Sacrilege seemed an irrelevant sin now.
I am prepared to die today...
He felt dust inside his mouth. He hadn't even been aware of speaking aloud. He should probably say his prayers—and his curses—silently, given that he was dying face down in the dirt.
A warrior's death. Definitely less glorious than most people imagine.
What did the Moorlanders say? May you die on a day which is good for it. Moorlanders also said things like: May your death be a good one. And: I will give you a good death.
Not exactly a cheerful race.
Barbarians by any standards. But he had liked living among them briefly, even so. Their bloodlust made them like Silerians, in a way, and he had been homesick.
Focus...
All those years in exile... nine years, and not a day had passed without him longing for Sileria, for her harsh and merciless mountains, her lush and fertile lowlands, the scents of rosemary and wild fennel which filled the air after the long rains, the blossoming of the almond trees, the ripening of the lemon trees, the brassy Silerian sunshine glinting off the red-tiled roofs of crumbling Kintish temples and shrines, the towering cliffs overlooking sun-drenched beaches...
I am prepared...
Of course, he'd mostly visited the beaches on dark-moon nights, on those long-ago smuggling expeditions with his grandfather... Until the night his grandfather was too old to come and had stayed behind in Gamalan... The night Tansen's life changed forever, when he found a great warrior lying close to death on the beach of a rocky cove...
Armian...
Tansen felt his life seeping away. If the next person to find him was an enemy, he would certainly die.
Armian...
He'd probably die anyway. He wouldn't reach help if he couldn't walk, and he couldn't walk if he couldn't even get up. He didn't know if his eyes were closed or if his vision had simply gone black.
Now he saw nothing.
Nothing but memories. Nothing but the past.
Father... I am coming.
He should get up, should try once more.
I am coming at last.
Chapter Four
Enter not prayerless
into the domain of Dar,
for She forgives no slight.
—Silerian Proverb
Eastern Sileria
The Year of Late Rains
Tansen mar Dustan shah Gamalani—Tansen son of Dustan, clan of Gamalan—was fifteen years old the night his life changed forever.
He had ventured forth from his native mountain village and come down to the sea tonight, to a hidden rocky cove, to await Aljuna, the half-Kintish, half-Moorlander pirate with whom he and his grandfather regularly engaged in a modestly profitable smuggling trade.
It was a dark-moon night, as it always was for their smuggling runs. Both moons, Ejara and Abayara, had turned their faces from Sirkara for a few nights. This was their way, Tansen's grandfather said, of granting their blessing to smugglers.
In better times, his grandfather also said, the last of the Gamalani (there were very few left, thanks to a decades-long bloodfeud with the Sirdari clan) wouldn't stoop to dealing with a pirate. But better times were long ago and far away. The Valdani were draining Sileria with the demands wrought by their endless wars of conquest and by the ever-growing population of Valdania, the empire ruled from the great city of Valda. Everything good was either scarce in Sileria or forbidden to Silerians by Valdani law. So anyone in Sileria with a little money—toreni, merchants, waterlords, assassins, and even some Valdani—appreciated the goods discreetly made available by Sileria's hard-working smugglers. Even people without money (the shallaheen, namely, who accounted for more people and less money than any other group in Sileria) could always use the necessities, and even the occasional little luxuries, which had become so scarce during two centuries of Valdani rule in Sileria.
After sharing the profits of their smuggling trade with the Society, as was customary in exchange for protection (or at least for benevolent disinterest), Tansen and his grandfather usually had enough left over to keep the family fed and clothed. Their womenfolk—Tansen's mother and sister—relied on the two of them. Before Tansen had spoken his first word or learned to lie (which, among the shallaheen, was at roughly the same time), his father had been killed by Outlookers, the gray-clad occupation army of the Valdani; so the Gamalani had lit his funeral pyre and scattered his ashes long ago.
