The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  Zarien knew he must clean the wound so he could see it more clearly. If it couldn't be cauterized, perhaps it could be stitched. If the thought of pressing a red hot poker to human flesh had made him queasy, the idea of darning Tansen's skin like cloth positively appalled him. He was no healer. But that was Sharifar's mate lying in that cave, and Zarien was not about to let him die. He would do whatever he had to... On the other hand, how could he stitch the wound with no thread or needle?

  He returned to the cave with the water. Tansen was murmuring unintelligible words. When he tried to rise, Zarien pushed him back down, surprised by how hard that was even though Tansen was weak and disoriented. Then again, here was no ordinary man.

  The sea king.

  Dar had helped Zarien, after all. She had thrown Sharifar's mate right into his path. Why, he had practically tripped over Tansen! What else could their meeting mean? With Josarian dead, who but the Firebringer's bloodbrother could be a fitting mate for the sea goddess? What drylander but the greatest warrior in Sileria could be accepted by the sea-born as their king?

  Zarien poured water over the wound and wiped away fresh blood, as well as a lot of older residue. Tansen recoiled in unconscious protest at first, then fell into a motionless stupor. As daylight flickered through the shallow cave, Zarien studied the wound and felt despair creep through him. He finished washing it, then took the cleanest cloth he could find and pressed it hard against the ravaged blood-seeping flesh. If pressure couldn't stop the crimson flow, he wondered fearfully, what would he do?

  "Please Dar," he prayed to the goddess who held sway here on land. "Please help him. He must be the sea king. I cannot go back without him. Please."

  He pressed down on the wound, willing the blood to stop flowing. He begged Dar to make it stop bleeding. He prayed to all the gods of the wind and sea to save Tansen. He admonished the warrior to heal.

  "Dar," Tansen rasped in his fever dreams.

  Zarien glanced at the warrior's lean face, but he still seemed unconscious even as more whispered words poured from his cracked lips: "Dar... shield... sword... fire.... firebr... mercy...Father, father..."

  Heal him, heal him, Zarien begged in silence.

  A chilling heat passed through him, a cold fire that made him shiver even as it burned him. He gasped and snatched his hand away from Tansen's body, startled, a little afraid. An icy mist rose from the wound, a crystalline glow that shimmered in the dappled sunlight creeping into the cave.

  Zarien watched unblinking as it slowly faded away, leaving only Tansen's flesh in its wake. With his own breath rasping in his ears, he leaned closer to the warrior and stared in amazement.

  The angry, bleeding, life-stealing wound was gone. Only a silvery scar was left in its place.

  "Dar be praised," Zarien murmured in awe. "I have found him."

  The sea king

  Chapter Eight

  There is no real sword outside the heart.

  —Kintish Proverb

  Armian took care of everything—food, money, clothing, supplies, shelter at night, water by day, finding the way to Shaljir while avoiding the Outlookers, inventing a plausible background for himself and the boy at his side. Everything.

  Tansen thought of little besides his loss, his grief, and the howling guilt that haunted him day and night. If he had returned home sooner, if he had not left home at all... His mind knew that Armian was right: He'd had no hand in what the Outlookers had done to his people. Yet he couldn't deny the conviction swamping his heart that it was he, not his entire village, who should have died at Valdani hands.

  Armian showed him compassion for his loss, but he himself seemed untroubled by guilt. But Armian was the Firebringer, and his destiny was great. He would free all of Sileria, Tansen realized, so he knew that his life, in the end, counted for more than those of a few villagers.

  If Tansen's grandfather or anyone else had given in and led the Outlookers to that cave in the cliffs... But they had died rather than tell. That was lirtahar. That was the honor of the shallaheen. That was the terrible, destructive courage of Sileria.

  He and Armian traveled fast, crossing the mountains on foot. They only asked the way to Shaljir if Tansen judged someone apt to give them a true answer. The rest of the time, Armian, who was an educated man, relied on the position of the sun and his knowledge of Sileria's geography.

