by Simon Hawke
“I have noticed,” she said. “It has a strange effect on me, as well, though perhaps not the same effect it has on you.”
“What does it make you feel?” he asked.
Ryana thought a moment before replying. “It makes me feel very small,” she said at last. “Until we came here, I do not think it ever truly occurred to me how vast a place our world is and how insignificant we are by comparison. It is both an alarming feeling, in a way… all this openness and distance… and yet, at the same time, it imparts a sense of one’s proper place in the scheme of things.”
Sorak nodded. “Back in Tyr, when I was working in the gaming house, desert herdsmen would often come in for some recreation after they had sold their beasts to the traders in the market. They had a saying about the tablelands. They would say, ‘The distance gets into your eye.’ I never quite knew what they meant until now. For all the diversions the city had to offer them, for all that it was a much more comfortable and convenient life, they never lingered very long. They were always anxious to get back to the desert.
“The city, they said, made them feel ‘closed in.’ I see now what they meant. The distance of the desert gets into your eye. You grow accustomed to the vastness of it, to the openness, and you come to feel that there is room for you to breathe. Cities are crowded, and one becomes merely a part of the throng. Here, one has a sharper sense of self.” He smiled. “Or selves, as in my case. One does not become caught up in the frenetic rhythms of the city. The soul finds its own pace. Out here, in the vast silence, with only the gentle sighing of the wind to break the stillness, one’s very spirit seems to open up. For all the hazards to be found here, the desert imparts a sense of clarity and peace.”
She glanced at him with surprise. “That was quite a speech,” she said. “You are always so sparing with your words and to the point. Yet that was actually… poetic. A bard could not have sung it better.”
“Perhaps I have a bit of bard in me, as well,” said Sorak with a grin. “Or perhaps it is just my elfling blood warming in its natural environment.” He shrugged. “Who is to say? I only know that I feel strangely content here. The forests of the Ringing Mountains are my home, yet it feels somehow as if this is the place where I belong.”
“Perhaps it is,” she said.
“I do not really know that yet,” he replied. “I know that I feel an affinity for these open spaces, and for the quiet solitude they offer—which is not to say that I am not grateful for your company, of course—but at the same time, I shall never truly know where I belong until I learn the story of my past.”
They rode a while in silence after that, each of them preoccupied with inner thoughts. Ryana wondered if Sorak ever would learn the truth about his past, and if he did, how would it change him? Would he seek out the tribe that he had come from, the people who had cast him out? And if he found them, what would he do? When Sorak finally tracked down the mysterious adept known as the Sage—if he did—would the reclusive wizard grant his desire? And if so, what would be his price? And what if he was doomed to disappointment in his search? The defilers had sought for the mysterious preserver for as long as bards sang songs about him. Could Sorak, without magic to aid him in his quest, hope to succeed where powerful sorcerer-kings had failed?
How long, Ryana wondered, would Sorak search before he gave up on his quest? He had yearned to discover the truth of his origin for as long as she had known him, and he had never been one to discourage easily. She hoped they would succeed, for his sake, no matter how long their search would take. It was not the life that she had hoped for when she first realized she was in love with Sorak, but at least they were together, sharing as much as it was possible for them to share. She might have longed for more, but she was satisfied with what she had.
Sorak, on the other hand, never would be satisfied until he found the answers to the questions that had tormented him since childhood. Nibenay was still a long journey away, and it was but the next destination in their quest. There was no way of knowing where the path would lead from there. Or, for that matter, if it would lead anywhere. They were both sworn followers of the Path of the Preserver, and though Ryana had forsaken her oath as a villichi priestess, the vow she swore as a preserver was one that she would keep until the day she died. She and Sorak were two preservers headed for the domain of a defiler, the realm of the dreaded Shadow King. The gates of Nibenay would easily open to admit them, but getting out again might prove more difficult.
