Tarrin Kael Firestaff Collection Book 3 - Honor and Blood by Fel ©

by James Galloway (aka Fel)

  "Are all your kind as tall as you?"

  "No," he replied. "I'm tall for my kind, but almost all of my kind are taller than you."

  The buzzing of wings preceded Sarraya, who flew straight at him with a joyful cry. She clamped onto his neck, hugging him exuberantly, giggling like a girl. "I see you feel better!" she exclaimed. "How do you feel, Tarrin?"

  "I'm alright, Sarraya," he replied gently. He reached up and offered his paw to her, and she climbed into it and sat down in his palm. He held her up before him so he could see her as they spoke. "Are you alright?"

  "It never touched me," she replied. "By the time I picked myself up off the ground, it was already dead. Don't scare me like that!"

  "I didn't do it on purpose, believe me," he told her. "At least we found out that the Goddess wasn't kidding."

  "No doubt," she said. "How did you do it? How did you weaken yourself?"

  "I got creative," he grunted. "I used High Sorcery on myself. It was the first time I ever thought to try it."

  Sarraya laughed. "Well, it worked, but let's try not to do that again. You're going to give me a heart attack at this rate."

  "No argument here," he grunted in agreement. He looked to Var. His suspicion hadn't really rose up yet, but then again, Var was all the way over there. It would probably be best to cut it short, before he began to feel threatened by the Selani. "Could you make me some new clothes? Then we'll get moving."

  "Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked.

  "I'm fine, you little worrier," he smiled. "I'm hungry and thirsty, but I can wait until we get the Selani behind us before I stop to deal with it. I want to shake him first."

  "Alright, one new set of clothes, coming up," she said, flitting off of his paw. "What does the master prefer? Something stylish? How about something with frills and fringe? Maybe a nice waistcoat? I hear straw hats are all the rage in Tu Lung."

  "How about the same thing you made last time," he retorted.

  "No imagination," she teased, then bent to the task.

  When the clothes simply appeared, Var stood up. "Pardon my intrusion, but if you want to make it in the desert, don't wear the shirt," he spoke up.

  "What? Why?"

  "Because you carry the brands," he replied calmly. "They are true brands, and any Selani that sees them will know. If you show the brands, you'll avoid a great many challenges. You don't have to meet every clan you cross, but they won't chase you down if they see you."

  "I figured that I'd get into trouble if the Selani saw them," he said uncertainly.

  "You'll get in less trouble if you do," Var told him with a slight smile. "You're not wearing clothes appropriate for the desert and you're still alive, so I guess that your kind are resistant to the desert heat. If that's so, I suggest you go without a shirt."

  "What did he say?" Sarraya asked.

  "He told me I'll get into less trouble with the Selani if I show my brands," he told her. "I thought otherwise, but I'll go on Var's word."

  "Var?"

  "He's the same one I fought," he replied.

  "I know that, but I didn't realize he gave you his name."

  "His friend did," he told her calmly. "What do you think? A black vest, to go along with my fur?"

  "May as well go with style," Sarraya grinned.

  "You don't seem too surprised about the clothes, Var," Tarrin noted as Sarraya conjured a vest. It was black leather, as supple as cloth, plain and utilitarian. Sarraya had even had the foresight to put slots in the back through which the sword's thong could pass.

  "I know that both of you are magicians," he said calmly. "Surely one of you is using whatever magic you know to make the clothes."

  That legendary Selani stoicism. Nothing really surprised them. He put on the vest, and found that it fit well enough. It left his chest and midriff bare, pale skin that was already beginning to visibly darken under the intensifying sun. Without giving it a second thought, Tarrin pulled off the ruined trousers, then put on the new ones. They too fit perfectly, mainly because Sarraya had conjured clothes for him so many times that she had the sizing down to an art. He laced the thongs of his sword through the vest, a trick possible only because of his unnatural dexterity and coordination, then pulled it into place and tied the two ends together with a secure knot.

