"I'm not pregnant yet," she replied bluntly. "And with my husband gone from home now..."
"So we should ask other Guardians—" He stopped speaking when he heard a familiar footstep behind him. He glanced over his shoulder to see Haydar approaching them. He almost smiled, pleased as always by how content her face was these days. He and she were together after such a long time apart, and she had work to keep her busy. Unlike almost everyone else, she even liked living at Belitar; she enjoyed the challenge of making Baran's ruins inhabitable for the sirana—and perhaps a baby.
"What is it?" he asked her.
"The sentries say a Guardian is approaching." Haydar glanced at Mirabar and added, "They say it's Cheylan, sirana."
"Cheylan! Dar be thanked! That's who we can send to try to prevent Kiloran from taking over Wyldon's territory." Mirabar started for the door, then stopped and turned to Najdan again. "He... He can't cross the moat, can he?"
"No, sirana. No one else can enter Belitar until Baran returns and permits it." Najdan added, "I used the boat to go meet Wyldon's courier."
"So we'll row across and meet Cheylan on the other side of the moat?"
"Yes." And there, in full view of Baran's many sentries, there would be no opportunity for Cheylan to exchange tender words, let alone improper embraces, with Mirabar.
There were ways in which Baran was shrewder than Tansen was, Najdan reflected.
"Can't you go hunt something?" Jalilar asked Ronall.
"Hmm?" He lay naked on his back, wishing the Sanctuary's bed were more comfortable. And bigger. The two of them were always uncomfortably squashed together when they made love in it.
Well... love might be an exaggerated word for what they shared in this bed, or in the other places where they had mated as carelessly as wild animals ever since Ronall's ribs started healing.
Jalilar was a voluptuous and sensual woman, and Ronall's brief flirtation with celibacy had ended within a few days of arriving here. Her body brought him endless and varied delight, as did her frank, earthy passion. No wonder so many shallah men had that swaggering, smug air about them; if their famously modest wives were all this uninhibitedly sexual in private, they had plenty to be pleased about.
Unfortunately, Jalilar's energetic nature as a lover had many annoying corollaries. She expected him to do work around the Sanctuary, as she did, and she didn't seem to understand that he had never worked in his entire life and didn't know how—or have any interest in learning. Jalilar had a shallah's traditional contempt for pain and weakness, so she disapproved of the way Ronall coddled his healing injuries rather than manfully ignoring them. And although she wouldn't leave Sanctuary grounds—for reasons which she refused to specify—she had no compunction about constantly nagging him to do so.
Very soon, he acknowledged privately, she would nag him right into leaving for good. This had been a delightful idyll, but he could now feel it turning into a mistake—and the Three knew what a familiar feeling that was for him.
"Go hunt something," Jalilar repeated, rising from the bed and reaching for her simple homespun clothes. "We're out of fresh meat, and the Sister's supplies are dwindling."
She frowned, looking both sad and worried. He suspected she was again thinking about her husband, who had abandoned her here. Jalilar wouldn't say much about that, but Ronall gathered that she hadn't wanted to be left here and she blamed her husband for her current situation. Ronall fully suspected she was sleeping with him now for revenge as much as out of sheer loneliness.
He watched her pull the humble fabric over her firm, golden flesh, then start to tie back her coarse, gleaming, black hair.
"I don't have a horse," Ronall pointed out, not at all eager to stalk these mountains in search of food.
"So?"
"I've only ever hunted on horseback."
She snorted in disdain, as she often did when the subject of his privileged existence came up. "It cannot be so hard on foot. Everyone does it."
He sighed. "I know. Your brother regularly killed mountain deer on foot, and then carried them home on his shoulders without ever drawing a deep breath." Jalilar's brother, some paragon of every manly virtue ever defined, had died during the rebellion, though she wouldn't say how. "And your husband can catch wildfowl with his bare hands."
"He usually sets a snare," she prodded, lifting one dark brow.
"I don't know how."
She sighed. "What can you do?"
"Very little." He rose to his feet, reached for a bottle of fire brandy, and admitted, "Almost nothing."
She looked exasperated. "We need meat."