They made much better time riding on the kank than they would have on foot, and by midday, they had reached the point where the caravan route from Tyr came up from the southwest to intersect their path. The traveling was easier after that, following the wide, well-worn and hard-packed trail.
Lyric came out for a time and sang a song, one of the songs the sisters used to sing when they worked together back at the convent. Ryana joined him, taking pleasure in the singing for old times’ sake, and Lyric instantly shifted key to harmonize his voice with hers. Ryana knew she was, at best, merely an average singer, but Lyric’s voice was beautiful. Sorak did not like to sing. His nature was too somber for it, and he felt his voice left much to be desired, but Lyric, using the same throat Sorak used, possessed no such inhibitions and allowed his voice to soar. He was adroit enough to harmonize with her in such a manner that they both sounded good, and Ryana found her spirits lightening as she sang. Even the kank seemed to respond, matching its gait to the rhythms of the song.
When they were finished, Ryana laughed with sheer exhilaration. The desert seemed a far less oppressive place now, and her worries had been banished, if only for the moment. At the beginning of the day, with the vastness of the desert stretching out before them, Ryana had felt intimidated by it—lonely, small, and insignificant. Now, having seen the desert through Sorak’s eyes and filled it with her song, she no longer felt diminished by it. She allowed herself to breathe in the dry desert wind and feel it filling her with its tranquility. She felt marvelously free and basked in the wide open spaces of the table-lands, no longer frightened by its endless vistas, but invigorated by them. Perhaps it was merely a delayed aftereffect of her battle with the thrax, of having faced her fear and conquered it; perhaps it was the gently rolling motion of their mount that had lulled her into a calm, receptive state; perhaps it was the joyfulness of song; or perhaps it was all of those things—or something else, something indefinable. But the desert had won her over. She felt at peace with it and with herself.
As the dark sun began to sink over the horizon, they saw an oasis in the distance, marked by tall and spindly desert palms and large, spreading pagafa trees, their wide, majestic crowns—lush and full in the presence of water—silhouetted black against the orange sky. They were approaching Silver Spring.
“We are going to have company at the oasis,” Sorak said.
She glanced at him, raising her eyebrows.
He smiled and pointed at the trail ahead of them. “You have been lost in reverie again, and were not paying attention. A caravan has passed by here recently The tracks are still fresh.”
“It is hardly fair for you to chide me for not noticing such things,” she said, “when you can drift with your thoughts as much as you like while the Watcher misses nothing.”
“True,” said Sorak. “That is, indeed, an unfair advantage. I apologize.”
“It will be good to see some other people,” she said—
“The caravan will have supplies, and we can trade them kank honey to replenish our provisions.”
“I was thinking more about hearing news of Nibenay,” said Sorak.
“But this caravan is on the route from Tyr,” Ryana said.
“Or else it came up from Altaruk, which means it may have originated in Gulg. In either case, the merchant houses have extensive interests, and their caravans range far and wide. Their drivers will have all the latest news from other cities.”
As the sun was setting and they drew closer, they could hear the sound of
music coming from the spring, and smell the odor of cooking meat. Their mount began to pick up its pace, sensing the herd-raised kanks used by the caravan to haul its cargo. As the kank gathered speed, Ryana remembered what Sorak had said about how kanks were “slow-moving” creatures. Perhaps they were to an elfling, who could run like the wind, but Ryana was now glad she had stayed behind while Screech had gone ahead to meet the wild soldier kanks. She could never have outrun the creatures had they charged.
Soon, they could make out the shapes of people moving up ahead and see the flames of their camp fires. As they approached, the mercenaries hired to protect the caravan and its valuable trade goods came out to meet them. They seemed wary, and with good cause. For all they knew, Sorak and Ryana could have been advance scouts for a raiding party. Marauding bands had been known to infiltrate caravans by posing as simple pilgrims or travelers. In fact, Sorak had foiled just such a plot in Tyr, and saved one of the caravans of a large merchant house from being ambushed by a band of marauders from the Mekillot Mountains Tribes of nomadic elves were also known to attack caravans from time to time, so the mercenaries hired to guard them took no chances.
