Chapter 8

"This is getting tiresome, Tarrin," Dolanna admonished him sternly as she put her hand to his forehead.

He'd woken up in his bed. Again. But then again, he didn't think he'd be waking up at all. For some reason, Triana had spared him.

Maybe the Goddess' words about what him saying to her had made a difference. She had spared his life.

He felt remarkably well for someone who had had a span of steel shoved into his gut. There was no pain, just the weak feeling that always accompanied a Sorcerer's healing. He'd woken up to find Dolanna hovering over his bed, and feeling the ship rocking in a way that told him that they were back out at sea. He'd slept through the night and half the morning, recovering his strength. He was a little worried that Keritanima and Allia weren't there, but Renoit had them up on deck practicing, and Dolanna had ensured them that Tarrin's injuries weren't lifethreatening.

"I told you before, Dolanna," he said calmly, "I won't put you in danger because of me. That was Jegajoh. A Doomwalker. If I'd have told you about it, and you and the others came to help fight it, it would have killed some of us. I've fought it before, and to be honest, anyone else would have gotten in my way."

"You assume much," she sniffed. "We are a group, Tarrin. We must act like a group. We cannot help each other if you keep shouldering all your burdens alone."

"I know, Dolanna, and I'm sorry. If it would have been anyone or anything else, I would have told you. But not a Doomwalker."

"It sounds personal."

"I guess it is," he said gruffly. "He beat me the last time. I guess the fighter in me wanted a rematch."

"Pride is a dangerous emotion, my young one. It can bring confidence, but it can also make one make foolish decisions."

"May be, but I still wasn't going to put all of you in danger over me. You're more important than I am."

"And who made this decision?"

"I did," he said pugnaciously, giving Dolanna a stern look.

Dolanna gave him a long look, then she actually laughed. "I am flattered, dear one," she said with a smile. "I was also impressed. You made all the correct decisions. Allia and Binter have taught you well."

"What do you mean?"

"Dear one, that wharf was in plain view of most of the harbor. There had to be hundreds of people watching. We saw the entire thing."

Tarrin gaped at her.

"King Rathbonne sent you this, as a thank- you," she said, picking up double-bladed longsword with an elaborately jeweled hilt, the hilt resembling a dragon. Wings formed the crosspiece, the body was cleverly wrapped in wire to make it look scaled, forming the handle, and the pommel was sculpted to look like a dragon's head.

It was Jegojah's sword.

Tarrin recognized it immediately, and it sent a pang through him. "The Doomwalker killed a great many people when it came into the city. That you had a hand in destroying it was not lost on him."

"You mean people were watching?"

"Of course. Azakar had a jump on us all. He saw you leave and followed you, but he did not get there in time to help. Rathbonne's men fished this out of the sea. He felt it only right that you should receive it."

Tarrin took it from her, holding it out before him. Just the touch of it made his fur itch. He could feel the magic that made up part of its craftsmanship, an ancient weapon from time long past, that had only survived the Breaking because it was probably wherever the Doomwalker went when not stalking across the world. It felt odd holding the sword that had spilled so much of his own blood.

"I don't deserve this," he said, holding it back out. "Triana finished it off, not me."

"Triana is not here. She did not fight it to that point, and she struck it from behind. Besides, this is less than suitable compensation for what it has put you through. I would say that you have much more of a claim on it than anyone else."

"It's not cursed, is it?"

"No, dear one," she smiled. "It is merely an object, nothing more. The good or evil it can cause depends solely on the hand wielding it."

Tarrin looked at her, then looked at the sword. It was truly an exquisite weapon, both in its forging and in its beauty. The blade was etched with flowing dragons along both sides, something he hadn't noticed before, and it was much too light to be made of steel. It almost felt made of wood, but Tarrin could personally attest to the strength of the blade, and its lethal cutting edges. It would be the treasured possession of any warrior, a sword of paramount workmanship. The fact that it carried a magical enchantment, something that was exceedingly rare, was only the icing on the cake.

"Jegojah will come back for it," Tarrin said quietly. "It told me itself that it can't be destroyed. It will find a new body and come back, and I'm sure it'll be looking for this."

"Perhaps. But tell me, was it using the same weapons as before? I remember the first battle you had with it, and it left its sword behind. The Tower still has the sword it used in that fight. This one is not the same."

"It's not?"

"No. I saw it. It was not this sword."

"Huh," he mused, holding it up. "It's too bad I don't really like swords. This one is very nice."

"Yes. I pity the one the Doomwalker attacked to gain it."

"I guess so," he agreed. "Azakar uses a bastard sword, and it's a bit too small for him. I think I'll give it to Faalken."

"He will kiss your feet and wash your clothes for a year," Dolanna laughed.