More than once since then, Tansen's mother had ventured higher into the mountains on the anniversary of his father's death, to ask the Guardians to Call him forth from the Otherworld. She seldom found the Guardians on these expeditions, though. They had once been the most honored sect in the nation, advisors to the Yahrdan himself, the traditional ruler of Sileria; but now they all lived in hiding and on the run, hunted not only by the Valdani, who had outlawed them, but also by their ancient blood enemies, the Honored Society. And even when Tansen's mother did find Guardians high up in the mountains, they had never been able to Call his father. If the Otherworld was anything more than a pretty tale, it seemed that his father had failed to reach it.
Tansen's mother did claim, however, to have once seen his dead brother in the flames of a sacred Guardian fire. Tansen himself had seen nothing during that Calling, at which he had been present, and so he remained skeptical. He scarcely remembered his brother, either. When Tansen was still very young, his brother had gone off, like so many men these days, to join the mad zanareen, those wild-eyed religious fanatics who lived atop the snowy peak of Mount Darshon and awaited the coming of the Firebringer. One day, suffering from the common delusion of a zanar that he himself was Dar's chosen one, he had flung himself into the fiery volcano—and died, as they all did.
As Tansen approached manhood, times got even harder. And so the Gamalani had entered the smuggling trade and offered the pirate Aljuna a bloodpact to ensure trust and loyalty in their mutual business. Aljuna had agreed to it without having any idea what a shallah bloodpact entailed. Tansen thought the pirate would faint when they made the diagonal cut across his palm to mingle their blood with his.
Foreigners, Tansen's grandfather said, were thin-skinned, weak-stomached, and pale-blooded.
His grandfather was not here tonight, though, as Tansen awaited the weak-stomached pirate with whom they did business. The rainy season had long since passed and the hot dry season was approaching, but his grandfather's knees now pained him terribly even so. So Tansen had insisted he could come alone. Was he not a man—or nearly so? His mother had added her exhortations to his own, and the old man had finally agreed to remain behind.
Now, as he approached the shore, Tansen heard someone else moving through the dark night. He didn't doubt for a moment that it must be Outlookers. Who else would be so clumsy, so loud? He watched two of them, clad their in anonymous gray tunics, pass by without ever looking into the shadows where he crouched. He could have stolen the purse of the nearest one, they were so close, but he was no thief. Besides, he knew the penalty for stealing from a Valdan, and he had no wish to wind up in the mines of Alizar.
Not that he would be caught. His grandfather said that only a deaf one-eyed half-wit would let himself be caught by Outlookers. (Tansen always hoped this wasn't a description of his father, who had been caught and killed by Outlookers.)
Tansen paused behind a rock as more Outlookers passed him in the night. He could hear still more of them overhead, high up on the cliffs, calling to someone else farther down the coast. The beach was practically swarming with them tonight!
This could make things difficult, Tansen realized. Not that he had any intention of giving up and going home. The stubborn streak which had kept his clan locked in a bloodfeud with the Sirdari long after anyone left alive even knew why it had started now spurred him on to outwit the Outlookers patrolling the coast. His family needed the income too much for him to scurry away like a coward just because the Valdani evidently had decided to start cracking down on smugglers.
<
br /> He looked over his shoulder, up past the dark cliffs, up to where Mount Darshon rose to loom over Sileria. It was the home of Dar, the fiery goddess whose sighs had the power to sweep Gamalan clear off its own mountain perch. Even on a moonless night like this, Tansen could see the snow atop Darshon reflecting the starlight. On a twin-moon night, it always gleamed so brightly that it almost hurt the eye to look upon it.
Enter not prayerless into the domain of Dar, his grandfather always said. And so Tansen prayed now, because, as his grandfather also said, If Dar is on our side, then who in the Fires could possibly be on theirs? With Dar at his back, Tansen crept through the shadows and braved the wrath of the Outlookers, and the all-powerful empire which stood behind them, to collect his shipment of contraband from the pirate Aljuna.