“Hold where you are and identify yourselves!” one of the mercenaries cried out as they approached.
Sorak halted the kank and called back, “We are merely two pilgrims on our way to Nibenay.”
“Dismount, then, and come forward,” the mercenary said. The others stood with their weapons held ready, alert for any sign of treachery.
Ryana noticed that they had spread out and were looking not only at them, but at the trail beyond them and in all surrounding directions in case their arrival was meant as a diversion for an attack by an armed party. These men were well trained, she thought, but that only made sense. The rich merchant houses could easily afford to hire the finest mercenaries. The merchant houses depended on the caravans for their livelihood, and so they were not known to spare any expense when it came to protecting them.
Caravans fell into one of two basic categories: slow-moving and fast-moving. The advantages to a fast-moving caravan, such as this one, were that the journeys took less time, and therefore were more profitable. Berths were sold to passengers traveling from one city to another, and the fees usually included the rent of a tame kank for a mount as well as basic necessities such as food and water for the journey. A first-class berth with a caravan offered a few more luxuries, but for an extra charge, of course. The slow-moving caravans were usually much more heavily laden, and since their pace made them more vulnerable to attack, they employed huge armored wagons drawn by mekillot lizards. With the exception of the mercenary outriders and the wagon handlers, the entire caravan was contained inside the huge, armored enclosures. This practice had its own advantages and disadvantages. It was a slow and lazy way to travel, in that the passengers simply rode inside the wagons. At the same time, the interiors of these wagons quickly became oppressively hot despite the open ventilation ports, and the frequently cramped quarters were not very amenable to those whose nostrils were easily offended. Because the mekillots were huge, slow-moving creatures and sluggish in their temperament, the drivers did not like to stop, and rest periods were few and far between. The giant mekillots were also difficult to control. Even their psionic handlers were sometimes eaten if they carelessly strayed within reach of the mekillots’ long tongues. Most travelers preferred to book passage with the fast-moving caravans, even if it meant being exposed to the elements throughout most of their journey.
As Sorak and Ryana approached the mercenary captain, they were able to get a better look at the company, and the mercenaries were able to get a better look at them. It was a mixed group, composed primarily of humans, with a few demihuman half-breeds. They were all well armed and in prime physical condition. Ryana knew that this group was not the entire force. Some would be posted as pickets around the perimeter of the oasis, while others would either be guarding the caravan goods against the potential of light-fingered passengers or taking their rest in the camp.
It was a large caravan, composed not only of a train of loaded kanks and those employed as mounts, but a number of light, partially enclosed carriages drawn by one or two kanks in harness. This meant that there were some important personages traveling with the caravan.
Looking beyond the mercenaries to the camp in the oasis, Ryana’s suspicion was confirmed when she saw several large and comfortable tents set up beneath the palms, with guards posted outside them. As she looked toward the tents, a man in robes came out of one of them, glanced in their direction, and started walking toward them at an unhurried pace. A cluster of guards fell in beside him.
“You wear a handsome sword, pilgrim,” said the mercenary guard captain, looking Sorak over carefully.
“Even a pilgrim must protect himself,” said Sorak.
His gaze flicking back to the sword, the mercenary captain said, “That seems like quite a full measure of protection. From the shape of the scabbard, it appears to be a rather unusual blade.”
It was, indeed, Ryana thought, and if the mercenary captain were an elf and not a human, he might have recognized it as Galdra, the legendary sword of the ancient elvish kings.
“May I see it?” asked the captain.
Sorak reached for the hilt, then hesitated slightly when he saw the other mercenaries tense. He drew Galdra slowly. The sight of it produced an immediate reaction among the mercenaries.
“Steel!” said the captain, staring at the wickedly curved blade. “It must be worth a fortune. Now what would a simple pilgrim be doing with such a blade?”
