The Seeker Read online

  All she knew was that they had to find a wizard known only as the Sage, something that was a lot easier said than done. Most people believed the Sage was nothing but a myth, a legend for the common people to keep hope alive, hope that one day the power of the defilers would be broken, the last of the dragons would be slain, and the greening of Athas would begin.

  According to the story, the Sage was a hermit wizard, a preserver who had embarked upon the arduous path of metamorphosis into an avangion. Ryana had no idea what exactly an avangion was. There had never been an avangion on Athas, but the ancient books of magic spoke of it. Of all the spells of metamorphosis, the avangion transformation was the most difficult, the most demanding, and the most dangerous. Aside from dangers inherent in the metamorphsis itself, there were dangers posed by defilers, especially the sorcerer-kings, to whom the avangion would be the greatest threat.

  Magic had a cost, and that cost was most dramatically visible in the reduction of Athas to a dying, desert planet. The templars and their sorcerer-kings claimed that it was not their magic that had defiled the landscape of Athas. They insisted the destruction of the ecosystem began thousands of years earlier with those who had tried to control nature, and that it was aided by changes in the sun, which no one could control. There may have been some truth to that, but few people believed these claims, for there was nothing that argued against them quite so persuasively as the devastation brought about by the practice of defiler magic.

  Preservers did not destroy the land the way defilers did, but most people did not bother to differentiate between defiler and preserver magic. Magic of any form was universally despised for being the agency of the planet’s ruin. Everyone had heard the legends, and there was no shortage of bards who repeated them. “The Ballad of a Dying Land,” “The Dirge of the Dark Sun,” “The Druid’s Lament,” and many others were songs that told the story of how the world had been despoiled.

  There had been a time when Athas was green, and the winds blowing across its verdant, flowering plains had carried the song of birds. Once, its dense forests had been rich with game, and the seasons came and went, bringing blankets of virgin snow during the winter and rebirth with every spring. Now, there were only two seasons, as the people said, “summer and the other one.”

  During most of the year, the Athasian desert was burning hot during the day and freezing cold at night, but for two to three months during the Athasian summer, the nights were warm enough to sleep outside without a blanket and the days brought temperatures like the inside of an oven. Where once the plains were green and fertile, now they were barren, desert tablelands covered merely with brown desert grasses, scrubby ironwood and pagafa trees, a few drought resistant bushes, and a wide variety of spiny cacti and succulents, many of them deadly. The forests had, for the most part, given way to stony hills, where the winds wailed through the rocky crags, making a sound like some giant beast howling in despair. Only in isolated spots, such as the Forest Ridge of the Ringing Mountains, was there any evidence of the world the way it once had been, but with every passing year, the forests died back a little more. And what did not die was destroyed by the defilers.

  Magic required energy, and the source of that energy could be the life-force of the spellcaster or that of other living things such as plants. The magic practiced by defilers and preservers was essentially the same, but preservers had a respect for life, and cast their spells conservatively so that any energy borrowed from plant life was taken in such a way as to allow a full recovery.

  Preservers did not kill with their magic.

  Defilers, on the other hand, practiced the sorcery of death. When a defiler cast a spell, he sought only to absorb as much energy as he could, the better to increase his power and the potency of his spell. When a defiler drew energy from a plant, it withered and died, and the soil where it grew was left completely barren.

  The great lure of defiler magic was that it was incredibly addictive. It allowed the sorcerer to increase his power far more quickly than those who followed the Path of the Preserver, which mandated reverence for life. But as with any addictive drug, the defiler’s boundless lust for power necessitated ever greater doses. In his relentless quest for power, the defiler eventually reached the limit of what he could absorb and contain, beyond which the power would consume him…

  Only the sorcerer-kings could withstand the flood of complete defiling power, and they did so by changing. They transformed themselves through painful, time-consuming rituals and gradual stages of development into creatures whose voracious appetites and capacities for power made them the most dangerous life-forms on the planet… Dragons.

