Ryana’s words had shamed the others, and they had grudgingly accepted Sorak in their hall. His bed was placed next to Ryana’s, and from that day forth, she had assumed responsibility for him like a protective older sister, even though they were roughly the same age. It was Ryana who daily reported to Varanna on Sorak’s progress, and the first time Sorak ever spoke, it was to utter Ryana’s name. The two became practically inseparable.
The fears of the other young priestesses about a male elfling in their midst proved groundless, and soon they were all calling him “little brother.” They adopted the tigone cub as if it were their pet, but while it tolerated their caresses, it was clearly Sorak’s beast. He called it Tigra. At night, they would let Tigra out to hunt for food, and shortly before daybreak, the gatekeeper would always hear it scratching at the heavy wooden doors. When it wasn’t out hunting, it slept at the foot of Sorak’s bed or followed him as if it were his shadow. And as time passed, it grew to be a very large shadow.
Sorak grew as well. As Varanna watched him practicing down in the courtyard, his leanly muscled chest and arms gleaming with sweat, she recalled how scrawny and emaciated he had been when Elder Al’Kali had first brought him to the temple. He had grown into a fine, strong, and very handsome young man. No, she thought, mentally correcting herself, not a man, for he wasn’t human, after all. However, the blend of elf and halfling parentage had resulted in his looking almost completely human, except for his pointed ears, which his thick, shoulder-length, black hair often hid. He was tall, just under six feet, and his features, so delicate and elfin when he was a child, had grown sharp and rather striking. However, he did not possess any of the exaggerated features of an elf. Exaggerated, at least, from a human perspective. His ears were the same size and appearance as human ears, except for their sharp points. His eyes were deeply set and very dark. The eyebrows were no longer as delicately arched as they had been when he was a child, but high and narrow. The nose was sharp and almost beaklike, yet not unattractive. The cheekbones were prominent, and the face was narrow.
Overall, Sorak had a rather feral, haunted look about him. He had the kind of face people would immediately notice and remember, just as they would remember his direct, unsettling gaze. It was the sort of gaze that would make people look away. There was something in that gaze that would always mark Sorak as different. Varanna could not say exactly what it was, but she knew no one could fail to notice it. There was a turbulence in his gaze that hinted at the storm behind it.
In all her years, Varanna had only twice before encountered the phenomenon the villichi called a tribe of one. Both of the affected people were female, both were born villichi, and both had suffered terrible abuses as small children. The two women Varanna had known were senior priestesses at the temple when she was a mere girl, and had died long since. Varanna had never even heard of any others. The condition was so rare that, to Varanna’s knowledge, no one on Athas knew about it save for the villichi. Yet, she had long suspected that being a tribe of one did not result from being born villichi, but from some painful and unbearable experience in an early stage of life that the young mind simply could not cope with. And so the mind fragmented into discarnate entities.
She was not certain if it had anything to do with psionic talent, but there did seem to be a relationship between the two. It was as if the fragmentation of the mind somehow resulted in a compensation of abilities.
For all Varanna knew, this fragmentation could happen to anyone, and there may well have been other, similar cases among normal humans, perhaps even among the other humanoid species of Athas, though she had never heard of any. Of course, if no one understood the condition, or were even aware it could exist, it might simply pass for madness.
Most people, she thought, would undoubtedly consider it madness, yet it did not seem to result in delusions or irrational behavior. Sorak, however, showed an inconsistency of behavior that could seem irrational because it was not the behavior of the same individual, but of different individuals sharing the same body, each with his or her own distinct voice and personality. And, Varanna soon discovered, each with distinct abilities.
Varanna was not certain how many of them there were. In the beginning, Sorak had not conspicuously displayed any of his other personalities, but he did experience occasional lapses—periods of time he later could not account for, could not remember. It was as if he had been asleep, but his behavior did not seem to change dramatically during those times. However, Varanna knew that during those lapses, one of his other personalities was in control, and she learned to watch for changes in behavior that would signal such lapses.
The changes were often subtle, but they were nevertheless discernable to anyone who knew Sorak well. It was as if the other entities residing in his mind were cautiously attempting to conceal their emergence. As Varanna observed Sorak’s different aspects, she soon learned to differentiate them.
The first one she had met was called the Guardian. The first time she had knowingly spoken with the Guardian, Sorak was ten or eleven years old.
A curious pattern had developed in his education, a pattern that exasperated his instructors. They knew Sorak had unusually powerful abilities, but he did not seem to respond well to psionic training. He grew frustrated with his repeated failures, yet stubbornly kept trying. Regardless of the effort, however, he could not perform even the most elementary psionic exercises. He would concentrate until his face turned red and sweat started to break out on his forehead, all to no avail. Then, when he was utterly exhausted and apparently had no energy left to continue, he would suddenly accomplish the exercise successfully, without even being aware of having done so. His instructors were at a loss to account for this peculiarity, and Varanna decided to look into it herself. She summoned Sorak and gave him a simple exercise in telekinesis.
She placed three small balls on a table before him and told him to lift as many as he could with the power of his mind. He concentrated fiercely, but to no avail. He could not even move one. Finally, he gave up and covered his face with his hands.
“It is no use,” he moaned miserably. “I cannot do it.”
The three balls suddenly rose into the air and began to describe graceful and complicated arabesques, as if manipulated by an invisible juggler.
“Yes, Sorak, you can,” Varanna said. “Look.”
And when Sorak looked up, the three balls all dropped to the floor.
“You see? You did it,” said Varanna.
Sorak sighed with frustration. “It happened again,” he said. “When I try, I cannot do it. When I stop trying, I succeed, but I do not know how!”
“Perhaps you simply try too hard,” Varanna suggested.
“But even when I try only a little, I still cannot do it,” he said with exasperation. “It simply seems to happen by itself.”
“Nevertheless, it is you who are doing it,” Varanna replied. “Perhaps, in your anxiety, you are creating a block for your abilities, and when you give up in frustration, the block is dissipated, allowing the task to be accomplished, if only for a moment. If you would allow me to probe your thoughts, perhaps I could discover where the problem lies.”
“I have no objection, Mistress,” Sorak said, “and yet a part of me seems reluctant to allow it. I do not know why.”
Varanna knew why, but up to that point, Sorak seemed unaware of his true nature, and she did not wish to prod him in directions he was not yet ready to explore. “You know you have nothing to fear from me, Sorak,” she said.