  Armian adjusted quickly to life in Sileria's harsh mountains. His shallah dialect improved daily. His strong physique adapted to the punishing climbs, deadly descents, and long treks over uneven terrain which a shallah boy scarcely even noticed. He kept Tansen's mind busy by distracting him with many questions about Sileria's ways and her peoples. He knew much already, but now, he said, he needed to see Sileria through the eyes of someone who lived here.

  However, he was not much interested in discussing Dar, the zanar prophecies, or the Firebringer, and Tansen's grief made him too apathetic to press the point. Armian was curious, though, about why a man would abandon everything to go live at the airless, wind-swept, snow-capped peak of the volcano—and perhaps one day even throw himself into the caldera.

  "The zanareen come from all walks of life," Tansen explained as they passed through a lush valley of blossoming almond trees. "My brother was one. He felt a calling one day, they say. That can happen even to a man who seems to have everything—a toren, a merchant, a wealthy city-dweller. Most often, though, they are men who've lost too much. Their livestock has all died, or their wives are lost in childbirth, or their fields have dried up and no waterlord will help them, or an assassin seeks them for a bloodvow... or their entire clan is killed in a bloodfeud." Tansen paused, then added, "A man without a clan is no one in the mountains. A shallah is nothing without his kin."

  Armian gazed at him thoughtfully. "What about bloodpact relations?"

  Tansen shrugged. "I have none."

  Armian grasped the back of his neck and shook it, a gesture of affection, an attempt to lighten his dark mood. "Don't tell me you're going to run off and become a zanar?"

  Tansen smiled. "No, that I will not do."

  "Good."

  "There is no need. The Firebringer has come."

  Armian grunted in exasperation, then drenched him with spray from the waterskin. It was the first time Tansen laughed since meeting him.

  Tansen drifted slowly into consciousness, feeling his way out of death's dark domain and back toward the world of the living. He remembered that he was in a cave, and he could smell daylight in the breeze which drifted in through its mouth.

  Only in Sileria, the most beautiful of nations, was the scent of day so seductively different from that of night. The burgeoning blossoms, the ripening fruits, the tender leaves, even the peach-and-amber rocks themselves seemed to soak up the sun and then, by midday, start sweating it back into the air, drenching a man's senses. Afternoon was traditionally a time of rest in Sileria, though the war had changed that for many people. Even at the height of the fighting, though, it was hard to think about killing, hard to seek blood, when Sileria wrapped Tansen in her perfumed embrace and coaxed him to sleep in her scented shadows.

  He inhaled deeply, surrendering to the allure of his native land... and realized that his wound didn't hurt.

  His eyes snapped open in surprise. Something else occurred to him, too: "I feel better."

  The words came out as a croaking whisper. He turned his head. The movement made him a little dizzy, but without the sickening, whirling weakness he'd felt before. He didn't see the waterskin, though. Had the boy gone, after all? He should have left the water, but perhaps he expected to return soon. Tansen tried to remember what had happened after Zarien's startling declaration that, since Josarian was dead, he must be the sea king.

  Dar spare me.

  The boy had refused to leave his side. Had Tansen stayed awake long enough to tell him how to find the nearest Sanctuary? Or an alternate path up to the caves of Dalishar? Had he instructed the lad what to do and how to remember where this cav
e was? He didn't think so, but he couldn't remember for sure.

  However, Zarien seemed very capable, even if out of his element, so perhaps he could make it to help and back even so. If not, then...

  I'll have to make it alone.

  Perhaps he should start right away, while he was feeling a cautious return of his strength. He rolled to his side and slowly rose to a sitting position. His head swam for a moment, but his vision didn't go black. Was the wound healing on its own? He looked down—and caught his breath in astonishment.

  His seeping, open, pain-ridden wound was gone. Only a thick silver scar was left in its place.

  A scar. As if it had healed long ago.

  One thing Tansen was sure of was that he hadn't been lying here for the months it would take for that to happen naturally.

  Sorcery?

  No one had been here but the boy. How had he done it?

