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. . . .
You promised. . . .”
His own voice sounded as if it were coming from very far away. He tried to rise again, but his limbs wouldn’t obey him. He saw the pterran gazing down at him impassively, and he glanced toward Kara, but he could no longer make out her features. And then consciousness slipped away as everything went dark and he experienced a dizzying, falling sensation. . . .
11
“Sorak …” The voice came from all around him Sorak, listen to me. . . .”
He floated in darkness. He tried to open his eyes but found he could not. He felt somehow detached from his body.
“Sorak, do not try to resist. There is no need to be afraid, unless it is the truth you fear. The long journey that has brought you here was but the beginning. Now you are about to depart upon another journey, a journey deep within your own mind. The answers that you seek all lie there.”
It was the voice of the Sage speaking to him, Sorak realized, coming from a great distance, though he could make each word out clearly. He had no sense of time or place, no feelings of physical sensation. It was almost as if he had drifted up out of his body and was now floating somewhere in the ether, devoid of form and feeling.
“It will seem as if my voice is growing fainter as you travel farther into the deepest recesses of your mind,” the Sage said. “Let yourself go. Release all thoughts and considerations, all worries and anxieties, all apprehensions, all volition, and simply give yourself over to the experience about to unfold for you.”