The White Dragon (27 page)

"Derlen!" Elelar slid off her nervously prancing horse and bent over the Guardian's prone, panting body. The woven cords of her headdress swung across her eyes, obscuring her view of his face. She removed the headdress and tossed it aside.

"Derlen," she repeated, but got no answer. He lay stunned, possibly unconscious.

"
Torena
?" Faradar dismounted and knelt beside her.

"Someone's hit him," Elelar noted. His gushing nose had already dirtied her silk tunic with blood.

"Come away,
torena
," one of her male servants urged. "We have no weapons to defend you."
 

It was a good point. But when she glanced up, she saw no attack issuing from the vast, dark doorway of her house.
 

"Derlen?" Elelar gently shook the Guardian. "What happened?"

He mumbled incoherently. Then his eyes opened. He put a hand to his face, then snatched it away and scowled when he saw the blood on his fingers. "Dar
curse
that stinking drunk, that whoring, half-witted..." His voice trailed off awkwardly as his rolling eyes met Elelar's. "Er, I beg your pardon,
torena
."

"Oh, no," she sighed, already guessing the truth.

"
Toren
Ronall," the Guardian informed her with strained courtesy, "is in residence."

Chapter Ten

Honor my home, eat at my table,
 

and sleep beneath my roof.

      
      
      
—Traditional Silerian Welcome

The climb to Dalishar might have made Zarien weep with the pain it caused his feet, had he not been so preoccupied with curiosity about the volatile scene between Tansen and Mirabar.
 

The flame-haired Guardian had abandoned them in a blaze of rage, followed by the assassin—whose company Zarien couldn't honestly say he missed. Then the big, bearded
shallah
—Lann—had talked a great deal, though he'd only said one thing that mattered: They could leave immediately for the sacred caves, since the funeral pyre burned with Mirabar's disciplined magic and wouldn't set the hillside on fire even if a stray breeze came along.

It was obvious to Zarien that although Lann was discomfited by the fight between Tansen and Mirabar, he had been too far away to hear their angry exchange of words and had no idea what it was about. Tansen, after a few absent-minded attempts to distract Zarien's train of thought, had simply ordered him to stop asking questions about it and to concentrate on keeping up. Although Zarien would never say so aloud, it was good advice; even a weakened
shallah
could make that punishing climb with more speed than a footsore sea-born lad. By the time they reached the caves after dark, Zarien scarcely even noticed the woodless fires, the strange paintings (made by the Beyah-something-or-other), the staring
shallaheen
, or anything else. He collapsed in a breathless, pained heap while Tansen was welcomed with obvious relief by a lot of heavily-armed rebels.

Zarien was sitting at the edge of the clearing, resting his unhappy feet, when Tansen finally came to his side. "Are you all right?"

"I think I was in more pain when the dragonfish killed me," Zarien said, "but I'm not sure."

"I've spoken to Rahilar—"

"Who?"

"The Sister staying up here right now," Tansen said. "She's going to tend your feet."

"What's she going to do?" Zarien asked suspiciously.

He saw that slight tightening at the corner of Tansen's mouth which he was starting to recognize as a smile chased away before it could offend. "You can trust her. She's a Sister." Tansen sat beside him and added, "But first, we'll eat. You must be hungry."

"I have been hungry since the last time I ate my mother's cooking," he grumbled irritably.

"And tired," Tansen observed.

"Not
that
tired," he said significantly.

"We'll talk tomorrow."

"I would rather talk now."

"I'm sure you would. But I've decided we'll talk tomorrow," was the inflexible reply, "so that's the way it will be."

Zarien was annoyed enough to blurt, "No wonder she hates you."

Tansen glanced at him. "Mirabar doesn't hate me. She's just very angry."

"On that woman," Zarien observed, "anger looks a lot like hate." When Tansen's only response was a sigh, he probed,
 
"Who were you supposed to kill?"

"Didn't I just say we'll talk tomorrow?"

"Whoever it is—did she really betray Josarian? Is that why he's dead?" Zarien asked.

"If I could say 'we'll talk tomorrow' in sea-born dialect,
then
would you—"

"It seems very strange that a
shallah
, of all things, wouldn't avenge a—"

"Zarien."

He heard the warning note this time, something else he was learning to recognize in Tansen, and decided it might be prudent to wait until tomorrow, after all.
 

A scarred, one-eyed
shallah
wearing a Valdani swordbelt and sword brought them a basket filled with food. Zarien's stomach rumbled, but then he smelled something repulsive, and he recoiled with an exclamation of disgust.

"What's wrong?" Tansen asked.

"Ugh.
That
." He pointed to the offending item.

"The venison?"
 

"The cooked flesh."

"Cooked flesh?" Tansen regarded the grease-gleaming blood-dark pieces of animal flesh for a moment and admitted, "I suppose I wouldn't be very enthused, either, if I thought of it that way."

