The White Dragon (3 page)

The season of slaughter was a short one, lasting only while the first new moon glowed alone, before the second one appeared to join it in the night sky, during the fourth month of the year. It was a sacred span of three days and nights, an opportunity which came only once a year. If Zarien did not slay a dragonfish during the
bharata
, the traditional time for a first kill, then he would have to rely on chance until next year, on the mingled hope and fear that a dragonfish would attack him somewhere in the open sea. And until he finally killed one, he would be excluded from the rights and privileges granted only to those who had done so. He would also, he reflected sourly, be obliged to listen meekly to the other men's endless boasts wherever boats met and mingled at sea or in Sileria's harbors.

"Stop scowling," his mother advised him, brushing past him as she prepared the deck to receive the first dragonfish corpse of the
bharata
.
 

"I wasn't scowling," he said. "I was thinking."

"You were thinking?" Her dark brows rose. "Ah, for that alone, we should hold a special festival."
 

He scowled at her but didn't retort. A sea-born man who was not respectful to women—especially to his mother—would be dragonfish bait before long.
 

He didn't help her with her work, nor did she ask him to. Work was strictly divided among the sea-born, and each person stayed out of the other's way when it came to chores and duties. Boats were small and unsteady, after all, and the sea-born couldn't afford to trip over and bump into each other all the time like clumsy landfolk. So Zarien stayed out of his mother's way and attended to his own work—which currently meant trimming the foresail as the boat drew near the killing waters.
 

Some of the boats of the Lascari clan were already there, and others were arriving even as Zarien's family brailed their sails up to the yard and prepared to drop anchor, positioning their boat for the setting of the nets. The women of each family had folded the huge nets aboard their own boats with care so that they would feed out smoothly and quickly when they were being set.
 

Only let this slaughter make me a man
, he prayed to the spirits that ruled the sea. Without his manhood, he would not be allowed to carry the
stahra
he knew his parents had already acquired for him and tried to hide below deck without his knowledge. Among the sea-born, the
stahra
was a deadly weapon with which a sea-born man protected himself and his family from enemies, pirates, landfolk, and dragonfish. To ignorant eyes, though, it simply looked like an oar, something which even the Valdani didn't object to Silerians possessing.

Of course, the need to conceal weaponry from the Valdani was changing with the coming of Josarian the Firebringer. A simple
shallah
turned rebel leader, Josarian had proven himself to be the long-prophesied chosen one of Dar, the destroyer goddess who dwelled in the volcano of Mount Darshon. With few exceptions, all of Sileria's disparate population worshipped Dar. The Honored Society, of course, was one of the exceptions. They had turned their backs on Dar a thousand years ago, during the time of Marjan, the very first waterlord, who had founded the Society. But even the Society—like the sea-born folk—were not openly disrespectful of Dar. After all, Zarien knew, to worship a land goddess like some mountain peasant was one thing, but to openly insult Her and risk Her vengeance was quite another.

Sileria and all her peoples had toiled under the rule of various foreign nations for a thousand years, since the days of the Conquest when the Moorlanders had sailed out of their misty western homeland in search of slaves and gold. After them came the Kints, founders of the ancient union of exotic kingdoms east of the Middle Sea; they had ruled here for six hundred years. Two centuries ago, they had lost Sileria to the Valdani, builders of the most powerful empire the Middle Sea had ever known.
 

Through it all, prophecy, prayer, song, and story had spoken of a great warrior who would drive out the conquering powers that enslaved Sileria so that it could be, once again, a free and proud nation. He would prove himself by leaping into the volcano atop Mount Darshon and surviving. For centuries, of course, the mad
zanareen
kept flinging themselves into the Fires of Dar in attempt to achieve that ecstatic union with the goddess—and failing. Then Josarian had come along.
 

Everyone knew the story. Hundreds of witnesses, including many skeptics, had been there to see the event. The rebel leader, the
shallah
who sacked Valdani supply posts and killed their uniformed Outlookers, had flung himself into the heart of the volcano and survived. Spewing fire and ecstasy, Dar had safely returned him to the volcano rim after having Her fill of him. And so Josarian's legend, born on the twin-moon night he had killed his first Valdani Outlooker, had ripened into fulfillment.
 

Some of the other famous rebel leaders had been with him at Darshon, too, it was said. Tansen, Josarian's bloodbrother, was also a
shallah
, but he was rumored to be different from the other mountain peasants. He bore a strange foreign symbol on his chest, branded into his flesh by the gods of Kinto, which made him invincible. He carried two magically-engraved Kintish swords which he used with the skill of a sorcerer; they could leap out of their sheathes and slaughter men by themselves. It was said that Tansen had actually gone to Darshon to stop Josarian from jumping, afraid his bloodbrother would die in the Fires of Dar, but had arrived too late. And it was Mirabar, the stories said, who had led Josarian to Darshon. She was the flame-eyed, fire-haired Guardian whose visions had foretold Josarian's and Tansen's joint destiny to lead Sileria to freedom.
 

The
shallaheen
, Zarien knew, feared beings like Mirabar—some silly mountain superstition about such people being demons. Yes,
shallaheen
were ignorant; but Zarien's father said that one must nonetheless honor the way they had flocked to Josarian's banner even before the events at Darshon. One must respect the many lives they had sacrificed to free Sileria from the Valdani.

The sea-born folk had joined Josarian's cause after his transformation at Darshon, and now many of them were also dying. The Valdani were losing the war, and Josarian's destiny would soon be fulfilled. But the Valdani had not abandoned Sileria entirely. That day was yet to come.
 

When we take Shaljir
, Zarien thought,
then the war will end, and the Valdani will finally surrender and leave forever
.
 