  The result was a curious sight. Tan breeches, black vest, and it opened almost like curtains to proudly display the black metal amulet around his neck, the symbol of the katzh-dashi, the holy symbol of his Goddess. It had been a long time since he'd left his arms completely bare. He felt more uninhibited in the clothing than anything he'd worn before, and found almost immediately that he liked them. He put on the simple belt carrying a dagger and a few other simple belongings around his waist, and found that he felt ready to move.

  "I appreciate your watching over me, but it's time for me to move on, Var," he said. "I hope your journey back to your clan is a safe one."

  "You're leaving?" he asked. "But I had many questions to ask you."

  "I'm not the kind of person you want to know, Var," he said grimly, looking directly into his eyes as he said it.

  "Perhaps I could travel with you?"

  "No," he said adamantly. "If you could even keep up, I still wouldn't allow it. I don't like strangers. Call it a racial trait. You'd find me to be more dangerous than that kajat was. I can deal with you when you're over there, but if you get too close to me, I may strike at you without warning." He settled the sword into place on his back, giving the Selani a calm look. "You'll be much safer going back to your clan anyway. I attract trouble like that carcass attracted the vultures."

  "A pity. It would be worth the time to speak with you, to come to know one with such honor that a Selani would grant him blood kinship without the approval of her clan."

  "It's a very long story, and one that would change your opinion of me," he said directly. "Just forget it, and forget me. You're better off that way." He shifted his thinking so that he could speak to Sarraya. "Are you ready to go? Anything in our path?"

  "Yes and not a thing," she replied. "Finish scaring the Selani, and we'll be on our way."

  "What makes you think I'm scaring him?"

  "I can hear the attitude in your voice," she winked.

  Tarrin snorted, but he couldn't really argue with her. He was trying to scare off the Selani. He turned to Var as Sarraya flitted up and away, towards the west, to precede him and warn him of any dangers. "I thank you for your advice, and I'm sorry if I sound cold, but reality is a cold place," he told him. "Just go back to your clan. You don't want any part of me. Trust me."

  And with that, Tarrin turned and started bounding from boulder to boulder with the same ease that a human would walk along a street. He quickly put the Selani behind him, going faster than he could follow, his mind already working to make sense of what had happened.

  And to deal with the strange sense of regret he felt at leaving Var behind. Why would he feel that way? Var was a stranger, an outsider, and Tarrin feared him. But then he realized that speaking Selani, to hear it from a native, was kindling his yearning to be with Allia. Var's voice and manner had reminded him of loved ones far away, and a part of him wanted to be near Var if only to feel that he was closer to Allia.

  But he wasn't Allia. She was well out of the port of Tor, maybe even around the Cape of Storms, the peninsula that marked the end of the Sea of Glass and the beginning of the Sea of Storms, the southwestern tip of the mainland of Shacè. She was on board a ship, surrounded by other friends, safely escorted by Wikuni warships as they sailed to Suld.

  Allia was far away. He only had his memory of her, his love for her, to sustain him until they were again together.

  The other problem was Sorcery. He remembered what had happened. It was just like any other time he'd lost his temper, but this time, there was nobody there to reign him in. And there would be nobody from now on. He could not afford to lose his temper again, he knew that now. If he went into a rage, and stayed in
it long enough to prevent himself from using that same trick of High Sorcery to defuse himself, he'd end up dead. The Cat didn't care about life or death, it was supported only by his own fury, and it would not seek to preserve itself so long as it perceived threat to itself. He wasn't about to die now, after having come so far, having survived against all odds so many times. He wouldn't get killed by his own temper. He would not. He had never had much success keeping his temper before, but now the stakes were much, much higher. Now, he had a very good reason to do his absolute best not to fly into a rage.

  His very life depended upon it.

  Tarrin moved away from the Selani, mind working to deal with what had happened when he nearly lost control of the Weave, haunted by images of an eyeless girl whose empty stare chilled his soul, seeking something within that would allow him to use his magic safely.