"If you make some snares and tell me how to set them," he said, relenting, "I'll go do it."
Jalilar rolled her eyes. "Very well."
She turned away from him, her whole attitude remote now that passion had been sated. Ronall watched her finish dressing, admiring her grace... and thinking again about leaving her.
If only he still had a horse, he mused regretfully, he could leave here tomorrow. But without one, the thought of walking to his next destination... Actually, no, he didn't have a destination. He couldn't return to Elelar's estate, since she might be there now, and he never wanted to face her again (no matter how much he amused himself by picturing her finding Chasimar there).
Where would he go? He didn't know. The empty ache that lived inside him was deeper, more hollow than ever. His vague and nameless hunger for... for something was eating him alive. He swallowed more fire brandy, knowing by now that it couldn't drown the beast consuming him, and yet still willing to try. What else was there to do?
Jalilar turned her head, and he saw her dark eyes flash as she watched him drink. She said nothing. She never said anything about his drinking, actually, but he knew it disgusted her. She thought his hunger for alcohol and oblivion was a weakness. And she was right. So he shrugged off her dark, quiet gaze and drank again, suspecting that she knew he was thinking of leaving soon and wouldn't be very sorry to see him go.
She suddenly drew a sharp breath. "Someone's coming," she warned, her glance taking in his nakedness.
He crossed the Sanctuary and reached for his clothes without asking how she knew. Her mountain-born ears always heard approaching pilgrims well before he did. This Sanctuary was isolated, but they still had visitors once every few days. He had learned by now that Jalilar preferred to remain hidden and let him make sure their visitors weren't assassins. He wondered if her fear of the Society was mere prudence, or if it had something to do with why she wouldn't leave Sanctuary grounds. She didn't tell him and, since there were so many questions he would rather not answer either, he didn't demand an explanation.
It was after midday now, but still early enough that Ronall figured he could reasonably hope their guests were just stopping for food and water rather than planning to spend the night. Ronall had to sleep outside, rather than in Jalilar's bed, whenever visitors spent the night here.
He finished pulling on his clothing, now in tatters thanks to the bandits who had attacked him, briefly met Jalilar's eyes, and then went outside. Another recent explosion from the volcano had filled the sky with ash, streaking it with fantastic colors even at this time of day.
To his relief, the new arrivals were shallaheen, not assassins. Two grown men and a... a sea-born boy, Ronall realized in surprise. As incongruous as the sea-born lad was in these surroundings, though, it was the taller of the two shallaheen who captured Ronall's attention. He had rarely seen a more intense-looking man. The shallah was lean, with a serious, hawk-like face, hotly dark eyes, and long coarse hair that was even blacker than Jalilar's. His tattered clothes were liberally stained... with blood, Ronall suspected, which someone had unsuccessfully tried to wash out.
Ronall took a step back, suddenly wondering if he was wrong, if this was an assassin. The shreds of the man's clothes revealed enough skin to display a wealth of combat scars, and he was armed... "With two swords," Ronall murmured, realizing. Finely crafted hilts stuck out of long, s
lender sheathes in an engraved leather harness which fit the warrior as if he'd been born wearing it. Even Ronall knew that one man in all of Sileria was famous for such an appearance. "Tansen?" he blurted doubtfully.
The warrior stopped and gazed at him, assessing Ronall. Evidently realizing they'd never met, he replied, "Yes." His quiet voice was deep, as if it belonged to a larger man.
Ronall just stared. So this was Tansen, the most famous warrior in Sileria after the dead Firebringer. He glanced down at the torn neckline of the man's homespun tunic and saw—yes, there it was—the start of that famous scar of his, the one some Kintish shatai-kaj had carved into his chest with a red-hot poker, Dar have mercy, to mark the successful completion of his training as a swordmaster.
"Tansen," Ronall repeated, sure now.
The man who killed my wife's lover, he thought with a faint grimace, remembering what he had learned when dallying with Torena Chasimar's chatty maid.
The man who was now leading Sileria in a bloodfeud against the Society. Interesting—Tansen didn't look that crazy. Then again, shallaheen loved a bloodbath, even the best of them.