  Tansen remembered Zarien wanting to treat the wound and not knowing that it couldn't be cauterized. Perhaps he had more suggestions which Tansen had not stayed conscious long enough to hear. Certainly the sea-born—their women, usually—were reputed to be gifted healers. They had to be, since their boats were often far from help when disaster struck. And hadn't Josarian once told him that his own wife, believing she was barren, had sought help from the sea-born women in the port of Cavasar who were supposed to possess the secrets of fertility?

  If the sea-born could do this for a shir wound, Tansen thought as he fingered his new scar, he sincerely wished more of them would come inland.

  Then again, he acknowledged, Zarien was no ordinary boy. Regardless of what one thought about his tale of being reborn in the depths of the sea at a goddess's will—Tansen merely reserved judgment for the time being—he bore the most death-defying scars Tansen had ever seen. No one should have lived through the attack evinced by those terrible teeth marks. If Zarien had somehow healed himself after that attack, then he could probably heal a shir wound even in his sleep.

  Tansen hoped they'd never have cause to find out, but the events now unfolding in Sileria suggested there'd be many, many shir wounds before the year was out.

  His hand throbbed painfully, and he wondered why Zarien—who had cleaned and wrapped the fresh shir wound which was there—hadn't healed it, too. Fortunately, though, it wasn't life-threatening, just inconvenient. A Sister's balms would at least make it hurt less so he could wield a sword with that hand while it healed over the course of time.

  Knowing he couldn't afford to waste more time, Tansen rose slowly to his feet. When he was sure he could stay on them, he looked around for his tunic. He saw a pile of blood-soaked rags in the corner and realized that was probably what was left of it, as well as of Zarien's. The boy should have burned those, rather than leave them here to attract animals, but he probably wasn't used to thinking about that; the carnivores of the sea only smelled blood in the water, after all, not aboard a boat. It didn't matter now, anyhow, since Tansen was leaving.

  He knelt by his satchel, moving carefully, and opened it in search of his spare tunic. It wasn't there.

  Damn him, he thought, momentarily forgetting that the boy had saved his life.

  Tansen heard footsteps outside the cave. Ingrained habits ruled his healing body. He reached for the harness lying nearby, scooped it up with his injured hand, and unsheathed a sword with the other hand as he turned to face the cave entrance.

  The sudden action left him a little dizzy, so it was just as well that the intruder was only Zarien.

  "Siran?"

  "That's my tunic," was Tansen's irritable reply to the boy's questioning expression. The thin homespun shirt was a little baggy even on Tansen; Zarien was practically swimming in it.

  "Mine is ruined." Zarien gave a pointed glance to the blood-soaked rags in the corner. Tansen sheathed his sword.

  "Where have you been?" The moment he spoke the words he realized what a stupid question that was. The boy was carrying not only the waterskin, but an unappetizing assortment of wild onions, baby potatoes, and under-ripe figs.

  "I went to get more water, and some food." Zarien paused, then added, "You may have all the onions."

  "Thanks, I'm not hungry."

  "You should eat," Zarien insisted.

  "I'll wait until we reach Dalishar." Whatever food they had up there when he arrived, it would be better than this.

  "I thought this was Mount Dalishar."

  "I meant the sacred caves."

  Zarien looked dismayed. "Must we?"

  "I must. What you do is your own decision, of course, but we can feed and protect you at Dalishar until—"

  "I go where you go."

  "Good. Let's—"

  "But we should rest another night here," said Zarien, "and then make for the sea."

  "I can't," Tansen replied. "I have to—"

  "Sharifar awaits you. The sea-born await you."

  "No." Tansen saw the distress in the young face and immediately felt guilty. He sighed and tried to explain. "You've saved my life, and I am very grateful. I'll do whatever I can for you, help you in any way—"

  "Then come with me," Zarien insisted.

  "—that I can, provide you with whatever you need to return to your people—"

  "They won't take me back. I can't go back without you!"

  "—or to find this... this man you seek, but—"

  "It's you," said Zarien. "I know it is."

  "—I can't—"

  "They have saved you for your destiny." Zarien gestured to the healed shir wound.

  "—go haring off—" Tansen stopped abruptly and stared at the boy. "Didn't you heal me?"

  "No." Zarien shook his head. "I only prayed to them. They healed you."

