by Simon Hawke
“Take the concealed staircase and turn right at the bottom,” he said. “Follow the tunnel until it branches. Take the right branch. It will lead you outside the compound and into a hidden basement of one of my warehouses. I have had chambers prepared there for you. They are not luxurious, but I think you will find them comfortable. Thereafter, whenever you leave, go back to that point where the tunnel branches. Turning left will take you back here. Continuing straight ahead will lead you to the surface, to a hidden door inside an alleyway. Can you remember that?”
Livanna nodded.
“Good. From now on, I leave things in your entirely capable hands. You know what must be done. Do not return here except after the midnight hour. On the opposite side of this hidden door, you will find a large lever and a small one. The large lever controls the door. The small one controls this obsidian statue here on the mantelpiece. You will find a tiny peephole in the door. Always check it first. If I am not alone, or if I am not present, pull down on the small lever, and the statue will turn to the right. That way, I will know you wish to see me, and I will return here at midnight the next day. Any questions?”
“No,” Livanna said. “It seems you have taken adequate precautions.”
“Make certain you do likewise,” Ankhor said. He went over to the sideboard and picked up a small scroll. “Here is your first set of instructions. You may start tonight.”
Livanna took the scroll from him and beckoned to the mul. They went through the secret passageway, and Ankhor closed the door behind them. He took a deep breath of satisfaction. Now, it would begin.
Chapter Eight
Sorak awoke with a start. He sat up and glanced around quickly, not knowing what had awakened him. It was several hours before dawn. The camp was perfectly still as he opened the tent flap, stepped outside, and looked around. The fires had burned down to embers, save for the watchfires tended by the guards around the cargo area, directly in front of him. Except for the quiet sounds of their conversation, nothing seemed amiss. So what had awakened him so suddenly?
He was aware of a strange vertiginous sensation, and he felt a little lightheaded. Whatever it was, it had snapped him awake with a jolt, and he was apparently feeling its aftereffects. It hadn’t been a nightmare. He had been sleeping soundly for a change, after a long day on the trail. He rubbed his forehead, moist with sweat.
“Sorak?” Ryana poked her head out of their tent. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
He frowned, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he said in a puzzled tone. “Something woke me up, but I have no idea what it was. It was as if—” Suddenly, the jolt came once again, even stronger this time, and he staggered, as though struck from behind. For a moment, his vision swam, and he shook his head and blinked to clear it. When his gaze focused again, the campsite was gone.
He stood motionless, feeling confused and disoriented. One moment, he was looking at the caravan tents and the watchfires by the cargo, and the next, he was standing in the middle of a street in an unfamiliar town.
Neat rows of one and two-story adobe buildings lined both sides of the dirt street, which curved away from him around a bend. The time of day had not changed, but everything else had. He stood frozen to the spot, startled and unable to comprehend what had happened. It was as if he had suddenly been transported to another place.
He spun around, looking for Ryana, but though she had stood just behind him a moment earlier, she wasn’t there. The tent was gone, as well. What he saw instead was the dark mouth of a narrow alleyway between two buildings… and just inside the alleyway, he saw a large figure standing in the shadows, partially concealed from view.
From behind him came the sounds of footsteps. He turned around again and saw another figure, wrapped in a dark cloak and walking down the hard-packed dirt street, heading directly toward him. The stranger’s path would take him right past Sorak, the mouth of the alleyway, and the shadowy figure waiting in ambush.
Sorak opened his mouth to speak, to warn the approaching man, but no sound came forth. The man kept on walking steadily, right toward him. He gave no sign of being aware of Sorak’s presence, just as he was completely unaware of the ambusher. He was only several feet away now and coming straight at him. Again, Sorak tried to speak, but no sound came out. The man in the cloak passed right by him, mere inches away, but apparently without seeing him. And as he drew even with the alley, it happened.
A powerful arm snaked out and grabbed the man’s cloak, jerking him back into the shadows of the alley. Sorak heard a startled gasp of surprise, followed by a brief cry, and then the sickening crunch of the man’s spine being snapped.
The body collapsed to the ground, lifeless. No, it hadn’t simply collapsed, the killer had thrown it, tossing it into the street at the entrance to the alleyway. The murderer stood over the hapless victim, but Sorak could not see the killer clearly. He was dressed in a long, ankle-length black cloak with a voluminous hood that completely concealed his features. The killer reached inside his cloak, and Sorak saw something white flutter down on the body. A veil.
Abruptly, the killer turned, and Sorak thought he was about to see his face, but his vision blurred again, as if he were looking through shimmering heat waves, and the peculiar falling sensation came over him once more.
Sorak shook his head and blinked, and when his vision came back into focus, he saw several guards sitting around the watchfire, talking quietly among themselves. He was back at the caravan campsite, and someone was shaking him.
“Sorak! Sorak!”
It was Ryana. He turned toward her, a confused expression on his face.
“Sorak, what’s wrong?”
“I… I don’t know,” he said slowly. He shook his head to clear it. “What just happened?”