"How do you think of it?" Zarien asked without real interest.

"It's meat."

"Whatever."

"It's good," said Tansen.

"It's
revolting.
"

"Have you tried any?"

"No, and I don't intend to," Zarien said firmly.

"A boy your age should—"

"Should stick to food that won't make him gag."

Tansen sighed again. "Have it your way. But you won't get much fish up here."

"Surely there are fish in the sweetwater?" Zarien hadn't had time to investigate, but it seemed an obvious conclusion.

"You mean in lakes and rivers?"

Zarien nodded.

"Yes, but..." Tansen shrugged.

"You don't fish?" Zarien asked.

"Poaching from waterlords has never seemed wise."

"They even own the water here?"

"Not here at Dalishar," Tansen said. "But there are no fish in the water up here."

"Do the waterlords control the water further down the mountain?"

"I don't think so, but it's all gotten very confusing since the rebellion started. Everyone's territory has changed, and some waterlords have been killed by the Valdani. Some of the water that the Society controlled may even be free now." Tansen added, "But I don't want you fishing anywhere without asking me first."

"Yes,
siran
."

"My name is Tansen."

"I know your name," he replied, surprised.

"I mean, you can use my name."

"Call you Tansen?" Zarien said doubtfully.

"My friends do."

"But they don't know—"

"And let's not tell them."

"But I must take—"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," Tansen repeated wearily. "Now eat something."

Zarien peered suspiciously into the basket. "What is that?"

"Those are roasted vegetables."

"I've never seen them before."

"They're wild mountain beets. I don't suppose they'd be sold in the floating markets."

"And that?"

"Goat cheese," said Tansen.

"And that?"

"Just taste it."

"The flesh is touching it," Zarien grumbled.

"If I take the flesh out of the basket, will you stop complaining and just eat?"

"I am not complaining. I'm just asking. Would you put strange things into your mouth?"

"If I'd been living on wild onions, raw potatoes, and under-ripe figs since leaving home, I'd eat anything that a hospitable person put in front of me."

Zarien realized he'd been rude and felt chastened. "I'm sorry,
sira
... Tansen." While he might not be a Lascari by birth anymore, he still bore the tattoos of one and would not shame them before the landfolk by behaving badly. "Everything has been so strange ever since I fell overboard and died and then came ashore that I—"

"Yes, I can only imagine. I'm..." Tansen made a funny, stifled sound and said, "I'm sorry, too. I was impatient. I, uh, I haven't been at my best since we met."

"Perhaps..." Zarien stared at the legendary warrior and now saw the immense sorrow and fatigue in that lean face. The dancing light of the woodless fire lent a haunted look to Tansen's dark eyes. His filthy long hair made him look savage, and his many minor injuries shown starkly against his blood-drained skin. Even the sea king could not spring back quickly from near-death, Zarien acknowledged, and Mirabar's angry words had wounded him, too. "Perhaps you are right," he said at last. "Perhaps tomorrow will be better for talking."

After all, Zarien was not at his best right now, either. He was even, he privately admitted, a bit cranky tonight. It had been a long, hard day preceded by too many days of fear and confusion.

"You're a good lad." The compliment was casual, but Zarien heard its sincerity and felt his stature grow. Tansen returned his attention to the food. "I'll take the, uh, cooked flesh out of the basket." He took one of the leaves lining the basket and starting putting the chunks of meat on it.

A woman approached them with a bowl of some steaming liquid and said to Tansen, "You shouldn't eat that. Not tonight. I've made this for you." She wore a long, plain gown of the Sisterhood rather than the draped tunic and pantaloons typical of a
shallah
woman. This was, Zarien realized, the Sister whom Tansen had mentioned.

"What is this, Rahilar?" Tansen asked as she handed him the bowl.

"Blood broth."

Zarien rose quickly. "I'll think I'll sit upwind, if you don't mind."

Sister Rahilar frowned. "It doesn't smell bad."

"Humor him," Tansen advised. He regarded the bowl's contents with something less than favor. "Must I?"

"You must," she replied. "And often for the next few days."

"I won't be here for a few days."

"But you—"

"I'll drink it tonight and tomorrow." Tansen gazed down into the bowl again and amended, "Well, tonight, anyhow."

"You've lost too much bl—"

"
Time
is what I've lost," he said.

"You can't—"

"Rahilar."

Zarien noted that Tansen's warning tone worked on the Sister, too.

She pursed her lips for a moment, then said, "When you're both done eating, I will tend to your wounds. Then you may both feel free to go get yourselves killed." She turned and stalked away, her posture rigid with indignation.

Zarien watched Tansen pick up a piece bread to dunk in the blood broth, then asked, "Do
any
women like you?"

Tansen threw the chunk of bread at him. It was the first time Zarien laughed since meeting him.