  It was a mind heavy with problems.

  Up. Down. Up. Down.

  The sea carried with it a kind of numbing monotony, rising and falling as the wind unsettled its suface, wind that could travel thousands and thousands of longspans without encountering something to oppose it. Over this endless bobbing surface sailed eight ships, gathered together tightly, moving at a stately pace dictated by the ship in the center of the formation. Seven of them were sleek, polished examples of maritime excellence, seven Clipper ships, among the fastest ships ever to sail the twenty seas. All were heavily armed, packed to the rails with sailors and Marines, and ready to battle just about anything as they kept a protective ring around the eighth vessel.

  As ships went, this one certainly classified as being a unique sight on the water. It was a Shacèan galleon, one that was painted the most hideously garish bright pink that one could comprehend. Its blaring color clashed with the blue of the sea, caused anything within eyesight to be drawn to gawk at it in horrified amazement. As if the pink hull was not enough, the ship's sails looked like a grandmother's quilt, a riot of conflicting colors, patches of different colored cloth sewn together. Even the ship's rigging sparkled in the sun, looking as if the ropes were spun out of gold, shimmering in the sunbeams that managed to pierce between the clouds in the sky. The paint of the ship was interrupted here and there by makeshift patches, proof that the old vessel had seen some action in the recent past.

  The ship was called Dancer, and it was a ship that fulfilled a specific objective. She was a transport, carrying a troupe of circus performers from port to port, where they performed for the citizens. This day, she was returning from the mighty city of Dala Yar Arak after the troupe performed at the annual Festival of the Sun, one of the high points in Arakite society. On board her decks were circus performers, performers that would usually be manning the rigging and tending to the ship's needs as they plied the waves. But those performers found themselves to be passengers now, shunted aside by a crack crew of veteran Wikuni sailors, sailors trained for sailing a galleon. Wikuni sailors that had extensive battle experience, and could get the ship out of danger should it become threatened.

  The ship carried more than simple performers or Wikuni sailors. Standing at the rail was a being that was rarely seen in the West, rarely seen anywhere except the trackless deserts that her people called home. She was a very tall woman, sleek and slender, whose height defined her more than her appearance did. Dressed in western trousers and a baggy white shirt made of silk that offset her dark skin, she looked very much unlike a lady with which a western man would identify. She had dusky brown skin, the result of generations of evolution under a mercilessly strong sun, but her hair was a silvery white color, a color that made it well suited to deflecting the sun's heat away from her head. Beyond her height or her hair, what made people stare at her more than anything else, was her exquisite beauty. The dark-skinned woman, with her pointed ears and her four-fingered hands and her silver-white hair, was noticed not because of any of those things, but because her face was the absolute epitomy of breathtaking feminine perfection. It was as if the anima that created the female had discovered the pinnacle of its achievement in the white-haired woman, and could now proudly boast of its creation. Delicate eyebrows framed large eyes that were the color of the sky, a striking feature in one with brown skin. A heart-shaped face sported high, ethereal cheekbones, a slender, pert little nose, and perfect lips that any man would find pleasure in kissing. A sharp, slender jaw supported that feminine perfection, rounded out a face that any painter would kill to capture on canvas.

  The outstanding beauty of this woman could turn heads, but those with her had been around her for so long that her beauty no longer struck them with the same force at it had when they first saw her. To them, she was not a paragon of feminine beauty, she was Allia. A Selani, and a warrior at that. A gentle-natured woman with highly refined ideals of conduct and propriety, with a pride that was not arrogance and a careful, methodical manner that made her seem dependable and steady, who also happened to be one of the most lethal, dangerous, most highly skilled fighters the world had ever seen. She looked like a fragile maiden, but any who spent any time with her understood that there was nothing but steel beneath the silk of her skin.