Tansen's gaze remained impassive. "We're looking for Jalilar."
"You know Jalilar?" Ronall said in surprise. In all the time they had been together, she had given no hint of such an illustrious acquaintance.
The other shallah now came forward and said, a little tersely, "She's my wife. Where is she?"
Your wife?
Panic spread through Ronall like wildfire. The shallah looked strong, violent, and less than friendly. The glance he exchanged with Tansen showed Ronall that these two were friends.
I'm a dead man.
A faint frown now creased Tansen's brow. "Where is she?"
"In... Inside." Ronall choked out the word.
There was an uneasy pause as the two shallaheen watched him in puzzlement.
Then Jalilar's voice came from inside. "Emelen?"
The shallah's face cleared, a smile transforming it. He was a good-looking fellow, and a little younger than Ronall had thought at first.
"Jalilar!" he called.
Ronall heard Jalilar's footsteps behind him. He quickly stepped out of her way. Tansen's expression lightened into one of indulgence as Emelen shoved past them both to rush forward and embrace his wife as she emerged into the sunshine.
While Emelen kissed Jalilar, Tansen discreetly turned his back, silently directing the sea-born boy to do so, too. Then he caught Ronall's eye and lifted one brow slightly—which Ronall took to be a sign of amusement in this famously stoic man.
"I'm thirsty," the sea-born boy said.
"There's a well around back," Ronall said absently, listening to the terrified pounding of his heart.
"Yes," the boy replied with an intent expression, taking a step in that direction even before Ronall was done speaking.
"Wait." Tansen removed the waterskin slung over his own shoulder and tossed it to the boy. "While you're there, fill the waterskins," he instructed.
The boy paused to ask Ronall, "Is there any food here?"
"Yes," Ronall replied weakly. They were all speaking shallah, but after so much time spent wandering the mountains he could follow most of it, though he still replied in common Silerian.
"It's been at least two hours since he ate," Tansen told Ronall dryly. "He may perish of hunger if I don't feed him soon."
"It was a long walk here," the boy insisted, in what sounded like an ongoing but good-natured argument between them.
I'm a dead man, Ronall kept thinking.
"Shall we go inside?" Tansen suggested to Ronall.
"No!"
The shatai eyed him inquisitively. Even the sea-born boy paused again to look at him.
"Uh..." Ronall gestured to the still-embracing couple in the doorway. "Perhaps we should give them some time alone." And the bed inside the Sanctuary was still rumpled and ripe with sex.
Dar and the Three pity me.
"They'll get time alone after I leave," Tansen said reasonably. "Let's—"
"Emelen..." Jalilar finally found an opportunity to speak between her husband's hungry embraces. "What are you doing here?"
She sounded so nervous that Ronall thought she might just as well say she'd been bedding another man only moments ago. He was tempted to run, so tempted... but, cursing the gods, he knew that he couldn't leave Jalilar alone here to endure whatever her husband might do to her when he found out she'd been unfaithful. Cuckold was the second worse thing one Silerian could call another, and Emelen looked like a man who took a traditional view of such matters. Not that Ronall was in a position to criticize; he had once beaten Elelar for her infidelity.
He tried not to think about it now. Actually, he always tried not to think about it.
Please, Dar, let this Emelen be a complete idiot who'll never guess the truth.
But a moment later, Emelen stopped happily babbling something about being camped only half a day's walk from here and having missed Jalilar so much, and he stumbled to an awkward halt, evidently realizing that something was wrong. "Jalilar..."
Don't look, Ronall ordered himself, don't look at her.
But Tansen was looking, and the sea-born boy was looking... and it was somehow irresistible, so Ronall found himself looking, too.
It was a mistake. Jalilar looked right back at him, her face betraying everything.
Tansen saw it immediately. He stiffened, subtly but perceptibly.
"Kadriah?" Emelen said, the shallah endearment sounding anxious. "What is it? I know you're angry about the way I left, the way I made the Sister..." Emelen paused again, then said, in a different tone of voice, "Where is the Sister?"
"Gone," Jalilar replied, her voice low and harsh. "She left not long after you did. I've been alone here ever since."