"He can do whatever he wants. It doesn't really do me any good. Best to give it to someone that can use it."

"He will be thrilled," she assured him, taking it from him when he offered it and leaning it against the squat night stand. "Now then, you are free to get up. You were not injured as badly as I first thought."

"It got me in the lung. I thought I was going to die."

"Your internal injuries were not that severe. Perhaps Triana healed you before she allowed Azakar to take you."

"Druids can heal?"

"Yes. Their healing is crude by a Sorcerer's standards, but they do have some ability."

"What's the difference?"

"A Sorcerer returns the body to its original condition," she explained. "We cannot heal diseases as Priests can, nor can we heal those who are so weak that their body cannot withstand the healing, but any type of injury or wounding can be healed. Druids only accelerate the body's natural healing process. If an injury does not set or heal correctly, there is nothing more they can do. Their healing also leaves scars, where ours does not."

"I guess that makes sense. Sevren once told me that Druidic magic is the magic of nature, so their healing would depend on the natural healing of the one being healed."

"Correct," she smiled. "I see you paid more attention in class than I previously believed."

"I tried," he said with a small smile.

"You may get up and move about, but do not exert yourself. You may also go up on deck, but I do not have to-- "

"I'll be careful," he promised.

"Renoit left you these," she said, patting a set of leathers sitting on the nightstand. "He noticed that your other clothes are all getting a bit shaggy."

"It's the claws," he said casually, throwing the covers aside. He was nude beneath them, but he had no reservations about it. Dolanna had seen him without his clothes more times than he could count, and it didn't bother him in the slightest to appear before others unclad.

Dolanna stood up. "I will see you on deck, dear one. If you feel up to it, join us for our daily lesson in Sorcery. At least after I drag my students away from Renoit's performers."

Tarrin tested the fit of the leathers after putting them on. There hadn't been a hole for his tail, but a claw fixed that problem. They fit rather well, a pair of brown leather trousers and a simple brown sleeveless vest that left his torso, upper arms, and chest bare, and showed his brands to the world. They were usually hidden beneath the cotton shirts he preferred to wear.

Going up on deck, he ignored the looks and the stares from the performers, breathing in the fresh air. Miranda and Keritanima seemed to excuse themselves from their dancing and start towards him. Allia, much closer to him, rushed over and hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek. "Dolanna said you were well," she said in Selani. "She told us to come up and train. I nearly spit her on my sword."

"I'm alright, sister," he assured her.

He embraced Keritanima, then took Miranda's hand gently as the Princess slapped him several times on the chest and shoulder. "Stop doing that to me!" she demanded. "What possessed you to run off and fight that thing alone?"

"You have no idea what it is and what it can do, Kerri," he told her seriously. "Leaving you behind probably saved your life."

"I think you think I can't carry my own weight," she said scathingly.

"Kerri, I wouldn't even let Allia fight that thing. What do you think that means for you?"

Allia gave him a penetrating look, and Keritanima laughed ruefully. "I hate being the low girl in this totem pole," she said to them.

"When I face it one on one, I know exactly what it's going to do. If I'd have had others with me, it would have been unpredictable. Trust me, sisters, the best way to go about it was to do exactly what I did."

"I guess we must bow to your experience in this matter, my brother," Allia said. "But I do not like it. You dishonor me by treating me like a child."

"No, sister, I'm keeping you alive," he told her. "It can't be hurt by weapons that aren't enchanted by magic. There's nothing you can really do against it other than be a target."

"I can defeat you without magical weapons," she snorted.

"I also feel pain, sister. That thing is already dead. It doesn't feel pain and it doesn't have any fear. I ripped its arm off, something that would stop almost anything else, and it didn't affect it any more than using harsh language. Kick me in the head, and I get stunned. Kick it in the head, and it'll turn around and cut out your liver."

"You have a point," she acceded.

"I'm sorry if I worried you, but I did what I did for all of us, not just for me," he explained.

"Your reunion, it is over, yes?" Renoit shouted at them from the stern. "Practice, my performers! There is only eight days to Shoran's Fork!"

"I'm going to--" Keritanima started with a growl.

"You're going to go practice," Tarrin cut her off. "I'll still be here tonight, sister."

"Alright," Keritanima chuckled.

Tarrin watched his sisters and friend go back to their practice, sighing a bit. He was just glad they were alright. He'd fight the Doomwalker fifty times in a row if it meant keeping those he held dear out of danger. He knew they'd all have to fight together at some point, but the longer that took, the happier he was.

Tarrin went the rail and stared out at the landline on the horizon, a greenish-brown strip near the horizon. He was still a little surprised that Triana had spared him. The look in her eyes, the complete emotionlessness of her stare, it had convinced him that she was going to stand there and watch him die, to make sure of it. But she had spared him. The Goddess said that what he had to say to Triana would decide whether he would live or die, and it had come true. He didn't remember what he said to her, but whatever it was, it had to have been effective.

