by caravan routes that connected Tyr with the other cities of the tablelands. From Tyr, one route led toward the merchant village of Altaruk, across the desert to the southwest, at the tip of the Estuary of the Forked Tongue. To the west of Altaruk, the route then curved along the southern shore of the estuary, toward the city of Balk.
Another trade route led directly east from Tyr, branching off near a spring at the midpoint of the tablelands. One branch led north to the city of Urik, which lay near the vast depression known as the Dragon’s Bowl, then east, to the cities of Raam and Draj, beyond which lay the Sea of Silt. The other branch led south, back toward the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, where it branched off yet again, with one branch leading southeast, to Altaruk, and the other east, along the estuary’s northern shore, until it took a sharp turn to the north, through a verdant section at the northeastern boundary of the Great Ivory Plain, toward the Barrier Mountains and the cities of Gulg and Nibenay.
This much Sorak knew, but what he did not know would fill a book. In fact, it was from a book that he had learned the little he knew so far. He had found the book inside his pack, wrapped up in cloth tied with a piece of twine. His first thought had been that one of the others of the tribe had slipped it in there without his awareness, but that seemed unlikely, since he did not own any books, nor were any of the others likely to have taken one from the convent library. The personas each had their own idiosyncracies, but none of them were thieves. At least, not so far as he knew. Then it occurred to him that the only one who would have had a chance to slip the parcel down inside his pack was Sister Dyona, the old gatekeeper. She must have done it when they embraced, as he was leaving. This suspicion was confirmed when he unwrapped the parcel and found the book, together with a note from the gatekeeper. It read:
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.
Affectionately, Dyona
There was no writing on the worn, hidebound cover of the book, but on the first of its parchment leaf pages was written the title, The Wanderer’s Journal. The author, presumably the Wanderer of the title, was not identified in any other way. Sorak had never been much interested in reading. His lessons every day back at the convent had given him a distaste for it, and after struggling through old scholarly texts on psionics and the long, rambling, poetic passages of the ancient druidic and elvish writings, he could not understand why anyone would want to read in his spare time. He had always studied his lessons dutifully, but much preferred spending his hours in weapons practice or out in the woods with Tigra and Ryana, or on extended field trips with the older sisters of the convent. Whether in the mountains or the foothills or the empty stretches of desert far to the south of Tyr, Sorak preferred learning firsthand about Athasian flora and fauna.
Now, he realized that he was heading out into a world about which he knew very little, and he understood the value of Dyona’s gift. The journal opened with the words:
I live in a world of fire and sand. The crimson sun scorches the life from anything that crawls or flies, and storms of sand scour the foliage from the barren ground. Lightning strikes from the cloudless sky, and peals of thunder roll unexplained across the vast tablelands. Even the wind, dry and searing as a kiln, can kill a man with thirst.
This is a land of blood and dust, where tribes of feral elves sweep out of the salt plains to plunder lonely caravans, mysterious singing winds call men to slow suffocation in a Sea of Silt, and legions of slaves clash over a few bushels of moldering grain. The dragon despoils entire cities, while selfish kings squander their armies raising gaudy palaces and garish tombs..
This is my home, Athas. It is an arid and bleak place, a wasteland with a handful of austere cities clinging precariously to a few scattered oases. It is a brutal and savage land, beset by political strife and