Now Emelen looked at Ronall, but so far there was only confusion in his dark eyes. "Alone?" he repeated blankly.
"All alone!" Jalilar replied, her expression fierce. "There has been no one for me. No word from you or Tansen. My brother dead, my clan scattered, my village abandoned. And I am left here with no one and nothing! Where have you been? Why could I not be with you? I told you I would not stay here and—"
"You smell..." Emelen's expression underwent a fairly hideous transformation. "You smell of..."
"Zarien," Tansen said suddenly, "go fill those waterskins."
Ronall glanced at the boy, who ignored Tansen. The tattooed young face showed the dawning of understanding, and his gaze shot to Ronall—who was fervently hoping to be swallowed in a sudden, ground-splitting earthquake.
Jalilar yanked herself out of Emelen's embrace, glaring at him with the fury which only a spouse could feel. "What did you think I would do?" she shouted. "What did you think would happen if you abandoned me here alone, with no one to—"
"I left a Sister with you!" Emelen shouted back.
"She went off to Darshon!"
Emelen's anger dissolved into regret. "Kadriah, I'm sorry. I didn't know. How could I..." Then he seemed to remember what she smelled of. He turned very slowly and confronted Ronall now. "Where is the rest of your party?"
"There's just me," Ronall said faintly.
Tansen said, "Zarien. The well."
The boy didn't move
"Zarien."
Emelen's face darkened with growing rage as he glared at Ronall. "How long have you been here?"
Jalilar spat, "A long time."
I'm a dead man.
Emelen whirled on Jalilar, searching her face for the truth. She gave it to him. He backed away from her, shaking his head. "Oh... no. No! How could you do that?"
"How could you leave me?" she screamed.
"You've been with another man?" he screamed back.
"Every day since he came here!" she shouted.
"Not every day..." Ronall closed his mouth again, realizing that the details hardly mattered now.
While the couple hurled angry accusations at each other, the sea-born boy—Zarien�
��crept up to Tansen and murmured, "What should we do?"
"We should stay out of it," Tansen replied firmly.
Emelen pulled his yahr out of his jashar. Ronall flinched.
Zarien gasped and asked Tansen, "Is he going to beat her?"
Tansen shook his head. "Not her."
Ronall felt sick with fear.
Zarien gasped again. "We must stop him!" Incredibly, he leaped in front of Ronall to shield him. "No, Emelen!"
Emelen shoved him aside, swinging that yahr with deadly menace.
Ronall backed away. "Please, I'm unarmed!"
"Not in my wife's bed, you weren't, you stinking sriliah!" Emelen snarled.
"No, Emelen!" Jalilar shouted.
Zarien cried, "Father! Stop him!"
Tansen tugged at the sea-born boy, who was trying to interfere. "It's not our affair, Zarien!"
Jalilar shrieked, "Emelen, don't kill him!"
Zarien bleated, "Kill him? Father, he's going to kill him!"
"I'll take care of it," Tansen snapped. "Get away from them."
"Take care of it now!" the boy insisted.
"Wait!" Ronall pleaded.
"Say your prayers," Emelen advised.
"No!" Zarien evaded Tansen's grasp and succeeded in getting in the way—just in time to be struck by Emelen's yahr. "Ow!"
"Zarien!" Tansen's voice was harsh with alarm.
There was a bewildering flurry of movement, and then Emelen was on the ground, Tansen had the yahr, and Zarien was clutching his bleeding nose.
"Ow!" Zarien repeated. He looked at Emelen, who lay sprawled on the ground. "You hit me!"
Still shouting, Jalilar ran to Emelen and knelt beside him, trying to keep him from rising.
Tansen was saying to Zarien, "You just had to get in the way, didn't you?"
"It really hurts," Zarien informed him.
"Let me see," Tansen muttered.
"Is it broken?" Zarien asked.
"Does it feel broken?" Tansen replied, examining the bleeding appendage.
"Get away from me!" Emelen snapped at his wife.
"Stop it!" she cried. "You can't kill him! Emelen, you can't!"
"Oh, yes I can," he replied grimly, shoving her away as he rose to his feet.
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