  As with the best of nature's most successful species, this Selani beauty was much more than she seemed. And therein lay her greatest advantage. She was one of the deadliest warriors alive, but she was also a Sorceress. Granted the innate ability to make contact with the magic of the Weave, it was an ability that most people overlooked in her, even herself from time to time. Allia was not one to use her magic for her every mundane task. For her, it was a tool that had use and purpose, but was not to be used unless necessary. Though her magical ability was eclipsed by the raw power of her blood-brother, or the clever adaptability and versatility displayed by her blood-sister, in her own manner she shined as brightly as they did. Among the trinity of the non-humans, who were studied and examined the world over, she was the one most often overlooked.

  And that suited her just fine.

  But these were not good times for her. Her brother Tarrin was alone, with no one but the erratic Faerie Sarraya to watch over him. Alone in the desert, her desert, a place with which she was intimately familiar, a place that would quickly kill the unaware or unfit. It was not a place for her brother, at least not without her there to guide him, teach him, protect him.

  First Keritanima, her beloved bond-sister, was abducted by her father, and now Tarrin had also left her, leaving them to draw away those that sought to use them to get to him. The loneliness she felt was dramatic, poignant, leaving her feeling as if everything she held dear was being stripped from her piece by piece. She knew that she would see them again, but it was no substitution for having them there with her, to laugh with, to touch, to be near her and reinforce the powerful bonds of love and devotion that held them together. Though all three were different species, they were a family, a family more tightly knit and loyal to one another than any family united by blood alone.

  Allia stood at the rail of the garish ship, staring out towards one of the escorting clippers with distant eyes. She ignored the voices behind her, though her warrior's mind kept track of absolutely everyone on deck at all times. Dolanna was behind her, seated on a small bench, talking with Triana. Jula--that dishonorable sugo!--sat beside Triana, as was her direction. Triana kept the younger Were-cat within arm's reach at all times. Camara Tal's voice also reached her, up on the steering deck, as she conversed with Renoit and a rat Wikuni by the name of Kergon, the liason officer and de-facto captain of Dancer now that it was being manned by Wikuni sailors. Phandebrass' rattling voice droned on and on as he interrogated one of the Wikuni sailors mercilessly, seeking some obscure bit of knowledge about which nobody other than him cared. Dar was nowhere to be heard on deck, but that was not unusual. Since Tarrin left, the yong Arkisian had been even more quiet than usual. Tarrin had been one of the few people the young man felt comfortable speaking with, and without his friend there, he felt very much out of place among the older, more seasoned members of their group. Dar fou
nd comfort in talking with her, but since Tarrin's departure, Allia had withdrawn herself from the others, and the young human did not wish to disturb her any more than necessary.

  Time. It seemed so much the chore now. Time would return her family to her, but the wait seemed unbearable. She wanted to turn the ship around, to go back to the desert and find him, but she knew that that was impossible. She wanted Keritanima to give up on her mission in Wikuna and return to her, but again, she knew it was impossible. What she desired would come to her in time, but it was the time that she did not want to face. But the person did not choose the time, time chose the person. There was little she could do but endure, persevere, and wait out time's fickle nature.

  Time aboard a ship was a time of both endless slowness and swift passage. The routine aboard a ship did not change from day to day, making every day drag from sunrise to sunset. But the passage of those days was remarkably swift, leaving one in a curious state of feeling like one was aboard forever, yet finding one's self surprised when the destination appeared on the horizon. It was so for Allia now, for many on the ship. Time dragged by from moment to moment, but they were only days from Suld. Days from where she met her brother and sister, days from the Tower of Sorcery, days from returning to the place they had fled so long ago. It had been a little less than a year, but it seemed more like a lifetime. They had left last fall, and here it was late summer, just before fall once again. They were returning to the place where it had all begun, where she met her brother and sister, where they had learned what they were and what it meant, where Tarrin had come to terms with Jesmind, where Jula had betrayed them. They were returning to the top of the circle, preparing to make another revolution.