“It was a gift from a very wise old friend,” said Sorak.
“Indeed? And who would that friend be?”
“High Mistress Varanna of the villichi convent.”
This, too, provoked a reaction of great interest among the mercenaries, and they murmured among themselves.
“Be silent!” their captain commanded, and they obeyed at once. He never took his gaze off Sorak. “The villichi are a female order,” he said. “It is a well-known fact that the priestesses do not admit males to their convent.”
“Nevertheless, Sorak was raised there,” said Ryana.
“Sorak?” The man with the robes came up behind the mercenary captain. The guards on either side of him rested their hands lightly on the pommels of their obsidian-bladed swords. “I know that name. Are you the one whose warning prevented the attack on the recent caravan from Tyr?”
“I am,” said Sorak.
“It would be to his advantage to claim that, whether it was true or not,” the captain said. “How do we know he is the one?”
“There is one way of knowing,” said the robed man. And turning to Sorak, he said, “Would you be so kind as to pull back the hood of your cloak?”
Sorak sheathed the blade and did as he was asked. At the sight of his features, and his pointed ears, there was once again an excited murmuring among the mercenaries.
“An elf!” said one of them.
“No, he is not tall enough,” another said.
“A half-elf, then.”
“Neither,” said the robed man. “He is an elfling.”
“An elfling?” said the captain with a frown.
“Part elf, part halfling,” said the robed man.
“But there is no such thing, my lord,” the captain protested. “Everyone knows that elves and halflings are mortal enemies.”
“Nevertheless, that is what he is,” the robed man said. “And he is who he claims to be. We have met before.”
“You were at the Crystal Spider,” Sorak said, suddenly placing the man.
“And lost heavily, as I recall,” the robed man said with a smile. “But my losses would have been far greater had you not exposed the cardsharp who was cheating me. I do not fault you for not remembering me at once. You, on the other hand, are rather more memorable.” He turned to the mercenary leader. “The elfling is a friend to the merchant houses, Captain. Besides, much as I respect your fighting
prowess, you would not wish to try your blade against his. I have seen what it can do. In fact, even all this company would be hard pressed against these two, or have you failed to note that his companion is a villichi priestess?”
The captain, who had been concentrating his attention on Sorak, looked more carefully at Ryana. “Your pardon, my lady,” he said, inclining his head in a small bow of respect. “And yours, elfling. If the Lord Ankhor speaks for you, then my blade is at your service. Allow me to escort you personally into the camp.” He snapped his fingers at one of the others—“See to the kank.”
One of the mercenaries hurried forward to comply, but Sorak caught his arm as he went past. “I would not do that, if I were you,” he said.
“I can handle the dumb beast,” the mercenary said confidently, disengaging himself and moving toward the kank. He jumped back with a yelp of surprise, barely in the nick of time as the kank snapped at him with its pincers.
“I warned you,” Sorak said. “This kank is wild.”
“Wild?” said the mercenary with surprise.
Sorak allowed Screech to come to the fore momentarily, long enough to direct a psionic command at the kank to join the others in the train. As the large beetle moved off toward the tame kanks, Sorak came back to the fore again and said, “Just see to it that food is set out within its reach. But advise your handlers to keep clear of it.”
“You are full of surprises,” said Lord Ankhor. “Come. Join me in my tent. And, of course, the invitation includes you, as well, priestess.”
“You are of the House of Ankhor then?” said Sorak.
“I am the House of Ankhor,” their host replied as they walked back toward his tent, escorted by the two mercenary guards and their captain. “My father, Lord Ankhor the Elder, is the patriarch of our house, but he is growing infirm and advanced in years. I have been directing all the affairs of the house for the past two years, and I had a small fortune in trade goods on that caravan you saved from the marauders. I did not hear of it until after I had met you at the Crystal Spider, but by then, you had already left the city. And left it buzzing, I might add.”
