“What is this?” Sorak said. “Is what true?”
“You carry Galdra, sword of the ancient elven kings,” said Krysta. “The blade that nothing can withstand. Could the old myth possibly be true?”
“What myth?”
“The one that every elf thinks a mere wives’ tale. ‘One day, there will appear a champion, a new king to bring the sundered tribes together, and by Galdra you shall know him.’ Even half-breed elves raised in the city know the legend, though none would believe it. No one has seen the sword for a thousand years.”
“But I am no king,” said Sorak. “This blade was a gift to me from the high mistress of the villichi, into whose care it was given.”
“But she gave it to you,” said Krysta.
“But... surely, that does not make me a king,” protested Sorak.
“It makes you the champion of which the myth spoke,” Krysta replied. “Galdra’s power would never serve one who was not worthy to bear it.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure I myself believe, but if I had but known, I might not have been so insolent”
Sorak turned toward the half-elf guards, who were staring at him in awe. “This is absurd. Please, get out, all of you. Get out, I said!”
They turned in a jumbled mass and backed out the door.
“When word of this spreads,” said Krysta, “every male and female in the city with elven blood running through their veins will begin to wonder about you, Sorak. Some will want to make you what you wouldn’t be. Others to steal your fabled blade. And if the nomad tribes out in the desert hear of it—”
“Now wait,” said Sorak. “Merely because some sort of myth has grown up around a sword does not mean I am the fulfillment of it. I did not come here to assume some mantle of authority. And if I am to be anybody’s champion, then I shall fight for the Sage.”
“What of the myth?” asked Krysta, somewhat amused.
“For the last time, I am no king!” protested Sorak. “I am not even a full-blooded elf! The line of elven kings died out with Alaron. I do not even know who my parents were.”
“And yet you know Alaron’s name,” said Krysta.
“Only because I heard the story from a pyreen elder,” Sorak said with exasperation, “just as you have heard this bit of folklore. Perhaps this may have been his sword, but the mere fact of its possession doesn’t make me Alaron’s heir. What if some human were to steal it from me? Would that make a human king of all the elves? If it was yours, would the title fall to you?”
“Let me hold it for a moment,” Krysta said, extending her hand.
He sighed. “As you wish,” he said, handing her the sword.
Her ringers closed around its hilt. She bit her lower lip as she held it, gazing down at the blade as if it were a holy thing, and then she took a deep breath, spun around, and brought it down with all her might in an overhand blow upon her desk. The blade bit deep into the wood and lodged there.
“Gith’s blood!” said Sorak. “What are you doing?”
She grunted as she struggled to pull it free, and on the third try, she finally managed it. “I once fought in the arena,” she said. “I am not some weak female who cannot handle a blade. My guards will attest that not one of them could have struck a stronger blow. Now you try.”
“What is the point in scarring your desk any further?” Sorak asked. “Humor me.”
He shook his head, took back the sword, and swung hard at the desk. The heavy desk buckled in the center and collapsed as the blade cut it completely in two.
“According to the legend, the blade’s enchantment will not serve anyone else,” said Krysta, “and if it were to fall into the hands of a defiler, it would shatter. The enchantment will serve only the champion, because his faith is true. Perhaps you are that champion. You are the rightful king.”
“But I have said that I am not a king!” said Sorak. “I do not believe it! Where, then, is my faith?”
“In the task that you have set yourself, and the course that you must follow,” Krysta replied. “The myth speaks of that, as well.”
“It does?”
“It says, ‘Those who believe in the champion shall hail him, but he shall deny the crown, for the elves have fallen into decadence. They must first rise above their downfall and deserve their king before he will accept them, for like Galdra, sword of the elven kings, the scattered tribes must likewise become strong in spirit and be forged anew in faith, before they can be true in temper.’ Whether you like it or not, you fulfill all the conditions of the myth.”
“I am no king,” Sorak said irately. “I am Sorak, and whatever any myth may purport, I have no intention of ever being a king or wearing any crown.”
Krysta smiled. “As you wish,” she said. “But you may find it thrust upon you just the same. If you do not want me to speak of this, then I shall not, but you cannot deny your fate.”
“Whatever my fate may be,” said Sorak, “for the moment, it is bound up in my quest for the Sage. You said that you would make inquiries about the Veiled Alliance.”
“And so I have,” she replied. “I am told that members of the Veiled Alliance can be found almost anywhere, but a good place to make contact is the Drunken Giant wineshop. It is not far from here. But you must be discreet. Do not make any inquiries aloud. The signal that one wishes contact is to pass your hand over the lower part of your face, as if to indicate a veil. If any Alliance member is present, you will be watched and followed, and someone will make contact with you.”
“The Drunken Giant wineshop,” Sorak said. “Where can I find it?”
“I will have my guards take you,” Krysta said. “No, I would prefer to go alone,” said Sorak. “They will probably be suspicious of me as it is. If I went with an escort, it would only make things worse. I want to draw these people out, not scare them off.”
“I will draw you a map,” said Krysta, turning toward her desk. She stared at the two halves of the desk for a moment. Everything that was on top of it had scattered on the floor. “On second thought,” she said, “perhaps I should just give you directions.”
After Sorak had left, her guard captain returned to her and said uncertainly, “What should we do? Should we follow him?”
She shook her head. “I do not think he would like that.”
“But if any harm should come to him...”
“Then the myth is false,” she said, “just as we always thought it was.” She stared down at what was left of her desk. “Besides, I would hate to be the one who tried to harm him, wouldn’t you?”
A group of beggars sat against a wall across the street from the Crystal Spider. Despite the overhanging awning, all six of them were bundled up in their filthy, threadbare, hooded cloaks, huddling together against the evening chill. As Sorak came out of the gaming house, one of them nudged his companions.
“There he is,” he said.
Rokan raised his head and pulled his hood back slightly on one side so he get a better look with his one good eye. “Are you sure that’s him?”
The templar who had nudged him nodded, but kept his gaze averted. He didn’t want to look at the hideously scarred marauder any more than was absolutely necessary. “I’ve been watching him, haven’t I?” the templar said irritably. He disliked having to deal with scum. The sooner this was over, the better he would like it. “Go, get him! He is alone.”
“I will make my move when I am ready, templar,” Rokan replied curtly. “This half-breed has cost me much. I do not want him to die too quickly.”
“But he is getting away!”
“Calm yourself,” said Rokan. “We shall follow him, but at a discreet distance. I will pick the time, and the place.”
After giving Sorak a good head start, Rokan nodded to the others, and they rose as one, following in the direction Sorak had gone. The templar started to hurry after him, but Rokan grabbed him by his cloak and yanked him back. “Where do you think you’re going?” he asked.