Simon Hawke: The Seeker

“True,” said Sorak, “but otherwise, the words written on the scroll are simple and direct, devoid of any sentiment or salutation.”

“You mean you think that something else is meant?”

“Perhaps,” said Sorak. “It would seem to be a reference to The Wanderer’s journal. Sister Dyona gave me her own copy the day I left the convent.”

He opened his pack, rummaged in it for a moment, and then pulled out a small, plain, leather-bound book, stitched together with animal gut. It was not something that would have been produced by the villichi, who wrote their knowledge down on scrolls. “You see how she inscribed it?

“A small gift to help guide you on your journey. A more subtle weapon than your sword, but no less powerful, in its own way. Use it wisely.

“A subtle weapon,” he repeated, “to be used wisely. And now the scroll from the Veiled Alliance seems to refer to it again.”

“It is known that the Veiled Alliance makes copies of the journal and distributes them,” Ryana said thoughtfully. “The book is banned because it speaks truthfully of the defilers, but you think there may be something more to it than that?”

“I wonder,” Sorak said. “I have been reading through it, but perhaps it merits a more careful study. It is possible that it may contain some sort of hidden meaning.” He looked up at the sky again. It was getting light. “The sun will rise in another moment.” He rolled the scroll up once again and held it out over the fire, gazing at it thoughtfully. “What do you think will happen when we burn it?”

She shook her head. “I do not know.”

“And if we do not?”

“We already know what it contains,” she said. “It would seem that there is nothing to be served by holding on to it.”

“Sunrise,” he said again. “It is most specific about that. And on this ridge. On the crest, it says.”

“We have done all else that was required. Why do you hesitate?”

“Because I hold magic in my hand,” he said. “I feel certain of it now. What I am not certain of is what spell we may be loosing when we burn it.”

“The members of the Veiled Alliance are preservers,” she reminded him. “It would not be a defiler spell. That would go against everything that they believe.”

He nodded. “I suppose so. But I have an apprehension when it comes to magic. I do not trust it.”

“Then trust your instincts,” said Ryana. “I will support you in whatever you choose to do.”

He looked up at her and smiled. “I am truly sorry that you broke your vows for me,” he said, “but I am also very glad you came.”

“Sunrise,” she said, as the dark sun peeked over the horizon.

“Well.. .” he said, then dropped the scroll into the fire.

It rapidly turned brown, then burst into flame, but it was a flame that burned blue, then green, then blue again. Sparks shot from the scroll as it was consumed, sparks that danced over the fire and flew higher and higher, swirling in the rising, blue-green smoke, going around faster and faster, forming a funnel like an undulating dust devil that hung over the campfire and grew, elongating as it whirled around with ever increasing speed. It sucked the flames from the fire, drawing them up into its vortex, which sparked and crackled with magical energy, raising a wind that plucked at their hair and cloaks and blinded them with dust and ash.

It rose high above the now-extinguished fire, making a rushing, whistling noise over which a voice suddenly seemed to speak, a deep and sonorous voice that came out of the blue-green funnel cloud to speak only one word.

“Nibenaaaay...”

Then the glowing funnel cloud rose up and skimmed across the ridge, picking up speed as it swept down toward the desert floor. It whirled off rapidly across the tablelands, heading due east, toward Silver Spring and the desert flats beyond it. They watched it recede into the distance, moving with such amazing speed that it left a trail of blue-green light behind it, as if marking out the way. Then it was gone, and all was quiet once again.

They both stood, gazing after it, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sorak broke the silence. “Did you hear it?” he asked.

Ryana nodded. “The voice said, ‘Nibenay.’ Do you think it was the Sage who spoke?”

“I do not know,” Sorak replied. “But it went due east. Not southeast, where the trade route runs to Altaruk and from there to Gulg and then to Nibenay, but directly east, toward Silver Spring and then beyond.”

“Then that would seem to be the route that we must take,” Ryana said.

“Yes,” said Sorak, nodding, “but according to The Wanderer’s Journal, that way leads across the Stony Barrens. No trails, no villages or settlements, and worst of all, no water. Nothing but a rocky waste until we reach the Barrier Mountains, which we must cross if we are to reach Nibenay by that route. The journey will be harsh ... and very dangerous.”

“Then the sooner we begin it, the sooner it will end,” Ryana said, picking up her rucksack, her crossbow, and her staff.

“But what are we to do when we reach Nibenay?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Sorak, “but if we try to cross the Stony Barrens, we may never even reach the Barrier Mountains.”

“The desert tried to claim you once before, and it failed,” said Ryana. “What makes you think that now it will succeed?”

Sorak smiled. “Well, perhaps it won’t, but it is not wise to tempt fate. In any case, there is no need for both of us to make so hazardous a journey. You could return to Tyr and join a caravan bound for Nibenay along the trade route by way of Altaruk and Gulg. I could simply meet you there and—”

“No, we go together,” said Ryana, in a tone that brooked no argument. She slung her crossbow across her back and slipped her arms through the straps of the rucksack. Holding her staff in her right hand, she started off down the western slope. She walked a few paces, then paused, looking back over her shoulder. “Coming?” Sorak grinned. “Lead on, little sister.”

They traveled due east, moving at a steady but unhurried pace. The oasis at Silver Spring was roughly sixty miles straight across the desert from where they had made camp upon the ridge. Sorak estimated it would take them at least two days to make the journey if they walked eight to ten hours a day. The pace allowed for short, regular rest periods, but did not allow for anything that might slow them down.

Ryana knew that Sorak could have made much better time had he been traveling alone. His elf and halfling ancestry made him much better suited for a journey in the desert. Being villichi, Ryana’s physique was superior to most other humans, and her training at the convent had given her superb conditioning. Even so, she could not hope to match Sorak’s natural powers of endurance. The dark sun could quickly sap the strength of most travelers, but even in the relentless, searing heat of an Athasian summer, elves could run for miles across the open desert at speeds that would rupture the heart of any human who attempted to keep pace. As for halflings, what they lacked in size and speed, they made up for in brute strength and stamina. In Sorak, the best attributes of both races were combined.

As Ryana had reminded him, the desert had tried to claim him once before, and it failed. A human child abandoned in the desert would have had no hope of surviving more than a few hours, at best. Sorak had survived for days without food or water until he had been rescued. Still, it had been a long time since Sorak had seen the desert, and it held a grim fascination for him. He would always regard the Ringing Mountains as his home, but the desert was where he had been born. And where he had almost died.