All of Sileria waited for Josarian to commence the attack on Shaljir. For the sea-born folk, it would be the deadliest and most important battle of the entire rebellion. Shaljir, the ancient capital city, was the largest and most active port in Sileria. Zarien knew his father thought that Josarian should have laid siege to the walled city before now, that he was waiting too long. The delay was due to dissension among different factions of the fragile rebel alliance. The landfolk liked nothing better than quarreling among themselves, and even war against the Valdani had not changed that. Josarian the Firebringer had become enemies with Kiloran, the most powerful waterlord in Sileria, and their feud weakened them both when it came to fighting the Valdani. And so the expected attack on Shaljir had yet to be launched.
 

Zarien, however, was glad for the delay. If he killed a dragonfish now, then he could join in the final great sea battle of the rebellion and fight alongside his father and elder brother for the port of Shaljir. Although they sailed primarily off the Adalian coast, the Lascari had no intention of being left out of the siege of Shaljir. Only
Bharata Ma-al
had prevented the entire clan from sailing toward Shaljir before now; no one ever skipped the
bharata
. But when the new crescent of Ejara, the second moon, appeared in the night sky and the slaughter ended, the Lascari would sail east, via the sacred rainbow-chalk cliffs of Liron, and then turn north towards Shaljir.

Oh, let me kill a dragonfish, that I may share the honor of driving the Valdani from the waters of Shaljir
, Zarien prayed fervently to the eight gods who ruled the wind and to the nine goddesses who ruled the sea.
 

After he placed the bloody purple heart of a dragonfish at his mother's feet, he would also be eligible to acquire a boat which he would someday offer as a wedding gift to the woman of his choice. Like his elder brother, Orman, he would continue living on his mother's boat until he married, and he would use the years between now and his marriage to make his own boat one that any woman would be proud to accept.
 

Still praying for success during the
bharata
, Zarien watched the other arriving boats of his clan drop anchor and await his grandfather's signal to begin setting the nets. When he'd exhausted his promises to the gods about all he would do for them in exchange for the heart of a dragonfish, he thought again about the extraordinary events sweeping across Sileria now that the age of the Firebringer was at hand. Freedom from the Valdani. Freedom from crippling tribute and taxes, from sudden seizures and searches, from arrest, execution, and death by slow torture for violating the smallest of their endless laws. Freedom from the threat of transportation to the mines of Alizar, somewhere in the mountains of Sileria. No one sea-born had ever returned alive from Alizar. Zarien grinned, recalling the day they'd received word that Josarian had attacked and seized the mines. His father had opened a smuggled cargo of Kintish spirits and urged his family to drink freely.
 

Zarien knew the number of his clan's square-sailed boats as well as he knew the number of his own fingers, so he knew when they had all arrived and were in position. The sun blazed gloriously down on the yellow sails and the azure waters as his grandfather blew into the ritual dragonfish horn, giving the first signal of the slaughter
 

"Zarien!" his father called from the bow. "Prepare to drop the nets!"
 

Zarien glowed with pride. The order meant that he would be the one to lead his own family in the setting of the nets. It was a great honor, one his father had hinted he would bestow upon him even though it was only his first
bharata
. Orman had led the setting of the nets before, so he wouldn't challenge Zarien's right to do so today—though Zarien knew he wouldn't get to do it two years in a row. His brother wasn't
that
generous.
 

Now his younger brother Morven weighed anchor, allowing the boat to creep forward again with their mother at the helm as Sorin and Orman unfurled the foresail. Zarien lifted the first iron weight, his muscles straining as he prepared to heave it over the side. Orman, Morven, and their father took their places near him on the starboard side. The boat bobbed gently in the coastal current, and Zarien only noticed his slight adjustments to its motion because of the awkward weight he held in his arms.
 

Taut silence replaced the typically gregarious boat-to-boat greetings of the sea-born people. Even the wind died down, awaiting the moment. Only the ever-present dull roar of the sea remained, the never-ending song of Sirkara. Then Zarien heard his grandmother's piercing wail, invoking the women of the clan to commence the chant of
Bharata Ma-al
. Zarien heaved the iron weight overboard, then heard his mother's voice strike the first note of the ritual chant at the very moment the weight struck the water.

Now there was no time to think, no time to worry about disgracing himself or his family if he failed to live up to his father's expectations. He fell into the rhythm of the chant, ordering his father and brothers to guide the massive net overboard as he hoisted the next weight into his arms. This second weight was at the end of the first net, and it must be dropped into the water exactly as the first chant ended, carrying with it the women's entreaty to the nine goddesses that the net be filled with a good catch.
 

One by one, they dropped the nets into the water, working in tandem with the rest of the clan to form a vast maze in the sea. The nets hung from huge cords that were floated by corks, stretched taut through the water and weighted at the bottom by the precisely spaced iron weights. The open ends of the maze all faced the open sea, from which the dragonfish would come. Any dragonfish which entered the nets would get caught in the maze and eventually swim into one of the dead ends, or death chambers, to which the underwater corridors led.
 

Stringing the
bharata
maze across the killing grounds was a long, hard task. The Lascari men worked efficiently under the fierce Silerian sky, sweat pouring down their beardless faces and naked backs as they dropped weights and lowered nets in time to the rhythmic chanting that filled the salty air. The singing women guided the boats skillfully, weaving a pattern on the sea's surface which defined the shape of the maze in its depths.
 

The ritual chant entered Zarien's blood, became part of his heartbeat, matched its pace to his breath. He no longer had to concentrate to ensure that he set the nets in time to the singing that blessed them. He moved and the movement was right, he breathed and the breath was song and prayer, he sweat and the sweat became the sea.