  Dragons were hideous perversions, thought Ryana, sorcerous mutations that posed a threat to all life on the planet. Everywhere a dragon passed, it laid waste to the entire countryside and took a fearful toll in the human and demihuman lives that it demanded as a tribute.

  Once a sorcerer-king embarked upon the magical path of metamorphosis that would transform him into a dragon, there was no return. Merely to begin the process was to pass beyond redemption. With each successive stage of the transformation, the sorcerer changed physically, gradually losing all human appearance and taking on the aspect of a dragon. By then, the defiler would have ceased to care about its own humanity, or lack of it. The metamorphosis brought with it immortality and a capacity for power beyond anything the defiler had ever experienced before. It would make no difference to a dragon that its very existence threatened all life on the planet; its insatiable appetite could reduce the world to a barren, dried out rock incapable of supporting any life at all. Dragons did not care about such things. Dragons were insane.

  There was only one creature capable of standing up to the power of a dragon, and that was an avangion. Or at least, so the legends said. An avangion was the antithesis of a dragon, a metamorphosis achieved through following the Path of the Preserver. The ancient books of magic spoke of it, but there had never been an avangion on Athas, perhaps because the process took far longer than did the dragon metamorphosis. According to the legend, the process of avangion transformation was not powered by absorbed life-force, and so the avangion was stronger than its defiler enemies. While the dragon was the enemy of life, the avangion was the champion of life, and possessed a powerful affinity for every living thing. The avangion could counteract the power of a dragon and defeat it, and help bring about the greening of the world.

  According to the legend, one man, a preserver—a hermit wizard known only as the Sage—had embarked upon the arduous and lonely path of metamorphosis that would transform him into an avangion. Because the long, painful, and extremely demanding transformation would take many years, the Sage had gone into seclusion in some secret hiding place, where he could concentrate upon the complicated spells of metamorphosis and keep safe from the defilers who would seek to stop him at all costs. Even his true name was unknown, so that no defiler could ever use it to gain power over him or deduce the location of his hiding place.

  The story had many different variations, depending on which bard sang the song, but it had been around for years, and no avangion had been forthcoming. No one had ever seen the Sage or spoken to him or knew anything about him. Ryana, like most people, had always believed the story was nothing but a myth… until now.

  Sorak had embarked upon a quest to find the Sage, to both discover the truth about his own past and find a purpose for his future. He had first sought out Lyra Al’Kali, the pyreen elder who had found him in the desert and brought him to the convent.

  The pyreens, known also as the peace-bringers, were shapechangers and powerful masters of the Way, devoted to the Way of the Druid and the Path of the Preserver. They were the oldest race on Athas, and though their lives spanned centuries, they were dying out. No one knew how many of them were left. It was believed that only a very small number remained. The pryeens were wanderers, mystics who traveled the world and sought to counteract the corrupting influence of the defilers—but they usuall
y kept to themselves and avoided contact with humans and demihumans alike. When the Elder Al’Kali had brought Sorak to the convent, it had been both the first and last time Ryana had ever laid eyes on a pyreen.

  Once each year, Elder Al’Kali made a pilgrimage to the summit of the Dragon’s Tooth to reaffirm her vows. Sorak had found her there, and she had told him that the leaders of the Veiled Alliance—an underground network of preservers who fought against the sorcerer-kings—maintained some sort of contact with the Sage. Sorak had gone to Tyr to seek them out. In trying to make contact with the Veiled Alliance, he had inadvertently become involved in political intrigue aimed at toppling the government of Tyr, exposing the members of the Veiled Alliance, and restoring the templars to power under a defiler regime. Sorak had helped to foil the plot and, in return, the leaders of the Veiled Alliance had given him a scroll which, they said, contained all they knew about the Sage.

  “But why write it down upon a scroll?” Sorak wondered aloud after they had left. “Why not simply tell me?”

  “Perhaps because it was too complicated,” Ryana had suggested, “and they thought you might forget if it were not written down.”

