involuntarily.

“Please do not be alarmed at Tak-ko’s appearance,” said the white-robed figure, turning toward them. “I will admit he looks quite fearsome, but in truth, he is a gentle soul.”

Sorak stared at the white-robed man. He looked extremely old, with long, white hair that cascaded down his shoulders, almost to his waist. He was very tall, and very thin, with long and bony fingers. His frame had proportions like a villichi, except that he was male. His forehead was high, and his face was deeply lined with age, but he had bright blue eyes that sparkled with the vitality of youth and intelligence. There was something strange about those eyes, Sorak realized. They had no pupils, and around the sapphire blue of the irises, the whites were faintly tinged with blue, as well. And as he moved, his hair swayed slightly, and Sorak noted his large and pointed ears.

“You see, Tak-ko?” the old elf said to the pterran. “You have lost your wager. They have succeeded after all, just as I knew they would.” He turned toward Sorak and held out his hand. “Greetings, Sorak. I am the Sage.”

“The Sage?” said Sorak, staring at him with disbelief. After all this time, it seemed difficult to accept the fact that the long quest had reached an end at last. The Sage continued holding out his hand. Belatedly, Sorak realized it and stepped forward to clasp it with his own. “But…
you
were the Wanderer? I had always thought the Wanderer was human! Yet, you are an elf!”

“Yes,” the Sage replied. “I trust you are not disappointed. You have gone through so much trouble to get here, it would truly be a shame if you were.”

He turned to Ryana. “Welcome, dear priestess,” he said, extending his hand. Numbly, she took it. “And Kara. How good to see you again. Please, sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. Tak-ko, some hot tea for our guests. They look chilled.”

As the pterran went to get their tea, Sorak glanced around at their surroundings. “Where are we?” he said. “Surely, this cannot be Bodach!”

“No, it is not,” the Sage replied. “I… I do not understand,” said Sorak. He glanced at the pyreen. “Kara, how did we come here? What has happened?”

“That is the
true
treasure of Bodach,” Kara said. “The old lighthouse tower is a magical gateway, a portal to another place and time.”

“So that is why the defilers have never been able to find you!” Ryana exclaimed, staring at the Sage. “You exist in another time!”

“And even if they suspected that, they would never think to look for the gateway to that time in the city of the undead,” Kara said. “It would be the last place a defiler would expect to find preserver magic.”

“Please forgive me for having tested you so harshly,” said the Sage, “and for having brought you on so long and arduous a journey. However, I fear there was no other way. I had to be absolutely certain of your commitment and resolve. I trust you have brought the Breastplate of Argentum?”

Sorak removed it from his pack.

“Ah, excellent,” the Sage said, taking it from him. “And the Keys of Wisdom?”

Ryana removed the gold rings that were the key seals from her fingers and handed them to the Sage.

“Excellent. You have done well. Very well, indeed,” he said with a smile. “You have walked the true path of the Preserver. Mistress Varanna would be very proud of you.”

Tak-ko brought them their tea. It was steaming hot, brewed from a delicious, fragrant blend of dried herbs.

“I have done all that you have asked of me, my lord,” said Sorak.

“Please… there is no need for such formality,” the Sage replied. “I am merely an old wizard, not a lord of any sort.”

“Then… what do I call you?”

The Sage smiled. “I no longer use my truename. Even speaking it aloud poses certain risks. Wanderer will do, or you could call me Grandfather, if you like. Either one will serve. I rather like Grandfather. It is a term of both affection and respect. That is, of course, if you have no objection?”

“Of course not, Grandfather,” Sorak said. “But, as I said, I have done all that you have asked of me, and—”

“And now you have something that you would like
me
to do for
you,”
the Sage said, nodding. “Yes, I know. You seek the truth about your origin. Well, I could help you find the answers that you seek. But are you quite certain that you wish to know? Before you answer, I ask you to consider carefully what I am about to say. You have made a life for yourself, Sorak. You have forged your own unique identity. Knowledge of your past could carry certain burdens. Are you quite sure you wish to know?”

“Yes,” said Sorak emphatically. “More than anything.”

The Sage nodded. “As you wish. But do finish your tea. It will take a slight amount of preparation.”

