The White Dragon (22 page)

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 cave 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.