Unfortunately, all his daring proved to be pointless. He waited for hours at the usual place, twice slipping into the shadows as more Outlookers passed by, but Aljuna never came. Tansen strained his eyes, fruitlessly peering out at the black infinity of the sea, but there was never any sign of the pirate's oarboat. At one point, he saw a light out there, glowing erratically in the distance for a while, but then it disappeared without ever coming any closer. Just some ship, he supposed, sliding over the curve of the dark horizon as it made its way to some port in the Kintish Kingdoms.
Although he was annoyed, Tansen liked Aljuna, so he hoped the pirate wasn't dead or in chains. Aljuna reputedly led a dangerous life even apart from risking the wrath of Outlooker patrols. It was whispered that he had business with the Honored Society. If that was the case, Tansen's grandfather said, then the less they knew—or even thought—about it, the better. But Tansen did think about it. Who did not think about the Society, after all?
He had not yet told anyone of his own ambitions to become an assassin, not even his grandfather. He knew his family would worry, might even object, considering what a dangerous life it was. But he was strong and quick, a good fighter compared to others his age. What else was there for him in Sileria, if not the Society and the life of an assassin?
His clan's bloodfeud with the Sirdari was finally over. The Sirdari had even given a bride to Gamalan in honor of the truce. So Tansen wouldn't be required to slice open his palm and pledge vengeance against that clan. Instead, he could choose his own destiny. He could go to a waterlord and offer his loyalty, his service, his life. Perhaps he would gain entry into the Society by fulfilling a bloodvow, by killing the enemy of a waterlord. Not only would it put his talents to better use than smuggling—or, he thought with disdain, than tending sheep—but it would also enable him to protect and care for his family.
Tansen yawned sleepily, then realized with disgust that the night was nearly gone. Sitting here dreaming about being inducted into the Honored Society wasn't accomplishing anything. And if he got so tired he fell asleep on the beach, even the Outlookers were bound to notice him once the sun rose. He got up and quietly started heading back toward the hidden trail he'd used to descend the cliffs hours ago.
Tansen froze when he heard one rock strike another softly in the dark, as if displaced by a foot moving over the uneven ground. He had kept to the shadows and felt sure he had made no sound to betray his presence—but not sure enough to bet his life on it. When more stones shifted, his hand moved to his yahr, preparing to use it if necessary. He had never killed a man and didn't want the first time to be tonight. There would, of course, be a first time—for a shallah, there inevitably was—but he didn't especially want it to be now, alone in the dark, on a failed smuggling run, with Outlookers crawling all over the beach.
Please, Dar, he prayed devoutly, let that be another smuggler I hear.
Being caught by an Outlooker would be too humiliating. And killing one... Well, that would cause a lot more trouble than it was worth. The Valdani rarely interfered with Silerians killing each other, but they were so ruthless in punishing even the slightest offense against a Valdan that no one dared actually murder one. Tansen didn't think anyone had killed an Outlooker since the days of Harlon the waterlord some thirty years ago.
He considered his options for escape, in case that was an Outlooker stalking him in the dark rather than another smuggler trying, as he was, to go unnoticed.
Now several rocks slid against each other at once.
If that's a smuggler, he's a very noisy one, Tansen thought critically.
He heard a stumble, a fall—and a stifled sound of pain.
Not an Outlooker. Surely an Outlooker would call for help?
This was someone who, like Tansen, wanted to keep his presence on the coast tonight a secret; someone who didn't want the Outlookers to catch him.
Another smuggler, then? Tansen thought it would be better not to get involved, better to escape quietly before more Outlookers happened along. But what if it was an assassin? Someone from the Society, who would remember the young shallah who had helped him tonight, and who would perhaps even bring Tansen to the attention of a waterlord?
Suddenly, it seemed worth the risk. Tansen decided to approach the unseen figure and, if it wasn't an Outlooker, offer assistance.
He crept closer to where the stranger had fallen. Now he could hear harsh breathing. Someone in pain, trying to make no sound. Moving silently, Tansen came closer still—and slipped on a wet stone. He recovered quickly, believed he made no sound... but the harsh breathing stopped that instant. Tansen peered into the syrupy darkness but could still see nothing, for the stranger had chosen to hide in the murkiest crevices of the rocks even in the moonless night. Now they listened to each other's deadly silence, each one awaiting a sign from the other: friend or enemy?
