The Nomad - By Simon Hawke Page 0,97
emphatically. “More than anything.”
The Sage nodded. “As you wish. But do finish your tea. It will take a slight amount of preparation.”
As the Sage went back to his table, Sorak gulped the remainder of his hot tea. It burned going down, but it felt good after the cold rain. He could scarcely believe that after all this time, he was finally going to learn the truth about himself. He wondered how long it would take the Sage to make his preparations.
The old wizard had untied and unrolled a scroll, and he carefully spread it out upon his cluttered table. He placed small weights at each corner of the scroll, then pricked his finger with a sharp knife and squeezed some blood onto the scroll. Dipping a quill into the blood, he wrote out some runes, then took a candle and a stick of some red sealing wax, holding them over the scroll. Mumbling to himself under his breath, he dribbled a blob of the red wax, leaving an impression of the seal, onto which he then squeezed another drop of blood. He repeated the process three more times, once for each corner of the scroll, using a different one of the seals each time.
As he watched him prepare the spell, Sorak noted once again the peculiar elongation of his form, resulting from the early stages of his metamorphosis. For an elf, it was only natural that he should have been taller than a human, but at a height of approximately six feet, he stood about as tall as Sorak, who did not have an elf’s proportions. Then again, the Sage was quite old, and people did grow smaller as they aged: elves were no exception. Still, Sorak thought, when he was younger, he must have been rather small for an elf. Either that, or the metamorphosis had wrought marked changes in his frame. It must have been extremely painful. Even now, he moved slowly, almost laboriously, the way those with old and aching bones moved. With the changes wrought by his transformation, the effect must have been greatly magnified.
The peculiarity of his eyes probably resulted from the metamorphosis, as well. Eventually, they would turn completely blue, even the whites, so that it would appear as if gleaming sapphires had been set into his eye sockets. Sorak wondered how that would affect his vision. His neck was longer than it should have been, even for an elf, but while his arms were also long, they looked more in proportion for a tall human than an elf, likewise the legs. And he walked slightly hunched over, a posture that, along with the voluminous robe, concealed what Sorak saw more clearly now that he stood with his back to them. His shoulder blades were protruding abnormally, giving him the aspect of a hunchback. They were in the process of sprouting into wings.
What sort of creature was an avangion? Sorak wondered what he would look like when the transformation was complete. Would he resemble a dragon, or some entirely different sort of creature? And did he even know himself what the end result would be? As he thought of how much he had gone through with Ryana to reach this point, Sorak realized it was nothing compared with what the Sage was going through. All those years ago, when he had been the Wanderer, had he known even then what path he would embark on? Surely, he must have decided even then, for The Wanderer’s Journal contained clever, hidden messages throughout its descriptions of the lands of Athas. How many years had he spent wandering the world like a pilgrim, writing his chronicle that would, in its subversive way, guide preservers in the days to come? And how long had he studied the forgotten, ancient texts and scrolls to master his art and begin the long and arduous process of the metamorphosis?
No, thought Sorak, what we have gone through was nothing compared to all of that.
He glanced at Ryana and saw her looking at him strangely. She was tired, and she looked it, and as he gazed at her, he realized that he felt profoundly tired, too. They had been through much. His arms ached from wielding Galdra against the scores of undead they had fought their way through. They were cold, and wet, and bone weary, and the warmth of the fire in the tower chamber, coupled with the warmth of the tea the Sage had given them, was making him sleepy, excited