The White Dragon (12 page)

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, wisps 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.
 

However, at least struggling up and down Sileria's treacherous mountain paths distracted him somewhat from the pain of his feet. When he edged along crumbing cliffside trails that seemed ready to tumble into the gorges below, at least he wasn't thinking about the aching blisters on his heels. When his lungs burned like the Fires of Dar and his legs shook with fatigue as he hauled himself up yet another punishingly steep path, at least he forgot about his bleeding toes. Whereas when he walked through the fertile lowlands or lush valleys, he thought so much about how badly his feet hurt that he scarcely appreciated breathing normally and not worrying about falling to his death.

When he sat down to rest, then he mostly just thought about how hungry he was. He had managed to steal some fish in the first few days, mostly from the backs of carts on their way to market. He'd eaten it raw the first time, since he had no coals or brazier. That was when he discovered that raw fish from a drylander market tasted a
lot
different than the succulent flesh sometimes eaten raw at sea only moments after taking catch from the water. His first attempt to build a fire like landfolk, using wood, was so discouraging that he'd resorted to spying on some
shallah
shepherd to see how it was done. His next attempt nearly set a whole valley on fire, and he hoped the
toren
who had run him off his land wasn't still trying to hunt him down.