  “But they said that I must burn this after I had read it,” Sorak said, shaking his head. “If they were so concerned that this information not fall into the wrong hands, why bother to write it down at all? Why take the risk?”

  “It does seem puzzling,” she had agreed.

  He had broken the seal on the scroll and unrolled it.

  “What does it say?” Ryana asked, anxiously.

  “Very little,” Sorak had replied. “It says, ‘Climb to the crest of the ridge west of the city. Wait until dawn. At sunrise, cast the scroll into a fire. May the Wanderer guide you on your quest.’ And that is all.” He shook his head. “It makes no sense.”

  “Perhaps it does,” Ryana had said. “Remember that the members of the Veiled Alliance are sorcerers.”

  “You mean the scroll itself is magic?” Sorak said. Then he nodded. “Yes, that could be. Or else I have been duped and played for a fool.”

  “Either way, we shall know at dawn tomorrow,” said Ryana.

  By nightfall, they had reached the crest of the ridge and made camp. She had slept for a while, then woke to take the watch so that Sorak could sleep. No sooner had he closed his eyes than the Ranger came out and took control. He got up quietly and stalked off into the darkness without a word, his eyes glowing like a cat’s. Sorak, she knew, was fast asleep, ducked under, as he called it. When he awoke, he would have no memory of the Ranger going out to hunt.

  Ryana had grown accustomed to this unusual behavior back when they were still children at the convent. Sorak, out of respect for the villichi who had raised him, would not eat meat. However, his vegetarian diet went against his elf and halfling natures, and his other personalities did not share his desire to follow the villichi ways. To avoid conflict, his inner tribe had found an unique method of compromise. While Sorak slept, the Ranger would hunt, and the rest of the tribe could enjoy the warm blood of a fresh kill without Sorak’s having to participate. He would awaken with a full belly, but no memory of how it got that way. He would know, of course, but since he would not have been the one to make the kill and eat the flesh, his conscience would be clear.

  It was, Ryana thought, a curious form of logic, but it apparently satisfied Sorak. For her part, she did not really care if he ate flesh or not. He was an elfling, and it was natural for him to do so. For that matter, she thought, one could argue that it was natural for humans to eat flesh, as well. Since she had broken her vows by leaving the convent, perhaps there was nothing left to lose by eating meat, but she had never done so. Just the thought was repellent to her. It was just as well that Sorak’s inner tribe went off to make their kill and consume it away from the camp. She grimaced as she pictured Sorak tearing into a hunk of raw, still warm and bloody meat. She decided that she would remain a vegetarian.

  It was almost dawn when the Ranger returned. He moved so quietly that even with her trained villichi senses, Ryana didn’t hear him until he stepped into the firelight and settled down on the ground beside her, sitting cross-legged. He shut his eyes and lowered his head upon his chest… and a moment later, Sorak awoke and looked up at her.

  “Did you rest well?” she asked, in a faintly mocking tone.

  He merely grunted. He looked up at the sky. “It is almost dawn.” He reached into his cloak and pulled out the rolled up scroll. He unrolled it and looked at if once again. “‘At sunrise, cast the scroll into a fire—May the Wanderer guide you on your quest,’” he read.

  “It seems simple enough,” she said. “We have climbed the ridge and made a fire. In a short while, we shall know the rest… whatever there may be to know.”

  “I have been thinking about that last part,” Sorak said. “‘May the Wanderer guide you on your quest.’ It is a common sentiment often expressed to wish one well upon a journey, but the word ‘quest’ is used instead of ‘journey’ in this case.”

  “Well, they knew your journey was a quest,” Ryana said with a shrug.

  “True,” said Sorak, “but otherwise, the words written on the scroll are simple and direct, devoid of any sentiment or salutation.”

  “You mean you think that something else is meant?”

  “Perhaps,” said Sorak. “It would seem to be a reference to The Wanderer’s journal. Sister Dyona gave me her own copy the day I left the convent.”

