He had left Mirabar alone, under the influence of other men, for too long already. His business for Tansen was nearly concluded here, and he had only a little more personal business to attend to. If all went well, he expected to head west on the Adalian coastal road, riding a fast mount, in a few more days.
Meanwhile, he made his way past the pilgrims who were streaming toward Mount Darshon to worship, praise, and pacify Dar. They brought generous offerings. Some of them were so heavily burdened with worldly goods, it looked as if they were offering Her everything they owned. Others came barefooted and empty-handed, having already lost everything—to the Valdani, to the Society, or to the recent earthquakes. Strangely, these were often the most ecstatic of the travelers, and some of them were feverishly determined to ascend Darshon, despite the heat vents now opening on the mountainside, the terrifying colored smoke spewing from the caldera, and the strange light dancing around the volcano.
Cheylan had seen pilgrims all his life, of course, but most of these were different from those he was used to. These weren't just people paying homage to Dar; many of these people seemed as crazy as the zanareen. The feverish light in their glassy eyes reminded him of Jalan, one of the maddest zanareen he'd ever met. Their babbling talk, their apparent indifference to hunger and exhaustion, their noisy passion for the destroyer goddess, their mingled terror and exultation... No, these pilgrims, however normal they may have been before, were now no saner than Jalan.
However, Jalan had been right about Josarian; so Cheylan wondered what these people might be right about. Unfortunately, even they didn't seem to know.
Most of them claimed Dar had Called them here, had summoned them from all over Sileria, from all walks of life, from every part of the nation. But although they were positive She wanted them here, they were all rather vague and incoherent about why. Some said it was to witness a birth; others said it was to consecrate a death. But whose birth and whose death, no one knew. Some even claimed that Sileria was destined for destruction and only Darshon would be left standing after the Middle Sea swept the rest of the island away.
Even the sea-born folk were becoming infected by the mystical hysteria sweeping across Sileria. They didn't come inland, of course, but some of their clans were gathering in the waters off the eastern coast, abandoning their traditional fishing territories to float in the shadows cast on the sea by the looming Lironi mountains and wait... without, it seemed, having any idea what they awaited.
The rains had been generous this year, and the dry season had yet to seize the island nation in its thirsty grip. The brilliant verdure of the landscape displayed Sileria at her loveliest, and the almond trees held their blossoms late into the season. On a day like this, Cheylan's homeland was a beautiful country to live in, to love, and to dream of ruling through one means or another. And Mount Darshon, looming over eastern Sileria, rising above the surrounding mountains to pierce the clouds in fire and fury... Darshon, snow-capped dwelling place of the destroyer goddess, inspired awe in everyone, including Cheylan.
Some pilgrims crossed their fists and bowed respectfully as Cheylan passed them on the road, his flame-bright eyes revealing his special status in Dar's domain, his insignia identifying him as a member of Her favored sect, and his rich clothing marking him as a toren. Here in the east, he was almost as famous now as Mirabar was throughout Sileria; but many of these pilgrims had come from afar and so didn't know his name. Nonetheless, he heard a few people whisper it here and there. Some even called out their blessings to him, praised him for serving Dar, or even asked him for answers to the questions which had brought them here: What was truly happening at the summit of Darshon? What did Dar want of them now? What would be the fate of Sileria?
Cheylan wanted to know the answers, too. He had Called shades of the dead, made his own offerings to Dar, and sought answers in the sacred flames of enchanted Guardian fire. However, he still found no answers, and he was eager to return to the side of the one person in Sileria who saw and understood what no one else did. Soon he would see Mirabar again, and his destiny would unfold in all its glory.
The sun was high and hot when Cheylan finally reached his destination: Marendar, the village from which Jagodan shah Lironi was leading his clan in a bloodfeud against Verlon. Cheylan knew that Tansen liked Jagodan, but he didn't see the attraction. True, Jagodan had the strength and charisma needed to lead the Lironi, who were notorious for their violent bloodlust, but Cheylan thought he was nonetheless ignorant, hot-headed, and vulgar. Of course, Cheylan reflected, there was no reason to suppose these qualities would bother Tansen, an illiterate shallah from an obscure clan which had destroyed itself with bloodfeuds. Tansen had accomplished so much that one sometimes forgot where he came from and perhaps overestimated him.
