Like most shallaheen, he was secretly afraid of the sea and terrified of dragonfish. The sea-born folk might be strange, ignorant, and smelly, but no one could deny their courage. They risked death from the dragonfish every day of their lives, and once a year they openly confronted dragonfish in deadly combat during Bharata Ma-al. Tansen was thankful they didn't hold the bharata during the dark-moon, since the shore was awash with purple dragonfish blood throughout the Time of Slaughter, and he wouldn't relish sloshing around in it while he and Aljuna... Dead, he realized with sorrow. The colorful pirate was dead.
He asked the stranger, "Where did the dragonfish get you?"
"I'm not sure. I got banged against some rocks, too, and right now, I can't tell what parts of me have been mauled by the dragonfish and what parts have been smashed against the rocks."
"May I..." Tansen put his hand on the stranger. His back was soaking wet. It was too dark to tell if it was water or blood. And he was cold, terribly cold.
This isn't good.
"I don't think anything's broken," the man said. "I made it this far, after all."
Not just through the water and onto the beach, Tansen realized, but away from the exposed shoreline and into the rocky crevices below the cliffs. It must have taken tremendous will.
"But if I leave a trail of blood," the stranger added wearily, "the Outlookers will see it as soon as the sun rises."
If this was indeed a toren, then he was tough, Tansen thought. As tough as any assassin.
"I must find the wounds," Tansen said decisively, "and bind them. But since I won't be able to see if we're leaving a trail of blood..." He took a breath and broke the news. "I'm sorry, we'll have to leave a false trail. That will mean a longer journey to reach the cave."
"But it's a good idea." The man tried to move, then gasped in pain. "It got my leg. Now I feel it."
Tansen felt for the stranger's leg. He heard the sharp intake of breath when his fingers found the wound. He stripped off his worn tunic, used his teeth to tear it, and bound the man's wounded leg. The wound he found on the stranger's shoulder was worse and took longer to bind. By then, his hands were coated with blood, and he realized the stranger might die before they reached the safety of the cave.
Outlookers passed their hiding place in the shadows once. Tansen and the stranger froze, scarcely daring to breathe.
If they catch me now, with him.... Tansen decided not to finish the thought. Instead, he strained his ears to hear what they were saying.
Unlike many shallaheen, he understood Valdan, the official language of Sileria for two hundred years. His grandfather had insisted he learn it, saying that a shrewd man understood his enemies, and so Tansen had dutifully spent a year of his childhood at the Valdani school in the largest town of his native district. However, he couldn't make out the Outlookers' hushed words now. He heard the urgency in their voices, though. After they passed by, he asked the stranger again, "Who are you, roshah?"
"Roshah... That means... outsider in shallah, doesn't it?"
"Outsider, stranger, foreigner. All of these things." Tansen shrugged, then realized the roshah couldn't see the gesture in the dark. "I didn't mean it as an insult," he assured the man. It often was meant as an insult, since few things were worse to a shallah than being an outsider, unknown and distrusted. "But without knowing your name..." He paused and waited, then finally repeated, "Who are you?"
"Help me up," was the only reply.
He was a big man, and heavy with muscle. Whoever he was, Tansen realized, he was in the prime of life and honed for combat and endurance. When Tansen slung the stranger's arm over his shoulder and supported his sagging weight as best he could, the man froze for a moment.
"By all the gods above and below," he said, his voice sharp with surprise as he uttered the strange phrase. "You're just a boy. I thought from your voice—"
"I am man enough," Tansen said flatly.
"Yes." There was both humor and apology in the man's voice as he added, "Yes, I've already noticed that."
"And Dar will shield us."
"Really? Why will She do that?"
Tansen heard the amusement and wondered at it. "Because they are Valdani," he said simply, "and we are shallaheen."
"She hasn't done such a good job of shielding you, so far."
"Me?"
