“No, they didn’t,” Ryana admitted.
“So, if women love and men only indulge their appetites, then what were they doing?”
“I never really thought of it that way,” Ryana said. “I never questioned it.”
“If I were a young girl, listening to my older sisters, I probably would not have questioned it, either,” Sorak said with a shrug. “But I was a young boy, and though the sisters never spoke to me of such things, I heard them talk among themselves, and saw them give me sidelong glances, and it did not sit well with me. So I consulted with my female aspects, especially the Guardian, for she was the oldest and the wisest. And she helped me see that what the sisters said was not entirely true.”
“How did she do that?” Ryana asked.
“Well, she rather irritably pointed out that I could have seen it for myself if I had only thought more clearly,” he replied. “I loved you long before I ever felt desire for you, not because I wanted you, but because of who you are. I felt frustration and regret because I believed my love for you could not be consummated, but I still loved you nonetheless. The Guardian said an appetite diminishes with satisfaction, but love never does. If it is truly love, then it grows stronger. And now I know that she was right. And, in a way, so were you. You will never be enough for me. I shall always want more… of you.”
“I love you,” said Ryana, hugging him.
The fire flared abruptly, unnaturally. The thick wood normally burned steadily, but slowly. Even when the flames hit pockets of the resinous sap, they did not normally flare up, they merely sparked and burned a little faster, with a crackling and popping sound. But the flames in the adobe brick fireplace shot up suddenly with a whoosh, several feet high, turning a bright blue and licking up the chimney, and a cloud of blue-green smoke appeared, shot through with tiny, shimmering lights. It did not go up the chimney, but hovered over the brightly burning flames, then moved out into the room and started to spread out like mist.
Sorak and Ryana sat up as the cloud hovered over them, sparkling with dancing pinpoints of energy. As they watched, a brightly glowing shape appeared within the cloud, indistinct, shifting and transparent. It started to resolve into a face, then flowed and shifted once again, moving and sparkling with bright lights, like tiny stars, only vaguely suggesting features. The glow emanating from it was too bright to make out any detail. And then a voice spoke.
Sorak… The voice spoke with a ghostly echo, and it seemed to come from all around them. It was a voice Sorak knew, though it had never spoken to him before. He felt the familiar ethereal presence, serene and powerful. Several times before, it had descended on him and possessed him, but now it served the Sage.
“Kether,” he said, softly.
You are needed in Altaruk, Sorak. Go there. Contact the Alliance. Waste no time. They are in grave danger. Guard yourself. Trust no one. Death comes across the desert. Go. For the avangion.
The glow faded and the cloud started to dissipate.
“Kether, wait!” said Sorak, but even as he spoke, the cloud dissolved until there was only a sprinkling of bright pinpoints in the air, like fireflies seen from a distance, and then those, too, were gone. The flames in the fireplace burned normally once more, and all was as before.
“What was that?” Ryana asked.
“A message,” Sorak said. “A message from the Sage.”
“But… I heard nothing,” said Ryana.
“You did not see the glowing cloud? You did not hear Kether speak?”
“I saw the cloud, but I heard no one speak.”
“Strange,” said Sorak.
“What was the message?” Ryana asked, staring at him.
“That I must go to Altaruk and contact the Alliance. They are in danger. Death comes across the desert.”
“What does that mean?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I do not know. But it seems I shall be accepting Kieran’s offer, after all. We will go and see him first thing in the morning. We must be on that caravan when it departs.”
* * *
Edric the bard stood out in the street, staring at the house. All was quiet. He had seen them go in, and then he had found out whose house it was. It belonged to Tajik, captain of one the dwarven ferries that plied the estuary. He had heard some of the mercenaries talking in the club earlier that night, about how the giants had attacked Tajik’s boat and how one of the passengers had saved everyone aboard with an incredible feat of bravery.
Could he be the one?
That mercenary who had gone with Cricket called him Sorak. Sorak. Elvish for nomad. And he traveled with a villichi priestess.
For a long time, Edric simply stood out in the street and watched the house. He was tempted to go and knock upon the door, but could not bring himself to do it. What could he say? “Are you the one? Are you the Nomad? Are you the one they call the Crown of Elves?”
What would he be doing in a place like South Ledopolus? Perhaps he came to join the caravan to Altaruk. Yes, that had to be it. And if he had crossed with Tajik from North Ledopolus, then he must have come across the desert, from the Great Ivory Plain. What would he be doing out there? There was nothing… unless he came all the way from the Mekillots. A long, harsh journey. Yet, there was nothing else out that way except…
Bodach. The city of the undead.
Edric swallowed hard. Only fools would go to Bodach. Only fools… or heroes. What could be in Bodach that the Crown of Elves would want? Edric moistened his lips as he stood there, thinking. The lost treasure, obviously. That was the only reason anyone would go to Bodach, and even so, they would have to be insane. No