As the Sage went back to his table, Sorak gulped the remainder of his hot tea. It burned going down, but it felt good after the cold rain. He could scarcely believe that after all this time, he was finally going to learn the truth about himself. He wondered how long it would take the Sage to make his preparations.

The old wizard had untied and unrolled a scroll, and he carefully spread it out upon his cluttered table. He placed small weights at each corner of the scroll, then pricked his finger with a sharp knife and squeezed some blood onto the scroll. Dipping a quill into the blood, he wrote out some runes, then took a candle and a stick of some red sealing wax, holding them over the scroll. Mumbling to himself under his breath, he dribbled a blob of the red wax, leaving an impression of the seal, onto which he then squeezed another drop of blood. He repeated the process three more times, once for each corner of the scroll, using a different one of the seals each time.

As he watched him prepare the spell, Sorak noted once again the peculiar elongation of his form, resulting from the early stages of his metamorphosis. For an elf, it was only natural that he should have been taller than a human, but at a height of approximately six feet, he stood about as tall as Sorak, who did not have an elf’s proportions. Then again, the Sage was quite old, and people did grow smaller as they aged: elves were no exception. Still, Sorak thought, when he was younger, he must have been rather small for an elf. Either that, or the metamorphosis had wrought marked changes in his frame. It must have been extremely painful. Even now, he moved slowly, almost laboriously, the way those with old and aching bones moved. With the changes wrought by his transformation, the effect must have been greatly magnified.

The peculiarity of his eyes probably resulted from the metamorphosis, as well. Eventually, they would turn completely blue, even the whites, so that it would appear as if gleaming sapphires had been set into his eye sockets. Sorak wondered how that would affect his vision. His neck was longer than it should have been, even for an elf, but while his arms were also long, they looked more in proportion for a tall human than an elf, likewise the legs. And he walked slightly hunched over, a posture that, along with the voluminous robe, concealed what Sorak saw more clearly now that he stood with his back to them. His shoulder blades were protruding abnormally, giving him the aspect of a hunchback. They were in the process of sprouting into wings.

What sort of creature
was
an avangion? Sorak wondered what he would look like when the transformation was complete. Would he resemble a dragon, or some entirely different sort of creature? And did he even know himself what the end result would be? As he thought of how much he had gone through with Ryana to reach this point, Sorak realized it was nothing compared with what the Sage was going through. All those years ago, when he had been the Wanderer, had he known even then what path he would embark on? Surely, he must have decided even then, for
The Wanderer’s Journal
contained clever, hidden messages throughout its descriptions of the lands of Athas. How many years had he spent wandering the world like a pilgrim, writing his chronicle that would, in its subversive way, guide preservers in the days to come? And how long had he studied the forgotten, ancient texts and scrolls to master his art and begin the long and arduous process of the metamorphosis?

No, thought Sorak, what we have gone through was nothing compared to all of that.

He glanced at Ryana and saw her looking at him strangely. She was tired, and she looked it, and as he gazed at her, he realized that he felt profoundly tired, too. They had been through much. His arms ached from wielding Galdra against the scores of undead they had fought their way through. They were cold, and wet, and bone weary, and the warmth of the fire in the tower chamber, coupled with the warmth of the tea the Sage had given them, was making him sleepy, excited as he was at having finally attained his goal. As he watched Ryana, he saw her eyelids close and her head loll forward onto her chest. The cup she was holding fell from her fingers and shattered on the floor.

He could barely keep his own eyes open. He felt a profound lassitude spreading through him, and his vision began to blur. He glanced down at the empty cup that he was holding, and suddenly realized why he was feeling so sleepy. He glanced up at Kara and saw her watching him. His vision swam. She faded in and out of focus.

“The tea…” he said.

The Sage turned around and gazed at him. Sorak looked up at him, uncomprehending.

“No…” he said, lurching to his feet and throwing the cup across the room. It shattered against the wall.

He staggered, then stumbled toward the Sage.

“Why?”
he said. “I have… done all… that you… asked…”

The room started to spin, and Sorak fell. Tak-ko caught him before he hit the floor and carried him back to the chair.

“No…” Sorak said, weakly. “You promised…