The sentries recognized Cheylan instantly, welcomed him to Marendar, and told him Jagodan was in his house. Having been there before, Cheylan knew the way and so needed no escort to find the humble stone dwelling perched on a hill overlooking the rest of the village. When he got there, though, some children playing outside told him he had been misinformed; Jagodan wasn't home. Since shallaheen always lied to strangers, and since they started young, Cheylan didn't believe the children and went inside anyhow.
He found a man and a woman in the main room of Jagodan's simple home, standing close together by the stone hearth on the north wall. They heard Cheylan's footstep and jumped guiltily apart at the same moment that he realized the man wasn't Jagodan, although the woman was most certainly Jagodan's wife.
"Kiman," Cheylan said, recognizing the young leader of the Moynari clan who had recently returned from Zilar, where he had joined in Tansen's bloodvow against the Society.
"Cheylan." Kiman attempted a blank-faced stare, but his eyes were restless—nervous.
Not surprising. The shallaheen were very touchy about their women, and just being alone with the wife of a man from another clan was sometimes enough to start a bloodfeud. However, Cheylan was not a shallah and didn't care whose wife Kiman talked to.
Cheylan greeted Viramar, the young woman Jagodan had married several years ago after mourning (for years, it was said) the death of his first wife when she was bearing their fourth child. Viramar murmured a reply, looking even more nervous than Kiman did.
"Where's Jagodan?" Cheylan asked.
He delivered the question abruptly, eager to get on with his business and leave Marendar without delay. However, he immediately perceived it was taken as an accusation. Kiman looked defensive and hostile. Viramar stammered guiltily.
Cheylan watched them with amusement as he realized the truth: It wasn't the appearance of impropriety that made them so nervous.
Now that's very interesting.
He wondered if Jagodan suspected. Probably not. Not yet. If he did, he'd surely have killed Kiman already.
Cheylan smiled, recalling that Tansen was the one who had instructed Kiman to ally himself with Jagodan. So the Lironi, who didn't have a cool-headed thinker in the entire clan, would probably blame Tansen for this. At least, Cheylan certainly hoped they would. In any event, he had no doubt the Lironi would find out about Kiman and Viramar. He had already found out, after all, and he hardly knew these people.
Dishonoring Jagodan shah Lironi's wife was a very dangerous mistake. Had Kiman been emboldened by love, or just overcome by lust? Cheylan smiled, enjoying Kiman's growing unease as they stared at each other.
I wonder—are you braver than I gave you credit for, or even dumber than I thought?
Zarien was almost shaking with nerves by the time they reached the floating market. The oarboat bumped into a large piece of flotsam, and Zarien noticed there was a lot of it bobbing on the surface. More damage from the earthquakes, he realized; more boats which the sea had chewed up and swallowed screaming.
Nonetheless, the floating market was crowded and busy today. Boats from all over the Middle Sea clustered together here, though most belonged to the sea-born folk of Sileria. The bobbing boats formed a
n area the size of a typical shallah village, and they were anchored so closely together that planks were rarely even needed to traverse from one boat to the next.
A toren's yacht nearly sailed straight into the oarboat. Zarien and the old woman's grandson paddled hard to get out of its way, then watched as the crew lowered a plank and three toreni, one of them a woman even more beautiful than Elelar, made their way across it and into the bustling, bobbing marketplace to examine and purchase goods that came from all over Sirkara.
"Let's go around," Zarien said, pulling his oars again.
The old woman nodded. "The Kurvari have anchored—"
"On the windward flank of the market," Zarien concluded, rejoicing in his homecoming. "They always do."
Once they were in the right vicinity, it didn't take Zarien long to spot a familiar hull. The boat belonged to Gillien, who was distantly related to his mo—to Palomar.