  "They?" He didn't like this. "Who?"

  Zarien brushed a hand across his own torso, indicating the scars now hidden by the tunic. "Whoever did this for me. Sharifar, or—"

  "This is land, not s—"

  "Or Dar. Or perhaps they worked together." Zarien's tattooed hand moved back and forth, gesturing to them both. "To heal us both. To save us both. So that I would come here and find you, as I did, and bring you back to sea with me, as I must."

  He could be a very convincing young man. Nonetheless, Tansen shook his head. "If Dar healed me... " That thought alone was incredible, but Dar had spared his life before that he might fulfill his destiny, whatever it was, and perhaps She had done so again. He hoped not. He was angry at Dar and didn't want to owe Her anything now. "If Dar healed me, it's so that I can finish Josarian's work."

  "What if it was his work to unite the sea-born, as their king?"

  Darfire, he was a persistent little brat.

  "Then, in the fullness of time, perhaps I will," Tansen said, trying to end the argument. "But for now, I must make sure the Valdani withdraw from Sileria and that the Society don't rule it in their wake. And," he added, when Zarien drew breath to speak again, "I must begin by going to Dalishar to—"

  He stopped speaking abruptly and lifted his head, listening, his mountain-born senses tuned to an intrusion.

  "Wh—"

  Tansen put a hand over Zarien's mouth and whispered, "Someone's out there."

  The boy went still and wide-eyed, looking to him for direction.

  Since Tansen had heard whoever was out there, they had probably heard enough to know that someone was in here.

  "Let them see you," he whispered to Zarien. "Convince them you're alone." He couldn't risk more detailed instructions now. He only hoped Zarien could lie as well as any shallah boy. "I'll be right here, in case they don't believe you."

  Breathing a little fast, Zarien nodded and moved to the mouth of the cave. Tansen crept along its wall, staying in the shadows near the entrance, both swords drawn as he waited. He felt sweat trickle down his face. His left hand throbbed fiercely, with the kind of pain only a shir could inflict. He felt stiff, his mouth was dry, and he was still weak from blood loss.

  He could pray to Dar to make the intruders go away,
he supposed, but he had a vivid memory of cursing Her as he lay bleeding on the path to Dalishar. No, he and the volcano goddess were not on good terms. So he merely cleared his thoughts and focused on the task at hand.

  "Is someone there?" Zarien called out.

  Tansen heard nothing, and that paradoxically convinced him that someone was indeed there—someone moving with stealth now that Zarien had evinced awareness of the intrusion.

  "Hello?" the boy tried again.

  Something distracted Tansen. A soft rattling sound, a strange vibration. He looked down and saw the boy's oar, the stahra, lying on the floor of the cave. It was shaking—shaking?—with increasing intensity even as Tansen stared at it in astonishment.

  He flashed a puzzled look at Zarien, but the boy's back was to him. He glanced at the quivering stahra again.

  What's going on?

  He started to reach for Zarien, feeling worried, but for once he wasn't fast enough. Zarien stuck his head out of the cave. A dark hand snaked around from the side, grabbed the boy's hair, and yanked him the rest of the way out of the cave.

  "Assassins!" Zarien's startled exclamation was followed by a harsh grunt of pain. The stahra shuddered wildly, nearly tripping Tansen as he stepped past it. Instinct convinced him the thing's agitation meant Zarien was in danger.

  Tansen dived out of the cave, a move designed to avoid the kind of trap that had caught Zarien, and rolled to his feet, swords flashing as he—

  He stopped abruptly and stared in surprise.

  "Well, only one assassin," Zarien admitted. The boy gulped as the assassin's wavy blade kissed his throat, the grip on his hair keeping him on his toes.

  "Najdan." Tansen sagged with relief.

  "Yes. And you are very lucky," Najdan said, "since a blind beggar could have followed the trail you left."

  "I wasn't quite myself at the time," said Tansen.

  Najdan regarded the youth in his grasp with interest and added, "However, until I found this boy, I thought there might be assassins here, so I am lucky, too."

  Tansen sheathed his swords. "Let go of him."