“You seemed to go into a trance,” Ryana replied, looking at him with concern. “You stumbled and grabbed your head, as if you had been struck. You looked as if you were about to fall, only you didn’t. You simply stood there, motionless, staring off into the distance. I spoke to you, but you acted as if you couldn’t hear me. Your eyes were open, but it was as if you couldn’t see me, either.”
“I was standing right here all this time? I didn’t… go anywhere?”
She stared at him, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I just saw a man killed,” he said.
“What? Where?”
“I… don’t know,” he replied, frowning with confusion. “One moment, I was standing here, looking at the watchfire, and then the next…” He told her what he had seen. “It was like a dream, only I was awake… or was I?”
“You had a vision,” said Ryana.
He frowned. “How can that be? I am not villichi. I do not have the gift of Sight.”
“One does not have to be villichi to have the Sight,” Ryana said. “Anyone can have the talent, but it is very rare, even among villichi. I have never had it, nor did any of the other sisters, but Mistress Varanna said she had it sometimes, though she could not control it. She said no one can. It simply comes upon you. You saw something that has happened somewhere else… or is about to happen.”
“I tried to warn the man,” he said, “but I could not speak.”
“You were not there,” she said. “You couldn’t have warned him. It was a vision. You were right here all this time.”
He shook his head. “But it makes no sense. How could something like this happen all of a sudden? I thought people who had the Sight were born with it.”
Ryana shook her head. “No, it comes when a child starts to mature.”
“But I am not a child.”
“No, but you have changed. The spell that took away your inner tribe may have left something of them behind… or perhaps given you something else. We both know what you were, but there is as yet no way of telling what you have become.”
Sorak frowned with confusion. “Perhaps, but if my grandfather had bestowed the gift of Sight
upon me, why wouldn’t he have told me? How long was I… gone?”
“Only a moment,” she said.
“It seemed longer.” He rubbed his forehead. It ached slightly. “I don’t know what it means.”
Ryana’s eyes grew wide, and she gasped. “Sorak…look!”
She was staring at him, pointing at his waist. He looked down.
Galdra.
The broken blade was tucked into his belt. He drew it out, staring at it with astonishment. As he touched the silver wire-wrapped hilt, a faint, sparkling aura of blue thaumaturgic energy crackled briefly around the blade.
“How can this be?” he said with wonder. “You saw me throw it into the pool back at the oasis!”
She nodded.
“We both saw it sink!”
She nodded again. “It has come back to you,” she said. “It is an omen.”
“Of what?” he said, with dismay. “I don’t want the cursed thing!” He tossed it aside on the ground.
Ryana picked it up. “That won’t do any good,” she said. “You threw it into a bottomless pool and it came back to you. What makes you think you can simply throw it away now?”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Sorak. “I thought the spell was broken.”
“Broken it may be,” Ryana said, “but there is still magic in the blade. Apparently, much more than you knew.” She offered it back to him.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want it.”
“Take it,” she insisted.
“You take it.”
“It is not for me to carry,” she replied. “Galdra was meant for you.”
“Then leave it. Throw the damned thing away.”
“If you really want me to, I will,” she replied, “but I’ll wager it will only come back to you again. It served you well, Sorak. It was wrong of you to dispose of it in the first place. Galdra is part of your destiny. That much is clear.”
“What does it want from me?” he asked irritably.
Ryana shook her head. “I do not know that it is capable of wanting anything. It does not live. It merely is.”
“It has to be the Sage,” said Sorak, with a grimace. “He must be responsible for this.”
“Whether he is or not,” Ryana said, “it seems you are stuck with it.” She offered him the blade again. “Take it. Things like this do not occur without a reason.”
“But why must they happen to me?” he asked, throwing his arms out in exasperation.
“Because you are Sorak, and it is your fate. Mistress Varanna knew that when she gave you the blade.”
Sorak sighed and took the broken blade from her reluctantly. “All it brings is trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked a voice from behind them.
They turned to see a figure coming toward them, silhouetted against the light from the watch-fire behind him.
“It is only I, Edric the Bard,” he said as he came closer. “I did not mean to intrude. It seems that I was not the only one who could not sleep tonight.” His gaze fell on the blade. “What have you there? A dagger?” He held his hands up, palms out. “There is no need for that, my friend. I am unarmed, as you can see.”
Sorak glanced down at the blade in his hand. “Sorry,” he said, tucking it away into his belt. “It was not meant to threaten you.” He wished he had his cloak to cover it, but he had left it back inside the tent. He saw Edric staring intently at the blade.
“You carry a broken sword?” asked Edric. “Why?”
Sorak shrugged, wishing the bard would go away. “It has sentimental value to me.”
“It looks like steel!” said Edric, still staring at the broken sword in Sorak’s belt. “And those are elvish runes upon the blade, are they not?”
Sorak was growing impatient. The last thing he wanted was to pursue this conversation. “Are all you bards so curious?” he asked in a surly tone.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry,” said Edric, placating. “But there is an old legend about a sword made of elven steel, with runes upon the blade—”
“It is merely a broken sword and nothing more,” said Sorak. “It is an heirloom of my family, scarcely worth the price of a few drinks now that it is broken, but I have an attachment to it.” Or, more to the point, it has an attachment to me, he thought.
