Simon Hawke - The Nomad

I am getting too old for this trade, he thought. Too old for chasing across the desert, too old for sleeping on the hard ground, and too tired for playing at intrigue. He had not expected to fall in with the elfling and the priestess as he had. His initial plan had been to follow them, at a distance, and then, to add some spice to the chase, allow them to discover that he was on their trail, so he could watch what they would try to do to shake him. However, a much more interesting opportunity had presented itself, and he had been quick to take advantage of it.

When he had first found the elfling lying on the ground with a crossbow bolt in his back, he had feared that he was dead. There had been no sign of the priestess, and it had not been difficult to guess what must have happened. A quick examination of the ground in the vicinity had immediately confirmed his guess. The two preservers had been ambushed, and the priestess had been taken. It might have ended there and then, but luckily, the elfling wasn’t dead. And when he realized that, Valsavis had quickly changed his plans.

Why not join them? Help the elfling trail the ambushers and rescue the priestess. That would place them in his debt and make it easier for them to trust him. He frowned thoughtfully as one of the girls started working on his massive arms while the other one massaged his feet. He may have succeeded in joining them, but he was not so sure that he had won their trust.

That night, when they had slept in the slain marauders’ camp, they had remained awake for a long time by the fire, talking softly. He could feel them staring at him. He had strained to hear what they were saying, but their voices were too low. Even so, he had studied people too long and too well not to pick up certain indications in their manner.

He felt reasonably sure now that they suspected him. To his knowledge, he had done nothing to give himself away but he was aware of it when the elfling had tried to probe his thoughts. It had felt, at first, like someone tugging very slightly at a string within his mind. He had still been a young man when he discovered that he was immune to psionic probes. Not even the Shadow King could do it, and he had tried, unsuccessfully, on a number of occasions. Of course, when Nibenay had tried it, he had been none too gentle, and the dragon king was strong. Valsavis well recalled how the experience had left his head throbbing for hours afterward. Perhaps it was one of the reasons Nibenay employed him. Even a master psionicist could not read his thoughts. Valsavis had no idea why this was so, but he was grateful for it. He did not like the idea of anyone being able to know what he was thinking. That sort of thing gave enemies an enormous advantage.

Still, he had not expected such an effort from the elfling, and it had surprised him. The Shadow King had warned him that the elfling was a master of the Way, but that had not worried Valsavis overmuch. He had dealt with such people before. They were often formidable, but not invulnerable. And besting them was always a fascinating challenge.

However, when the elfling had first tried to probe his thoughts, Valsavis had expected that it would feel no different from the times when others had tried to do the same. He had been wrong.

The first attempt had felt like the familiar, faint tugging at an imaginary string within his mind. He had carefully avoided displaying any reaction, because he did not want the elfling to know he was aware of it. But the second tug had been much stronger, as strong as when Nibenay had tried it, and Nibenay was a sorcerer-king. That had surprised Valsavis, and it had been difficult to keep that surprise from showing. There had then followed several more attempts, each one stronger than the one preceding it, until it felt almost as if someone were trying to pull his brain out through his skull. And for the first time in his life, Valsavis had not known if he could resist.

He had no idea of the nature of his apparent immunity, and so there was no way he could control it. It was not something he did consciously. It was simply the way he was. But he had never before encountered anything like the elfling’s attempts to batter down his natural mental defenses. It had taken a supreme effort of will to avoid displaying a physical reaction. It had hurt. He had been in agony for most of the next day. Only now had the pain fully abated.

The elfling’s will was incredibly strong, far stronger than he had given him credit for, stronger than he could have imagined. Not even the Shadow King had tried to probe him with such force. It was astonishing. Small wonder Nibenay feared him, and had brought his best assassin out of retirement to deal with him. The probes had failed, however, and Valsavis did not think the elfling would try again. And that was fortunate, for he had no wish to repeat the experience. It had been difficult to get through the day without revealing his discomfort. He had taken staff blows to the head that had hurt less. It was most unsettling.

The repeated probes had also meant that the elfling did not trust him. One did not try to smash his way to another’s mind if he felt trust. The question was, exactly what did the elfling suspect? Was he suspicious merely because he had encountered a stranger in the wilderness who had offered aid for no apparent reason? It was certainly not illogical for Sorak to suspect he might have hidden motives. But did he suspect exactly what those motives were?

Valsavis had to admit that possibility. The elfling was no fool. Neither, for that matter, was the priestess. The elfling had noted how good a tracker he was. Perhaps that had been a mistake, Valsavis thought. He should have allowed the elfling to track down the marauders, but he had revealed the extent of his ability when he had told him how many marauders there had been. That had been foolish. It had been showing off. He should have resisted the temptation, but it had simply slipped out. Now the elfling knew he was an experienced tracker, and that meant Sorak realized he would certainly have been capable of tracking them from Nibenay, across the Ivory Plain.

He may have diverted some suspicion by telling him he came from Gulg, but then Sorak could easily assume that he was lying. No, they suspected, thought Valsavis. He was certain of it. Yet, in a way, that only made the game more interesting. Especially because it placed him completely in control of the situation.

They suspect, he thought, but they do not know. And, unlike him, they would not act on mere suspicion. If he suspected that someone he was traveling with might be an enemy, Valsavis would have no compunction about slitting his throat while he slept, just to be on the safe side. Sorak and Ryana, on the other hand, were avowed preservers, followers of the Druid Way, and that meant they had scruples. They subscribed to a morality that he was not encumbered with, a morality that gave him a marked advantage.

It would be fascinating to play out the game and watch them watching him, waiting to see if he made some slip and gave himself away. Only he would make no such slip. He would watch them squirm in their uncertainty, and he would sleep soundly in their presence, knowing that he could safely turn his back on them because they were preservers and would not attempt to harm him without demonstrable and justifiable cause. Even now, they were probably wondering about him, discussing him, trying to decide what they would do if he chose not to remain in Salt View, but offered to go with them when they moved on to Bodach.

He had already decided what he would do about that. He would stick to them with the tenacity of a spider cactus, following them everywhere they went while they were in Salt View, merely professing concern for their safety as his fellow travelers. They would not protest, because to do so would mean explaining why they did not want him around, and they were still uncertain of him, uncertain enough to think that he might just be exactly what he claimed to be. And when they left for Bodach, he would go along with them, claiming that it would be insanity for them to refuse his help in such a place, and that they owed him at least that much for having come to their aid. He would insist that they owed him a chance at the legendary treasure, a chance at one last, glorious adventure for an old man who would soon retire to live out the twilight of his years in solitude, with nothing but his memories.