"All of you. Everyone sweeps through Sileria: Moorlanders, Kints, Valdani. And Dar does nothing—"
"Shh..." Tansen pretended to hear more Outlookers coming, but really he was just trying to save the roshah from sacrilege. He didn't think it was wise to speak disrespectfully of Dar, especially not tonight when they so needed Her favor.
They proceeded in silence, moving carefully. The roshah tried not to be a burden, tried to carry his own weight, but he was growing steadily weaker. Tansen was strong and used to long treks over rough terrain, but he was drained by bearing more and more of his companion's weight as dawn chased them along the rocky cliffs and steep smuggling trails.
The sun was rising by the time they reached the cave, which was rich with the smell of Tansen's bored donkeys. Tansen left the man in the cave, barely pausing long enough to hand him the waterskin before he left to double back alone and cover their trail as best he could. Only when he was satisfied that no one could follow them did he return to the cave.
The roshah was lying where Tansen had left him, deep inside the cave, in a second chamber whose entrance was hard to find unless you knew it was there. Tansen spoke to him, received no reply, and realized he must be asleep or unconscious. So he fed and watered his two donkeys, ate and drank a little himself, and then took his lantern to the stranger's side to better examine his wounds in the dark cave.
It was his first real opportunity to study the man. His clothes were foreign, strange styles made of good materials. Very nice boots, Tansen noted with envy. Yet the stranger looked Silerian, albeit a little big for a Silerian—olive-skinned, dark-haired, strong-boned. He even wore a jashar around his waist, though it was now grubby with sand and red with his own blood.
At least it will tell me who he is.
Like most of his people, Tansen could neither read nor write. But the shallaheen communicated messages and information with jashareen—elaborately knotted and woven ropes, strands, and cords dotted with colored beads. The jashar a man wore around his waist—like the one a woman wore as a headdress on special occasions—identified him and his history. More elaborate ones covered doorways and walls, identifying merchants and craftsmen, codifying religious creeds, commemorating special events, and even relating shallah history and legends.
As Tansen started to untie the jashar from the unconscious man's waist so he could get a better look at it, he suddenly realized that it wasn't red from blood—it was just red, made that way to begin with.
Darfire, he is an assassin!
No one who wasn't would dare to wear the traditional red jashar of the Honored Society.
Thank You, Dar, thank You for placing him in my path.
Surely this was a sign that Tansen's destiny was at hand, that the time had come for his ambitions to bear fruit.
He tugged more insistently at the tangled fastening of the jashar, then pulled it away from the stranger's body and held it closer to the lantern light to study it.
Yes, he was right, some of the beads were yellow—the yellow beads which only an assassin or his family members wore on a jashar. He fingered the woven strands and knots, looking for the man's name, his clan, the identity of the waterlord he served...
He stopped breathing when he saw it. His blood ran hot and cold at once. Not all the beads were yellow, were they? He grabbed the waterskin and spilled water over the beads, wasting the precious substance in his haste. He washed away the dried blood and wiped the beads on his leggings, then held them up to the light again. Yes, now he was sure of it: Some of the beads were clear, made of water crystallized by sorcery.
Clear beads on a red jashar.
A waterlord?
<
br /> No, not quite a waterlord. Son of a waterlord, heir to one, according to the way the knots were tied around the beads.
And the name...
Armian...
Armian mar Harlon shah Idalari.
Armian, son of Harlon, clan of Idalar.
The Idalari, possibly the most powerful clan in the Society. Harlon, the great waterlord who had fought the Valdani for years, until they finally murdered him, throwing the Society into chaos for a time.
And Armian, the baby hidden from the Valdani who hunted him after Harlon's death, determined to kill him, too. Everyone knew the story. The infant had been spirited out of Sileria so that he might live, so that he would fulfill his destiny to return one day and free Sileria from the Valdani. Armian... whom everyone was said was the awaited one, the chosen one...
The Firebringer.
Tansen heard the blood roaring in his ears. His hands shook as he fingered the jashar of Armian, the heroic warrior about whom he had heard his whole life. The Firebringer. He felt dizzy. He must be dreaming. He looked again at the strong face of the unconscious man he had brought to this cave.
