As Sorak rose to a sitting position, he saw a rasdinn come trotting along the lake shore toward him. Tigra’s ears pricked up at the scent of the doglike creature, its silvery hide gleaming in the morning sun. The animal was no danger to Sorak, its diet being exclusively vegetarian. Its amazingly efficient system enabled it to extract trace metals from almost any type of plant, even poisonous ones, to which the rasclinn was immune. This gave its hide an extremely tough, almost metallic texture, a hide highly prized by hunters, who sold it for armor. Rasclinn were usually small, standing no more than three feet at the shoulder and weighing no more than about fifty pounds. However, this one was a larger specimen, and when it spotted Sorak, it trotted eagerly toward him instead of running off in the opposite direction. The tigone made no move toward it, and a moment later, Sorak saw why. He blinked and saw Lyra getting up from all fours, brushing her hands off on her cloak.
“These old bones are creaking more and more these days,” she said with a sigh as she approached Sorak’s camp. “And they feel the chill more with each passing year.” She settled down on the ground next to the burning embers of the campfire, tossed a few pieces of wood on, and warmed herself by the flames. Her ancient face was as wrinkled as old parchment, but her eyes still sparkled with vitality. “I don’t suppose you have any Tyrian brandy with you?”
“I have only water,” Sorak said, “but you are welcome to it. The waters of the lake are fresh and cool, and I have refilled my bag from it.”
“Then water shall do nicely,” Lyra said, accepting the water bag and squirting a stream into her mouth. “Ahh. Traveling is thirsty work. And since I am always traveling, I am always thirsty. But some Tyrian brandy would have been very welcome after that cold trek.”
“What is Tyrian brandy?”
She raised her eyebrows with surprise. “Ah, but of course. You have lived a sheltered life in the villichi convent. As I recall, the villichi make a most excellent wine out of bloodcurrants.”
“I have tried it,” said Sorak, “but it was not to my liking. I found it much too sweet for my taste”
“Well, then, you may like Tyrian brandy. It is not sweet, but tart, and wonderfully smooth. But see that you approach it with caution the first few times you try it. More than a goblet will make your head spin, and you will likely wake up the next morning with a frightful headache and an empty purse.”
“I am no stranger to headaches,” Sorak said, “and I do not even own a purse.”
Lyra smiled. “You will have much to learn, if you should ever venture down into the cities.”
“I have much to learn, in any case,” said Sorak. “And that is why I have sought you out I had hoped that you could set my feet upon the path to knowledge.”
She nodded. “You have left the convent then to find your own way in the world. That is as it should be. The convent was a good training ground for you, but the school of life has much to teach, as well. What knowledge do you seek?”
“Knowledge of myself,” said Sorak. “I have always felt a lack from not knowing who my parents were, or where I came from. I do not even know my true name. I feel that I must know these things before I can discover a purpose in my life. I had hoped that you could help me, since it was you who found me and brought me to the convent.”
“You thought that I could tell you these things?” she asked.
“Perhaps not,” Sorak replied, “but I thought that if I had said anything when first you found me, you might remember. If not, perhaps you could tell me where you found me, and I might start my quest from there.”
Lyra shook her head. “You were near death when I found you in the desert,” she said, “and you spoke not a single word. As for where I found you, I can no longer remember. I had followed your call, and I had not marked the spot. One stretch of desert looks much like any other. I cannot see how that would be of help to you, in any case. How long has it been, ten years? Any trail would have long since been eradicated, even psychic impressions left behind would have been blurred, unless they were extremely powerful, such as those sometimes imprinted on the land by some great battle.”
“So then you cannot help me?” Sorak said, feeling disappointment welling up inside him.
“I did not say that,” Lyra replied. “I cannot provide you with the answers that you seek, but I may be able to help you. That is, assuming you will accept my advice.”
“Of course I shall accept it,” Sorak said. “Without you, I would have had no life. I owe you a debt that I shall never be able to repay.”
“Perhaps you can repay it, and help yourself at the same time,” said Lyra. “You know the purpose of the peace-bringers? You have been educated in the Druid Way?”
Sorak nodded.
“Good. Then you have been taught about the defilers and the sorcerer-kings who drain the life out of our world. You have been taught about the dragons. What do you know of the avangion?”
“A legend,” Sorak said, with a shrug. “A myth to keep hope alive for the downtrodden.”
“That is what many people believe,” said Lyra, “yet the story is much more than a legend. The avangion is real. It lives. Or, I should say, he lives, for the avangion is still a man.”
“You mean that someone has actually begun the metamorphosis?” asked Sorak, with surprise. “Who?”
“No one knows who he is,” Lyra replied, “and no one knows where he may be found. At least, no one I have ever met has claimed to know the hermit wizard’s whereabouts, or even his true name. He is known only as the Sage, for knowledge of his true name would give power to his enemies, which include all the sorcerer-kings. However, there are those who are aware of his existence, and who receive communications from him from time to time, for it gives hope to their cause. The Veiled Alliance is one such group, the pyreens are another. And the high mistress of the villichi is aware of him, as well. And now you know.”
“Mistress Varanna knew?” Sorak said. “But she never spoke to me of this. And what has this hermit wizard to do with me?”
“Varanna gave you Galdra, did she not?” Sorak frowned. “Galdra?”
“Your sword,” said Lyra.
Sorak picked up the elvish sword and scabbard lying by his side. “This? She made no mention of its having a name.”
“It bears writing on its blade, does it not?” said Lyra. “There are ancient elvish runes that spell out the legend: ‘Strong in spirit, true in temper, forged in faith?’”
“Yes,” said Sorak. “I said it was a noble sentiment, and the mistress replied that it was more than that, it was a creed. That so long as I lived by it, the blade would always serve me well.”
“And so it shall, unless, of course, it was not given to you, and you stole it.”
“I am not a thief,” said Sorak, his pride offended. “I did not think you were,” said Lyra with a smile. “But it is good to see that you have pride. That means you are strong in spirit. And so long as your spirit remains strong, Galdra will be true in temper. Its blade is forged in faith, the faith of whomever wields it. So long as your faith is true, Galdra’s blade shall never fail you, and its edge shall cut through whatever obstacle it may encounter.”
Sorak slowly pulled the sword partway out of the scabbard. “Why did the mistress not tell me any of these things?”
“Perhaps she meant for me to tell you,” Lyra said.