Too excited now for decorum, Zarien secured his oars, stood up, and shouted, "Gillien! Gillien!"
Zarien heard voices from the deck above his head. Gillien, Gillien's wife, one of their children, a dog... Then Gillien's dark face peered over the rail.
"Gillien!" Zarien grinned up at him.
Gillien drew a sharp breath. "Forgive me. You look just like..." His jaw dropped, and he stared in disbelief. "Zarien?"
"It's me!" The expression on Gillien's face made him laugh. "It's me, Gillien! I'm alive!"
"You're alive!"
"I'm alive!"
The old woman asked, "They thought you were dead?"
Gillien shouted to the rest of his family. They all rushed to the rail and peered down at Zarien. One of the girls squealed with delight. The baby started crying and the dog barked. Zarien laughed again, unable to make out anyone's words through the noise.
He shouted, "Aren't you going to invite me aboard?"
Laughing now, Gillien reached down to clasp his extended hands and hoisted him aboard. Then Zarien was being embraced by his distant kin, his own kind. Their salt-pure scent, their wind-burned flesh, their joyful tattoos, the roll and sway of the deck beneath his feet...
"Oh, the gods are merciful," Gillien murmured. "The gods be praised."
"It's good to be here," Zarien replied fervently. "It's so good to be here."
Gillien pushed him away and took a good look at him, holding him by the shoulders. "We thought you were dead! Everyone thought you were dead! Killed during the bharata. Your family was certain. There was no doubt, no—"
"I know, I know," Zarien said. "I'll explain everything later. But right now—"
"What is that?"
"What's what?"
Gillien sniffed. "That smell." He leaned closer and sniffed again. "That's you!" He laughed and said, "Are you sure you're not dead? What is that awful smell? It smells like... like..." His voice trailed off as a strange expression washed across his face. Now his gaze traveled slowly over Zarien, staring in astonishment at the shallah clothing he wore. When he looked at Zarien's feet, he fell back a step, his mouth hanging open.
Zarien looked down and suddenly saw what Gillien's whole family, now grown silent, saw, too: the dusty boots he wore, with some dried mud caked on one of the toes.
"Smells like..." Gillien looked into his eyes, his gaze asking Zarien to deny it. "Like landfolk."
"They..." Zarien nodded, suddenly remembering what he had never expected to forget. "They stink when they come aboard."
"Yes," Gillien whispered.
"Stink of cheese and milk and..." And other things he'd been eating daily while on the dryland.
"Oh, Zarien," Gillien said in a low, sad voice.
"I had to," Zarien said. "There was a reason."
"It doesn't matter," Gillien said.
"But I—"
"Zarien." Gillien shook his head.
Zarien closed his mouth. He knew. He had known from the very first what going ashore would mean.
Still, maybe it would be different with his own family. His own clan. Maybe when he explained everything to them.
Or not. He wasn't Lascari. Not really. Not anymore.
Even so, he had to see them. There was so much he wanted to tell them. Such important things he wanted to ask them now.
Gillien sighed and said, "Look, I don't pretend to understand. And I'm sorry, because you could have stayed with us, but..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it's just as well."
Zarien frowned. "Why would it be just as well?"
Gillien's face changed again. Sadness and pity washed across his dark features. "You've been... with them, haven't you? With the drylanders, I mean. So you don't know, do you? No, I suppose you couldn't."
"Know what?" he asked suspiciously.
But he knew. He already knew. He could see it written all over Gillien's sad face.
"Your clan was sailing to Shaljir, after the bharata. After mourning you. They were along the eastern coast—"
"No," Zarien said, shaking his head.
"—when the first earthquake, the really big one, hit."
"No." Zarien took a step backward, still shaking his head.
"Maybe if they hadn't made such good time, if they'd been further south... We were further south, you see, and we lost no boats."
"No." Zarien felt tears stinging his eyes.
"Your grandparents survived. And four other boats, too. But most didn't." He paused. "Your parents didn't, Zarien."