That's the Firebringer lying there.
He had saved the life of the Firebringer! Dar had smiled upon him, had shown him Her favor, and had made his life count for something. The Firebringer had stumbled while coming home to fulfill his destiny, and a shallah boy from Gamalan had caught him before he fell from grace.
Tansen couldn't wait to tell his grandfather.
And we will be free. He's here, alive, and he will...
Actually... now that he took a hard look, Tansen realized that Armian didn't look like he was going to do much besides die in this cave.
Panic flooded him. He couldn't let the Firebringer die! Especially not after hauling him all this way like a sack of wet grain, he thought with a touch of annoyance.
A Sister. I've got to find a Sister.
He jumped to his feet, recalling that there was a Sanctuary not far from here. He could get there and be back with a Sister before midday. He started to sort through the spare supplies he and his grandfather kept stored here, looking for another tunic.
No wonder the Outlookers were searching for him. No wonder there were so many of them on the coast!
He found the spare tunic and pulled it over his head, then re-tied his jashar—plain hemp dotted with the rough clay beads of a shallah—around his waist.
No wonder the Valdani burned Aljuna's ship. He froze briefly as he realized that the rumors had been true. Aljuna did indeed have business with the Society. The most serious and secret business of all: Bringing Armian out of hiding and back to Sileria to free us all.
He returned to the assassin's side and tried to rouse him. "Siran," he said, using the traditional term of respect. No response. "Siran..." Nothing. "Armian?" A flicker of the eyelids this time.
Tansen gritted his teeth and shook him. "Armian!"
Suddenly Tansen was lying on his back, dizzy from the hard thud his head made against the stone floor of the cave. He didn't gasp though. He couldn't. A big hand was wrapped around his throat, cutting off all air.
After a tense and confusing moment, Armian released his hold. His face screwed up in pain as his injuries punished him for his violent reflexes.
Tansen stayed where he was, too stunned to move.
Armian rolled away. "Sorry."
"I... I understand. You... I..." I frightened you, didn't really seem the right thing to say. Indeed, Tansen couldn't think of anything to say. So he just sat up and silently rubbed his throat, gulping down some air now that he had the chance.
"Where are we?" Armian asked in a strained voice.
"The cave I told you about."
"Oh. Yes. And did you tell me your name?"
"Tansen mar Dustan shah Gamalani."
"Ah. Tansen." He lay still for a few moments, obviously trying to master the pain. Then he looked hard at Tansen. "Why did you call me Armian?"
Tansen crossed his fists over his chest and bowed his head. A formal greeting, a gesture of respect. "Forgive my impertinence, siran."
Armian sighed. "I didn't mean that. You don't have to call me 'master.'"
"It doesn't really mean mast..." Well, actually, yes, it did. "We say it to show respect for someone, siran," he explained. "And who deserves respect more than you?"
"I see." Armian watched him closely. "When did I tell you who I am?"
"You didn't."
"Then who did?" He looked menacing now, despite the weakness and the wounds. He looked like an assassin.
Tansen met his gaze and spoke carefully. "The jashar."
Armian's expression changed. "Ah. Of course. The jashar. I'm not used to..." He sighed again, then winced. "No one in the Moorlands knows what it means. It's just decoration to them."
"You were in the Moorlands? But everyone said you had been taken to Kinto."
"Well, of course." The humor was back in his voice, tinged with exhaustion. "You didn't think my clan wanted to draw the Valdani a map, do you? They convinced everyone I was clear on the other side of the Middle Sea from where they had really sent me."
"Your clothes are Moorlander?"
"Mmmm... But the jashar..."
"You wore it so we would know who you are, but the Valdani wouldn't, not even if they found you."
"And they nearly did find me. Someone betrayed us. The Valdani attacked Aljuna's ship knowing I was supposed to be on it." He closed his eyes, looking as if keeping them open was too much of an effort. "I jumped just before they boarded. I saw them set fire to it..."