Since Tansen was the one creeping up on a wounded person, he decided to speak first. "Who are you?" he asked in shallah dialect, giving away his location.
He heard a slight whisper of movement and guessed the stranger was rolling to face him.
"Who are you?" came the reply, issued in common Silerian. A grown man's voice, deep and probably powerful under normal circumstances, but laced with pain now and kept soft lest they be overheard.
Many shallaheen didn't speak common Silerian, but Tansen did. He and his grandfather had been coming down to the coast for several years, after all, and Silerian wasn't all that different from shallah—just enough to be confusing until you got used to it. Tansen hesitated, still unsure. Very few Outlookers spoke any native Silerian dialects, but those that did usually spoke only common Silerian.
Friend or enemy?
"I am a shallah," Tansen said in Silerian. He figured it was a safely vague answer.
After a pause, the man said, "So am I, come to think of it."
Tansen switched to the mountain dialect again. "Then why don't you speak shallah?"
"I do, but not very... well." This time the reply was in shallah, though the stranger had hesitated over a word.
"Why not?"
There was a longer pause. Finally he answered, "I was born in the mountains, as was my father. But I was not raised there, I don't remember him, and my mother spoke only common Silerian with me. You are..." The man gave up and switched to Silerian again. "You are the first shallah I've spoken to in years."
"That's strange," Tansen said rudely. Strange for someone born to a shallah clan, certainly. Blood ties were everything among the shallaheen. A man was no one without his clan.
"Yes, I suppose it does seem strange." When Tansen didn't reply, the man added, "The Outlookers are after me."
"Why?"
"It's not for smuggling." The voice sounded dry, despite the pain. The stranger obviously knew why a lone shallah would be creeping around the coast in the middle of the night.
Tansen didn't bother to ask again why the Outlookers were hunting for him. Any reason—or no reason at all—could suffice. Tansen was starting to suspect this was just some stupid toren who'd gotten himself into trouble, because, after all, what assassin didn't know any shallaheen? However, a toren was bound to have wealth or influence of some kind. Anyhow,
it would be bad manners to leave him dying here now that they had spoken.
So Tansen said politely, "I will help you."
"Good." The voice was even dryer as it said, "Because I didn't come all this way to die on the beach."
Tansen knelt down, close enough now to discover the stranger was soaking wet. "What's happened to you?"
"I was on a smuggling ship that—"
"Whose ship?" Tansen interrupted, already dreading the answer.
"Ah. You were waiting for Aljuna?"
"What's happened to him?"
"You're the smugglers he had to deliver some cargo to?"
"Yes."
"Weren't there supposed to be two of you?"
"The other one couldn't come."
"I'm sorry," the stranger said, his breath still harsh and labored. "Aljuna's dead by now. I suppose everyone on board died, unless someone else jumped overboard, too, and made it this far."
"Why would they be d—"
"The Valdani burned Aljuna's ship."
"They burned it?" That must have been the light he'd seen hovering on the dark horizon a while ago. "They burned a smuggling ship? Why didn't they just arrest Aljuna's crew and confisca—"
"They weren't after his cargo."
"What were they after?" Tansen asked, bewildered. Poor Aljuna.
The man gasped as a new wave of pain assaulted him. "We've got to get off this beach."
"The Outlookers. Of course. Will they be searching for survivors?"
"They'll be searching for me."
"I have two donkeys hidden in a cave in the cliffs. The Outlookers won't find us there."
"How far?"
"Not far, but the way is very steep. It'll be a hard trek for you, if you're badly hurt." When there was no answer, he prodded, "How badly are you hurt?"
"I'm not sure."
"How did you get hurt? When they attacked the ship?"
"No. After I jumped overboard. A dragonfish."
"Fires of Dar," Tansen whispered.
The White Dragon Page 6