He mouthed word no, but no sound came out of his constricted throat.
"You can't imagine what it was like on the water that night," Gillien said. "Like the sea was trying to swallow the whole world, or maybe fling it against the sky. And it was worse farther north, they say, where the Lascari were. Much worse."
Zarien's legs gave way. He hit the deck hard, then sat there rocking slowly, still listening.
His parents. His brothers. All dead. Most of the rest of the clan dead, too.
"They say your father's boat was thrown out of the water like a toy, then fell onto the shoals, where it broke apart. It was swept out to open sea then. No remains, no survivors."
Sorin, Palomar, Orman, Morven...
Zarien's shoulders were shaking. Tears streamed down his face. He couldn't speak, couldn't think.
"They're gone," Gillien said. "I'm sorry."
"The sea took them," Zarien murmured, as one was meant to upon receiving such news... but he couldn't finish the blessing.
"As she will take us all in the end," Gillien continued for him. "And then we will be together again, sailing to that shore which has no other shore."
Zarien hauled himself to his feet, needing to move, to do something to relieve the terrible pain in his heart. He saw the knife sheathed in Gillien's belt and seized it. Gillien didn't move. Zarien drew the blade down his forearm, cutting himself in mourning. It hurt, but not enough; not enough to ease the howling sorrow of his heart. He cut his shoulder, too, pressing the blade through the fabric of his tunic. He felt the sharp bite of the blade. Saw the cloth turn red with his blood and felt it cling wetly to his flesh. He made another cut, his body numb and unresponsive compared to his raging grief.
Gillien put a hand over the one that held the blade and said quietly, "That's enough."
"No." He felt the terrible scars on his torso burning as if they had just been branded there. "No, it's not enough." He drew the knife across his belly, making a long slash of scarlet vengeance against his fate.
"Zarien!" Gillien took the knife from his stiff hand, then lifted his tunic to examine the wound. He gasped loudly at what he saw there. "May the winds have mercy..." His gaze flew up to meet Zarien's. "How did you live through that?"
"I didn't," Zarien said stonily.
He looked down at his scarred belly. Blood dribbled down in a strange pattern. The scars didn't bleed; only the unmarred flesh showed any sign of his slash with the knife.
"What's happened to you?" Gillien whispered.
"It doesn't matter." Zarien felt more tears pour out of his ey
es, but now fury and betrayal mingled with his sorrow. Now he hated as ferociously as he grieved. "It doesn't matter anymore."
"Zarien..."
"I don't belong here," he said suddenly. He saw the dazed confusion in Gillien's eyes. Saw the expressions on the faces of the rest of the family—fear, shock, even suspicion. "I can never belong here again."
"You're still sea-born," Gillien said kindly. "Just not—"
"No, I'm not." The steel in Zarien's voice matched the hardness in his heart. "I don't want to be here. I don't want to be here ever again."
"Don't say that. The sea will always—"
"Sharifar had no right," Zarien said bitterly.
"All the nine goddesses—"
"Sharifar had no right!" he shouted, his hatred consuming him, the bitter gall of her cruelty turning his heart to fire inside his chest.
Gillien's wife murmured something that Zarien scarcely heard. Gillien took Zarien by the shoulders. "Calm yourself. Your voice is carrying."
Zarien looked around him in a daze and realized that people from other boats were staring avidly at him, listening to him curse one of the goddesses.
He trembled with emotions too wild to be contained within his body. He wanted to mourn. He wanted to die with his family. He wanted to spit in Sharifar's face and let the dragonfish kill him. He wanted to... He wanted to leave. To end the most bitter homecoming he could have imagined.
"Goodbye, Gillien," he said. Gillien didn't try to stop him as he climbed over the rail, moving as slowly as an old man. "May the wind be at your back."
"May the wind be forever at yours, too, Zarien," Gillien murmured, his voice full of regret.
But Zarien was already caught in the whirlwind, and he would never sail calm waters again.
He lowered himself into the oarboat and said, "Let's go."
The White Dragon Page 59