"Did you see Aljuna die?" Tansen asked, reaching for hope.
"No, but he's dead." Seeing Tansen's doubt, he explained, "They weren't taking prisoners, Tansen. But perhaps Aljuna died quickly," Armian added with a touch of kindness. "I just hope they believe a dragonfish finished me before I reached shore."
"The dragonfish. Your wounds," Tansen said. "I'm going to find a Sister to tend you. I should be back here with her by midday."
"A Sister?"
"Yes. The Sisterhood. You know."
"I've never seen one, but I've been told about them." Armian's dark eyes opened again. Tansen marveled at the strength of will he saw in them. "Can she be trusted?"
"She doesn't need to know the truth. I'll hide your jashar before I go."
"I mean, can she be trusted not to tell the Outlookers there's a wounded stranger lying in this cave?"
The question surprised Tansen. "Of course. The Sisters would never—"
"There's no 'of course' about it," Armian said. "I'm in this condition because I've been betrayed once already. And Silerians are famous for betrayal, aren't they—we?" He paused, then added, "Nothing ever really changes here, does it?"
"How do you know about... about..."
"About you? Sileria? Us?" He closed his eyes again, drifting away. "My mother, her brother, and the two assassins that came with us to the Moorlands."
"Where are they now? Didn't they want to come home with you?"
"It was a long time ago. Almost thirty years have passed. Only my uncle is left alive now, and he's too old and sick for a journey like this." He sighed. "But he and the others all made sure I would be ready."
"Ready?" Tansen held his breath waiting for the answer.
"To come back. To, uh, come home." His breath was shallow, his eyes sunken as he added, "To fight the Valdani."
"It is you," Tansen breathed in awe.
"Of course it's me," was the weary response.
The Firebringer.
"I'll... I'll get help. You'll get well. I promise."
Armian didn't reply. Perhaps he was already asleep.
Tansen hid Armian's jashar, put the waterskin within his reach, blew out the lantern, and left the cave.
Outside, the brassy Silerian sunshine beat down upon the gold and amber mountains, so lovely in their harshness, so stark in their beauty. Darshon loomed overhead, its snowcapped peak piercing thin morning clouds, wisp
s of steam coiling up from the heart of the volcano. A faint scent of smoke rode the breeze, perhaps from some brush fire; the season was advancing, and soon such fires would be common. But for now, wild fennel and rosemary still perfumed the air while Silerians enjoyed the blessings of the island's most seductive season.
And under a sky more fiercely blue than any other, Tansen knew that his destiny had finally found him. It promised to be a glorious one.
Chapter Five
Anyone can hold the helm
when the sea is calm, but
a sailor is needed for the storm.
—Proverb of the Sea-Born Folk
Zarien's feet were killing him.
Walking the dryland was proving to be nearly as painful as being attacked by a dragonfish, and he knew better than anyone alive just how painful that was.
His feet had become blistered, bleeding, and swollen soon after setting out on his quest. The callused bare soles which were used to the wooden decks of small boats didn't adjust well to the harsh and unpredictable surface of the dryland—particularly not when required to walk farther each day now than Zarien had walked in the whole previous fourteen years of his life.
His second night on land, he had stolen a pair of boots. It was humiliating to resort to stealing—the Lascari despised thieves—but he didn't know how else to get the things he needed for his overland journey to Josarian's stronghold atop Mount Dalishar. So he stole food and clothing, hoping Sharifar's blessing would protect him here. However, his first crime was a failure. The boots fit so badly he discarded them halfway through the following morning and stole a pair of shoes that afternoon. The soles of his feet benefited, but his toes and heels suffered terribly from the unaccustomed chafing.
He could swim for hours without tiring, diving the coastal shallows, untangling nets, setting traps, gathering catch, and spearing prey. He could work from dawn till dusk, repairing boats, mending sails, hauling nets, heaving weights. But now that he was on land, he could barely get through each day without collapsing in an exhausted and discouraged heap. Sometimes he thought his heart would burst if he had to trek uphill for one more moment.
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