“The memory is still within you, as is the ability,” Varanna replied. “And you have skills now that you did not possess before. Reach down deep within yourself, and you shall find the way. As for the time, when next the moons are full, it shall be exactly ten years to the day since Elder Al’Kali brought you here.”
“Then it would be best if I were to leave at once,” said Sorak.
“What of Ryana? She has requested a period of solitary meditation. I have granted her request and must abide by it. She cannot be disturbed until she decides to leave the tower.”
“If I am to reach the Dragon’s Tooth in time, then I cannot delay. And I think it will be easier this way. Tell her...” He moistened his lips. “Tell her that I never meant to hurt her. But the name you gave me is a fitting one. Sorak is the nomad who must always walk alone.”
“Before you leave...” Varanna said, getting to her feet. “Wait here a moment.”
She left the room and returned a few moments later with a long, narrow, cloth-wrapped parcel in her arms. She laid it down on the table.
“This was given to me as a gift many years ago, in token of some small service I performed while on a pilgrimage,” she said, as she carefully unwrapped it “I have never had occasion to use it. I think that it will suit you much better than it has ever suited me.”
She removed the final layer of cloth wrapping and revealed a sword, nestled in a leather scabbard.
“I would like you to take it, in remembrance,” Varanna said, holding it out to him. “It is only fitting that it should be yours. It is an ancient elvish blade.”
By its size, it was a long sword, but unlike a long sword, it had a curved blade that flared out slightly at the tip, rather like a cross between a sabre and a falchion, except that its point was leaf-shaped. The hilt was wrapped with silver wire, with a pommel and cross guards made of bronze.
Sorak unsheathed the sword and gasped as he saw the intricate, wavy marks of folding on the blade. “But... this is a steel blade!”
“And of the rarest sort,” Varanna said, though steel itself was rare on Athas, where most weapons were fashioned from obsidian, bone, and stone. “The art for making such steel has been lost for many centuries. It is much stronger than ordinary steel and holds a better edge. In the right hands, it would be a very formidable weapon.”
“It is truly a magnificent gift,” said Sorak. “I shall keep it with me always.” He tried a few practice swings with the sword. “It is balanced well, but the shape of the blade is an uncommon one. I thought elves carried long swords.”
“This is a special sword,” Varanna replied, “the only one of its kind. There are ancient elvish runes etched upon the blade. You should be able to read them, if I have not wasted my time in teaching you the language of your ancestors.”
Sorak held the sword up, cradled in his palms, and read the legend on the blade. “Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith.” He nodded. “A noble sentiment, indeed.”
“More than a sentiment,” Varanna said. “A creed for the ancient elves. Live by it, and the sword shall never fail you.”
“I shall not forget,” said Sorak, as he sheathed the blade. “Nor shall I forget everything that you have done for me.”
“When all are gathered together in the hall for supper, I shall announce that you are leaving,” said Varanna. “Then everyone will have a chance to say good-bye to you.”
“No, I think I would prefer simply to leave quietly,” said Sorak. “It will be difficult enough to leave without having to say good-bye to everyone.”
Varanna nodded. “I understand. I shall say your farewells for you. But at least you can say good-bye to me.” She held out her arms.
Sorak embraced her. “You have been like a mother to me,” he said, “the only mother I have ever known. Leaving you is hardest of all.”
“And you, Sorak, have been like the son I never could have borne,” Varanna replied, her eyes moist. “You will always have a place in my heart, and our gates shall always remain open to you. May you find that which you seek.”
“The mistress sent word that you are leaving us,” the gatekeeper said. “I shall miss you, Sorak. And I shall miss letting you out at night, too, Tigra.” The elderly gatekeeper reached out with a wrinkled hand to ruffle the fur on the tigone’s head. The beast gave a purr and licked her hand.
“I shall miss you, too, Sister Dyona,” Sorak said. “You were the first to admit me through the gates, and now, ten years later, you are the last to see me go.”
The old woman smiled. “Has it really been ten years? It seems as if it were only yesterday. But then, at my age, time passes quickly and years turn into fleeting moments. Farewell, Sorak. Come, embrace me.”
He gave her a hug and kissed her wrinkled cheek. “Farewell, Sister.”
He stepped through the gates and headed down the path with a quick, purposeful stride. Behind him, the chime was sounding, calling the sisters to supper in the meeting hall. He thought of the long wooden tables crowded with women, laughing and talking, the younger ones occasionally throwing food at one another playfully until the table wardens would snap at them to desist, the bowls of food being passed around, the warm, comforting sense of community and family that he was now leaving behind, perhaps forever.
He thought of Ryana, sitting alone in the meditation chamber at the top of the temple tower, the small room to which he himself had retreated when he needed time to be alone. Her food would be brought to her and slid through a small aperture in the bottom of the heavy wooden door. No one would speak to her, no one would disturb her. She would be left to the privacy of her thoughts until she chose to come out. And when she did come out, she would find him gone.
As Sorak strode away from the convent, he wondered, what must she be thinking? They had grown up together. She had always been very special to him, much more so than any of the others. As Ryana herself had said, she had been the first to extend a hand to him in friendship, and their trust had grown into something that was more than friendship. Much, much more.
For years, she had been a sister to him, not a sister in the same sense as all the women at the convent called each other “sister,” but a sibling. Right from the beginning, they had formed a bond, a bond that would always be there, no matter where they were or how much distance separated them. But they were not true siblings, and they each knew it, and it was that knowledge that precluded true sibling love. As they had grown older and started to feel the sexual stirrings of approaching adulthood, those feelings had become stronger, deeper, and more intimate. It was something Sorak had been aware of, though he had always avoided confronting it.
“Because you always knew it was something that could never be,” the Guardian said within his mind.
“Perhaps I did,” said Sorak inwardly, “but I allowed myself to hope, and in hoping for something that could never be, I betrayed her.”
“How did you betray her?” asked the Guardian. “You never promised her anything. You never made any vows to her.”
“Nevertheless, it feels like a betrayal,” Sorak said.
“What is the purpose of dwelling on this matter?” asked Eyron, a bored voice that sounded faintly irritable in Sorak’s mind. “The decision was made to leave, and we have left. The girl has been left behind. The thing is done, and the matter has been settled.”
“The matter of Ryana’s feelings still remains,” said Sorak.
“What of it?” Eyron asked, dryly. “Her feelings are her own concern and her own responsibility. Nothing you can do will change that.”