“No, but you have changed. The spell that took away your inner tribe may have left something of them behind… or perhaps given you something else. We both know what you were, but there is as yet no way of telling what you have become.”
Sorak frowned with confusion. “Perhaps, but if my grandfather had bestowed the gift of Sight upon me, why wouldn’t he have told me? How long was I… gone?”
“Only a moment,” she said.
“It seemed longer.” He rubbed his forehead. It ached slightly. “I don’t know what it means.”
Ryana’s eyes grew wide, and she gasped. “Sorak…look!”
She was staring at him, pointing at his waist. He looked down.
Galdra.
The broken blade was tucked into his belt. He drew it out, staring at it with astonishment. As he touched the silver wire-wrapped hilt, a faint, sparkling aura of blue thaumaturgic energy crackled briefly around the blade.
“How can this be?” he said with wonder. “You saw me throw it into the pool back at the oasis!”
She nodded.
“We both saw it sink!”
She nodded again. “It has come back to you,” she said. “It is an omen.”
“Of what?” he said, with dismay. “I don’t want the cursed thing!” He tossed it aside on the ground.
Ryana picked it up. “That won’t do any good,” she said. “You threw it into a bottomless pool and it came back to you. What makes you think you can simply throw it away now?”
“I don’t understand any of this,” said Sorak. “I thought the spell was broken.”
“Broken it may be,” Ryana said, “but there is still magic in the blade. Apparently, much more than you knew.” She offered it back to him.
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t want it.”
“Take it,” she insisted.
“You take it.”
“It is not for me to carry,” she replied. “Galdra was meant for you.”
“Then leave it. Throw the damned thing away.”
“If you really want me to, I will,” she replied, “but I’ll wager it will only come back to you again. It served you well, Sorak. It was wrong of you to dispose of it in the first place. Galdra is part of your destiny. That much is clear.”
“What does it want from me?” he asked irritably.
Ryana shook her head. “I do not know that it is capable of wanting anything. It does not live. It merely is.”
“It has to be the Sage,” said Sorak, with a grimace. “He must be responsible for this.”
“Whether he is or not,” Ryana said, “it seems you are stuck with it.” She offered him the blade again. “Take it. Things like this do not occur without a reason.”
“But why must they happen to me?” he asked, throwing his arms out in exasperation.
“Because you are Sorak, and it is your fate. Mistress Varanna knew that when she gave you the blade.”
Sorak sighed and took the broken blade from her reluctantly. “All it brings is trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?” asked a voice from behind them.
They turned to see a figure coming toward them, silhouetted against the light from the watch-fire behind him.
“It is only I, Edric the Bard,” he said as he came closer. “I did not mean to intrude. It seems that I was not the only one who could not sleep tonight.” His gaze fell on the blade. “What have you there? A dagger?” He held his hands up, palms out. “There is no need for that, my friend. I am unarmed, as you can see.”
Sorak glanced down at the blade in his hand. “Sorry,” he said, tucking it away into his belt. “It was not meant to threaten you.” He wished he had his cloak to cover it, but he had left it back inside the tent. He saw Edric staring intently at the blade.
“You carry a broken sword?” asked Edric. “Why?”
Sorak shrugged, wishing the bard would go away. “It has sentimental value to me.”
“It looks like steel!” said Edric, still staring at the broken sword in Sorak’s belt. “And those are elvish runes upon the blade, are they not?”
Sorak was growing impatient. The last thing he wanted was to pursue this conversation. “Are all you bards so curious?” he asked in a surly tone.
“Forgive me, I did not mean to pry,” said Edric, placating. “But there is an old legend about a sword made of elven steel, with runes upon the blade—”
“It is merely a broken sword and nothing more,” said Sorak. “It is an heirloom of my family, scarcely worth the price of a few drinks now that it is broken, but I have an attachment to it.” Or, more to the point, it has an attachment to me, he thought.
“How is Cricket?” asked Ryana to change the subject.
“Sound asleep, my lady,” said Edric. “She is not accustomed to riding such long distances and was complaining that her legs and seat were sore.”
“She seemed fit enough to me,” Ryana said.
“Well,” said Edric, “perhaps one uses different muscles for dancing than for riding.” He shrugged. “I know little of such things. She will doubtless be a bit stiff in the morning, and there will be some soreness, but another day or so and she should work it out. In the meantime, I can put up with her whining and complaining.” He grinned. “Bards are accustomed to that sort of thing, you know.”
“Perhaps I could be of some assistance,” said Ryana. “I have some skill at healing.”
“I am certain she would be grateful for your help, my lady,” Edric said with a slight bow. “I will pass on your kind offer. Well, I have intruded on your time enough. There is yet some time until dawn, and I think I shall go stretch out for a while before the camp is abustle.” He shook his head. “Never could get used to keeping normal hours. Good night to you, or perhaps I should say good morning. Well, you know what I mean.”
He gave them a slight bow and left.
Sorak scowled at his retreating form. “I don’t like that elf,” he said in a low voice.
“He seems harmless enough,”