  He opened his pack, rummaged in it for a moment, and then pulled out a small, plain, leather-bound book, stitched together with animal gut. It was not something that would have been produced by the villichi, who wrote their knowledge down on scrolls. “You see how she inscribed it?

  “A small gift to help guide you on your journey. A more subtle weapon than your sword, but no less powerful, in its own way. Use it wisely.

  “A subtle weapon,” he repeated, “to be used wisely. And now the scroll from the Veiled Alliance seems to refer to it again.”

  “It is known that the Veiled Alliance makes copies of the journal and distributes them,” Ryana said thoughtfully. “The book is banned because it speaks truthfully of the defilers, but you think there may be something more to it than that?”

  “I wonder,” Sorak said. “I have been reading through it, but perhaps it merits a more careful study. It is possible that it may contain some sort of hidden meaning.” He looked up at the sky again. It was getting light. “The sun will rise in another moment.” He rolled the scroll up once again and held it out over the fire, gazing at it thoughtfully. “What do you think will happen when we burn it?”

  She shook her head. “I do not know.”

  “And if we do not?”

  “We already know what it contains,” she said. “It would seem that there is nothing to be served by holding on to it.”

  “Sunrise,” he said again. “It is most specific about that. And on this ridge. On the crest, it says.”

  “We have done all else that was required. Why do you hesitate?”

  “Because I hold magic in my hand,” he said. “I feel certain of it now. What I am not certain of is what spell we may be loosing when we burn it.”

  “The members of the Veiled Alliance are preservers,” she reminded him. “It would not be a defiler spell. That would go against everything that they believe.”

  He nodded. “I suppose so. But I have an apprehension when it comes to magic. I do not trust it.”

  “Then trust your instincts,” said Ryana. “I will support you in whatever you choose to do.”

  He looked up at her and smiled. “I am truly sorry that you broke your vows for me,” he said, “but I am also very glad you came.”

  “Sunrise,” she said, as the dark sun peeked over the horizon.

  “Well…” he said, then dropped the scroll into the fire.

  It rapidly turned brown, then burst into flame, but it was a flame that burned blue, then green, then blue again. Sparks shot f
rom the scroll as it was consumed, sparks that danced over the fire and flew higher and higher, swirling in the rising, blue-green smoke, going around faster and faster, forming a funnel like an undulating dust devil that hung over the campfire and grew, elongating as it whirled around with ever increasing speed. It sucked the flames from the fire, drawing them up into its vortex, which sparked and crackled with magical energy, raising a wind that plucked at their hair and cloaks and blinded them with dust and ash.

  It rose high above the now-extinguished fire, making a rushing, whistling noise over which a voice suddenly seemed to speak, a deep and sonorous voice that came out of the blue-green funnel cloud to speak only one word.

  “Nibenaaaay…”

  Then the glowing funnel cloud rose up and skimmed across the ridge, picking up speed as it swept down toward the desert floor. It whirled off rapidly across the tablelands, heading due east, toward Silver Spring and the desert flats beyond it. They watched it recede into the distance, moving with such amazing speed that it left a trail of blue-green light behind it, as if marking out the way. Then it was gone, and all was quiet once again.

  They both stood, gazing after it, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Sorak broke the silence. “Did you hear it?” he asked.

  Ryana nodded. “The voice said, ‘Nibenay.’ Do you think it was the Sage who spoke?”

  “I do not know,” Sorak replied. “But it went due east. Not southeast, where the trade route runs to Altaruk and from there to Gulg and then to Nibenay, but directly east, toward Silver Spring and then beyond.”

  “Then that would seem to be the route that we must take,” Ryana said.

  “Yes,” said Sorak, nodding, “but according to The Wanderer’s Journal, that way leads across the Stony Barrens. No trails, no villages or settlements, and worst of all, no water. Nothing but a rocky waste until we reach the Barrier Mountains, which we must cross if we are to reach Nibenay by that route. The journey will be harsh… and very dangerous.”