Perhaps, as the high mistress had suggested, Kether was an evocation of his higher, spiritual self. To Sorak, however, Kether did not seem to spring from any part of him at all. Kether had never spoken with the high mistress, so her only knowledge of him came from what Sorak had told her of his own infrequent contacts. With most of the others, what Sorak experienced was awareness and communication. With Kether, it was more like a visitation from some otherworldly being.
Kether had knowledge of things that Sorak could not account for in any rational way. They were things he could not possibly have known. And Kether was old, or at least he seemed very old. There was an ancientness about him, a sense of separateness more profound that anything Sorak had felt with any of the others. It was as if, when he had fragmented into a tribe of one, some sort of mystical gate had been opened in his mind and Kether had come through from some other level of existence.
Kether knew of things that happened before Sorak was ever born. He spoke of something called the Green Age and claimed to have been alive then, thousands of years ago. In the few times Sorak had been in contact with Kether, the mysterious, ethereal entity had not revealed very much, but what Kether had revealed were things completely outside Sorak’s knowledge and experience.
Eyron pretended an indifference to Kether because Kether did not “condescend” to speak with him. In truth, though, Sorak felt that Eyron feared him. Perhaps fear was not quite the proper word. Eyron was in awe of Kether because Eyron could not explain where Kether came from, nor could he understand precisely what he was. Kivara, on the other hand, simply never mentioned him. Perhaps she did not know him. The Ranger seldom commented on anything, so Sorak had no way of knowing how the Ranger felt about him. The Watcher was aware of Kether, but she, too, said nothing. And it was hard to get a straight answer out of Lyric about anything. Of all the others who made up the tribe, only the
Guardian had revealed any knowledge about Kether, but even she knew little. With her empathic abilities, she was able to ascertain that Kether was good, and possessed a purity of essence the like of which she had never encountered in any other being. But when Kether came, the Guardian went “under,” as did all the others, and her awareness at such times was limited only to the knowledge of his presence.
What was Kether, exactly? Sorak had no way of knowing. He felt that Kether was a spirit, the shade of some being who had lived far in the past, or perhaps a representation of all his past lives. There was, the high mistress had told him, a continuity throughout the many generations of life that most people were not aware of on any conscious level, but it was still there, nevertheless. Perhaps Kether was a manifestation of this continuity. Or perhaps Kether was some other sort of being entirely, a spirit being who was able to cross over from another world to possess him.
“Questions,” Sorak mumbled to himself as he huddled in his cloak, drawing it around him tightly as the wind whistled through the niche where he had taken shelter. “Nothing but questions, never any answers. Who am I? What am I? And what is to become of me?”
Tigra huddled closer to him, sensing his need for warmth. He ruffled the huge beast’s massive head and stroked it gently. “Who knows, Tigra? Perhaps I shall simply freeze up here in these rocks and that will be an end of it.”
“You shall not freeze,” said the Guardian. “If would have been foolish to come all this way only to fail. Clear your mind, Sorak. Still your thoughts. Perhaps Kether will come.”
Yes, thought Sorak, but from where? From within me somewhere? From within my own fragmented mind, or from somewhere else, some place that I can neither see nor feel nor comprehend?
He inhaled deeply, then slowly exhaled, repeating the process several times as he tried to still himself and settle into a state of serene, thoughtless drifting. He concentrated on his breathing and relaxed his muscles and listened only to the wind and the sound of his own breaths. As he had been trained in the villichi convent, he gradually settled down into a calm, meditative state, shutting his eyes and breathing regularly and deeply....
“Sorak?”
His eyelids flickered open. The first thing he became aware of was that night had fallen and the twin moons hung full in the sky. The second thing he noticed was that he was no longer cold. The wind had not abated, though it no longer blew so fiercely. Even so, he felt very warm. And finally, he saw the figure standing just outside the niche where he was huddled, leaning back against the rock. It was a slight figure in a hooded cloak, an old woman with long white hair trailing down her chest and shoulders.
“For the second time, you called to me, and I have come. Only this time, I find not a child, but a full-grown elfling.”
“Elder Al’Kali?” Sorak said, getting slowly and a bit unsteadily to his feet.
“There is no need to be so formal,” she said. “You may call me Lyra.”
“Lyra,” he said. “I... called to you?”
“Your powers have not diminished,” she said. “In fact, they have grown even stronger. I was right to take you to the villichi convent. It seems they have taught you well.”
He shook his head, feeling a bit dazed. “I do not remember... It seemed that but a moment ago, it was still daylight and...”
Then he realized what must have happened. He had lost a period of time, as had happened many times before when any of the others would fully manifest. However, in this case, neither he nor any of the others had any memory of what had happened during those missing hours. Though he felt slightly cramped from sitting there for so long, he was suffused with warmth and a sense of deep, inner tranquility. Kether. Kether had come, to manifest and make the call that neither he nor any of the others could have made, the call that reached Lyra Al’Kali at the summit of the Dragon’s Tooth, as it had ten years before.
“Come,” said Lyra, holding out her hand to him. “There is a dry gulch running down the mountainside a short distance due west of here. Follow its course until you reach a briny pond, where it ends. Make your camp there and build a fire. It will be dawn soon, and I have my devotions to perform. I shall meet you there shortly after sunrise.”
She turned and started climbing up into the rocks, heading toward the summit. The wind whipped at her cloak as she ascended with firm, purposeful steps. Her cloak seemed to billow out like wings, and then she suddenly took flight. The metamorphosis had taken place in an instant, faster than the eye could follow, and Sorak watched with astonishment as the pterrax rose high into the sky, its large, leathery wings spread out as it rode the wind currents. Within moments, he lost sight of it.
The campfire had burned down to embers. It was just past dawn when Sorak awoke by the shore of the small mountain lake. He felt sated, and knew the Ranger had hunted while he slept. There was no sign of the kill. The Ranger was always careful not to confront Sorak with evidence of flesh-eating, knowing his aversion to it, so Sorak had no idea what had nourished his body. He preferred it that way. His hair felt damp, so he knew that the Ranger, or perhaps one of the others, had washed in a freshwater pool beside the briny lake. The lake was at a significantly lower elevation than the lower slopes of the Dragon’s Tooth, so the morning was pleasantly cool, a welcome change from the biting cold of the previous night.