“How is Cricket?” asked Ryana to change the subject.
“Sound asleep, my lady,” said Edric. “She is not accustomed to riding such long distances and was complaining that her legs and seat were sore.”
“She seemed fit enough to me,” Ryana said.
“Well,” said Edric, “perhaps one uses different muscles for dancing than for riding.” He shrugged. “I know little of such things. She will doubtless be a bit stiff in the morning, and there will be some soreness, but another day or so and she should work it out. In the meantime, I can put up with her whining and complaining.” He grinned. “Bards are accustomed to that sort of thing, you know.”
“Perhaps I could be of some assistance,” said Ryana. “I have some skill at healing.”
“I am certain she would be grateful for your help, my lady,” Edric said with a slight bow. “I will pass on your kind offer. Well, I have intruded on your time enough. There is yet some time until dawn, and I think I shall go stretch out for a while before the camp is abustle.” He shook his head. “Never could get used to keeping normal hours. Good night to you, or perhaps I should say good morning. Well, you know what I mean.”
He gave them a slight bow and left.
Sorak scowled at his retreating form. “I don’t like that elf,” he said in a low voice.
“He seems harmless enough,” Ryana said.
“He has a duplicitous streak,” said Sorak. “He recognized Galdra, all right. He knew exactly what it was. It was as if he dared me to deny it.”
“And deny it you did,” she said. “So who was being duplicitous?”
“I had no wish to get into a long, drawn out debate about the legend of the Sword of Alaron and the Crown of Elves,” said Sorak. “That was why I tried to dispose of Galdra in the first place.”
“Well, he did not press you on the subject.”
“Only because you diverted him. But he was rather easily diverted, wasn’t he?”
“Maybe it’s my charm,” Ryana said with a smile.
“I doubt your charms would work upon the likes of him,” said Sorak. “It was no accident Cricket picked him to ride with. He’s probably the only male in the caravan that she can trust not to take advantage.”
“Including you?” Ryana asked innocently.
“You know what I mean,” said Sorak. “Still, there’s something about him that bothers me. And I am not referring to his manner or his tastes.”
“What then?”
Sorak shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I still had the Guardian to help me look into his mind and find out what he’s really thinking.”
“You really do distrust him, don’t you?”
Sorak nodded. “I do not think I would want to turn my back on that one.”
“Then maybe you should follow your intuition,” said Ryana. “A part of you was the Guardian, remember. Maybe you cannot read his mind, but you seem to sense something about him.”
“And you do not?”
She shrugged. “He seems a bit elaborate, but then he’s a bard.”
Sorak shook his head. “It’s been an ill-omened night, all around,” he said. “And I understand none of what is happening. I only know I do not like it.”
“Well, there’s no point in trying to go back to sleep,” Ryana said. “Why don’t we take a stroll around the camp and talk about it while we stretch our legs a bit? We have a long ride ahead of us.”
“I have a feeling there will be trouble before it’s through,” said Sorak. “And something tells me Edric will be part of it.” He sighed. “I just wish I knew why I felt that way, and why I had that vision. I used to wonder what it would be like not to be a
tribe of one, to be just one individual, like everybody else. Well, now I am. And I’ve never felt so much uncertainty.”
Ryana smiled. “You’ll get used to it,” she said. “But you must stop thinking that you’ve been diminished somehow by the loss of your inner tribe. They may not be with you anymore, but they were a part of you for a long time, and you shared what they knew. Remember what they taught you. And remember what you learned back at the convent. You are almost villichi, and that is no small thing.”
“No, it’s not,” he agreed. “Thank you for reminding me.”
She put her arm around him. “You’re welcome. Now, tell me again about that vision, and we’ll see if we can’t make some sense of it.”
* * *
Edric did not return to his tent, as he had said he would. Instead, he furtively headed away from the cluster of tents toward the rear of the encampment. There were no guards posted back there and no fires lit, since the banks of the estuary guarded that edge of the camp. Silt monsters did not venture ashore, and the camp was well away from any habitation of giants. Neither would desert raiders attack across the silt. Raiders did not use boats; they depended on speed, and boats were slow. So all that lay in wait along the estuary shore were deep shadows in the moonlight, and as Edric approached the silt, one of those shadows moved.
Edric stopped. “Shadows have talons.”
“Talons have claws,” came the low response.
Edric glanced quickly over his shoulder, then hurried toward the small rock outcropping from which the voice had come. A tall, lean, dark shape rose from the ground beside the outcropping. It was an elf, dressed all in black, from head to toe. Black boots, black breeches, black tunic covered with a smooth black breastplate of kank armor, black gloves, black veil, and black hooded cloak. His sword was sheathed in a black leather scabbard, as were his knives, and the hilts of all the weaponas were black-stained pagafa wood. Even on a moonlit night, he could blend so artfully with the shadows from which his tribe took its name, the Shadows. Not even Edric would have seen him had he not moved, and if Edric had not spoken the proper phrase identifying himself, he would have been instantly, efficiently, and silently killed.
