Simon Hawke - The Nomad

Sorak placed a restraining hand on Valsavis’s shoulder. “No one is going to use any force,” he reassured the old apothecary. “We merely ask that you tell the Silent One that we are here, and request an audience. If the Silent One refuses, we shall leave quietly and bother you no more.”

The old man hesitated. “And who shall I say is requesting this audience?”

Sorak reached into his pack and pulled out the inscribed copy of The Wanderer’s Journal that he had received from Sister Dyona at the villichi convent. “Tell the Silent One that we have been sent by the author of this book,” he said, handing it to the old man.

Kallis looked down at the book and saw its title, then looked up at Sorak. It was difficult to judge anything by his expression. Sorak slipped back and allowed the Guardian to probe his mind. What the Guardian saw there was skepticism and caution. “Very well,” said Kallis. “Please, wait here.” He disappeared behind the beaded curtain. “This all seems pointless,” said Valsavis. “Why not simply go up there and see the old druid? What is to stop us?”

“Good manners,” Sorak said. “And since when has our private matter started to concern you? What is I your interest in all of this? You came to Salt View 1 merely for the entertainment, or at least, so you said.”

“If you are going to search for the lost treasure of Bodach, then I am interested-for all of the obvious reasons,” said Valsavis. “Granted, you have not invited me to come along with you, but you must see that it would be in your best interests to have an experienced and skillful fighter by your side in the city of the undead. And if what they say about the treasure is true, then there is more than enough to split three ways and still leave us all rich beyond our wildest dreams. Aside from which, you owe me, as you yourself admitted. It was I who found you and tended to your wound when the marauders left you for dead, and it was I who helped you rescue Ryana from their clutches. Moreover, there are all my winnings that I was forced to leave behind back at the gaming house.”

“No one forced you, Valsavis. You could easily have kept your winnings, though you would not have won them without me,” Sorak said. “The manager said that he would not try to force you to return them.”

“Perhaps,” Valsavis said, “but after the noble example you two set by returning your winnings, I could hardly fail to do the same, now could I?”

“I thought money was not important to you,” Sorak said. “Did you not say that all an excess of money brought a man was trouble?”

“Perhaps I did say that,” Valsavis admitted, “but it is one thing not to wish to steal another’s sword, however fine a weapon it may be, and quite another to win a treasure by risking life and limb. One act is craven, while the other is heroic. And at my age, I must think about how I shall spend my rapidly approaching declining years. A share of the lost treasure of Bodach, even if it were just a small share, would insure my comfort in my final days. Or is it that you are greedy and wish to keep all of it for yourselves?”

But at that moment, before Sorak could reply, Kallis returned. “The Silent One will see you,” he announced. “This way, please.”

They went through the beaded curtain and followed him through a supply room in the rear of the shop and up a flight of wooden stairs to the second floor. It was dark up there, with only one lamp burning at the head of the stairs. Valsavis tensed, not knowing what to expect. They walked down a short, dark corridor and stopped before a door. “In here,” said Kallis, beckoning them. “Open it and go through first, old man,” Valsavis said.

The apothecary merely looked at him for a moment, then sighed and shook his head. He opened the wooden door and went through first. They followed him, Valsavis keeping his right hand near his sword.

Behind the door was a room divided into two sec-dons by an archway. The front part of the room contained a small, cone-shaped, brick fireplace in which a small fire burned, heating a kettle. The walls were bare, and the floor was wood-planked. Bunches of herbs hung drying from the beamed ceiling. There were two small and crudely built wooden chairs and a small round table made from planks. On it sat a candle in a holder and some implements for cutting and blending herbs and powders. There was a small sleeping pallet by the wall and a shelf containing some scrolls and slim, bound volumes. The room held no other furniture or items of decoration.

On the other side of the archway was a small study, with a writing desk and one chair pushed up against a bare wall. There were no windows in the room. A solitary oil lamp burned in the study, illuminating a white-robed figure with very long, straight, silver hair, who was seated at the desk, facing away from them.

“The Silent One,” said Kallis, before he turned and left the room, closing the door behind him.

The Silent One stood and turned around.

“Gith’s blood!” said Valsavis. “It’s a woman!”

The silver hair hanging down almost to her waist more properly belonged to a woman in the twilight of her life, but the Silent One looked scarcely older than Ryana. Her face was ethereal in its fragile beauty, unlined, with skin like fine porcelain, and her eyes were a bright, emerald green, so bright they almost seemed to glow. She was tall and slender, and her posture was straight and erect. When she moved, as she came toward them, it was with a flowing grace. She almost seemed to float across the floor.

She held out the copy of The Wanderer’s Journal that Sorak had given Kallis. “I believe this is yours,” she said in a clear and lilting voice. “You come with impeccable credentials.”

“But.., you can speak!” said Valsavis.

She smiled. “When I choose to,” she replied. “It is far easier to avoid unwelcome conversation when people do not think I have a voice. Here, I am known as the Silent One, and all save old and faithful Kallis believe I cannot speak. But now you know the truth, and you can call me by my name, which is Kara.”

“No, this is some trick,” Valsavis said. “You cannot possibly be the Silent One. The druid called the Silent One went to Bodach and returned nearly a century ago. The story itself is at least that old. You are far too young.” He glanced at Sorak and Ryana. “This woman is an imposter.”

“No,” said Sorak. “She is pyreen.” Valsavis stared at him with astonishment. “You mean ... one of the legendary peace-bringers?” He glanced uncertainly at the Silent One.

“A shapeshifier?”

“I am not as young as I appear to be,” Kara replied. “I am nearly two hundred fifty years old. However, for one of my people, that is still considered very young.”

“I have heard stories of the pyreen,” Valsavis said, “but I have never met or even seen one, and I do not know of anyone who has. For all I know, they are nothing but a myth, a legend. If you are truly one of the pyreen, then prove it.”

She gazed at him for a moment without saying anything. Finally, she said, “I have no need to prove anything to you. The Nomad knows who and what I am. And that is all that matters.”

“We shall see,” Valsavis said ominously, drawing his sword.

“Put away your blade, Valsavis,” Sorak said curdy, “unless it is mine you wish to cross.”

Their gazes locked for a tense moment. Then slowly, Valsavis returned his sword to its scabbard. No, he thought, now was not the time. But soon. Very soon. The pyreen merely stood and watched them, unperturbed.

“Permit me,” said Ryana, stepping up to the pyreen and taking her hand, then dropping to one knee and bowing her head.

Kara placed a hand upon her head. “Rise, priestess,” she said. “There is no need to pay me formal homage. Rather, it is I who should pay homage to you, for the task that you have undertaken.”