He hated it. He didn't hate Triana. She was strong, commanding, and just the sight of her seemed to both terrify him and bring to him a strange pride. He knew she didn't hate him. She was just doing her duty. It was just like it was with Jesmind, but Jesmind had had a more intimate interest in him. He wanted to learn from Triana, to get to know her, but fate had cast them down on opposite sides of a line in the sand. He didn't want to fight the Fae-da'Nar, but he didn't have the time to stop and learn what they wanted to teach.

It had been a hard choice, but it really was no choice at all.

In a way, Fae-da'Nar and the Were-cats were a part of his family. Jesmind had been his bond-mother, responsible for him, then she had become something more. Part of him still yearned for her. It hurt in the strangest way to reject them, to force them to have to try to kill him. He had no animosity towards any of them, but they just wouldn't listen. They were all too stubborn, too wrapped up in their law to understand that it only took a little bending of it to make everything alright. Jesmind's pride had made them enemies, and now Triana's ferocious tenacity was doing the same. Nobody would listen to him, listen to his side in their dispute, and that both frustrated and saddened him.

To them, he was just a child. Perhaps that made them think that they knew what was best for him.

Jegojah was another matter. At least he understood what the Doomwalker was doing now. He would see it again. And again, and again. It would keep coming back until it finally destroyed him. Jegojah was an enemy, but again, there was a curious lack of hatred in him for it. It was a powerful fighter, cunning and highly skilled, and Tarrin had the oddest respect for his supernatural opponent. He wondered where it had come from, what it had done when it was alive to learn what it had learned.

Fighting the Doomwalker was going to be suicide. It was just too skilled with its weapons. They were nearly evenly matched now, because of the training he had received from Allia and Binter since the first battle between them. The law of averages said that it was just a matter of time until Jegojah won a match. And if it did, there wouldn't be another. Sorcery could affect it, so that had to be his primary focus. He had to get a handle on his power, to be able to use it. Even if only for a moment or two, long enough to be able to deal with Jegojah the next time they crossed swords. Tarrin would eventually run out of tricks, or run out of luck. He needed to even the battleground between him and the Doomwalker to gain the advantage. Tarrin's Sorcery was alot more powerful than Jegojah's magic. He knew it, it knew it. It was simple fact when he told it that if they both used magic, then the Doomwalker would lose.

That was going to be a long road to travel. He couldn't even touch the Weave anymore. It was like it was a living thing, and when it sensed him come into contact with it, it reacted to him, tried to smother him in its power. He couldn't handle the radical flood of magic for even a fraction of a second before it overwhelmed him. What he did to try to trick Jegojah had been everything he could do. It was the lightest contact with the Weave he could manage, and it took absolutely everything he had just to throttle it. If he'd tried to use Sorcery, he would have removed that single tentative block against the power, and it would have drowned him.

Right now, Sorcery was more deadly to him than Jegojah and Triana put together, if only because it was so easily at hand. He had to get a handle on it before it killed him.

Triana. How did she find him so fast? How did she get from Dayisè to Tor as fast as a ship? That seemed impossible. If Dayisè had been on the same land as Tor, it may have been possible. A Were-cat could run at nearly full speed all day, faster than any horse. But she'd have to get back to the mainland, and that would have taken time. It took a day for them to get from the islands back to within sight of the mainland, and that day would have made it impossible for Triana to cover the distance in that amount of time. How did she do it?

He'd have to ask her, if he could keep her civil long enough the next time he saw her. Putting his paws down and leaning on them, he stared absently at the landline, thoughts wandering in and out of the instinctual murmurings of the Cat.

The land was a long way off. It seemed strange to him now, knowing that they were out there. Enemies. Anyone who knew about the Firestaff was now an enemy to him. So many that he couldn't count, and if they were even partially in the loop when it came to intelligence, they'd know who he was and what it meant. That was a scary feeling, knowing beyond any doubt that half the world was after him. He'd known it before, but it was intangible, a feeling that though he knew it, perhaps it wasn't really true. Well, now he knew it was true, and it was like cold water thrown in his face. It would make a drunk man stone sober. And the ship, the ugly pink ship that had seemed so much the prison to him before, now it was his only sanctuary. The land was the prison now, where he would have to hide and protect himself. But on the ship, this ship, he could move about freely, without worry that someone was standing around a corner waiting to stick a silvered dagger in his back. The only thing they had to worry about were pirates, Zakkites, and the Wikuni, and it was very hard to get close enough to surprise them.

His prison was now his sanctuary, and every time he set foot on land, he would be in danger.

It almost seemed ironic. He leaned on the rail, looking down into the water where the gray fish that someone called dolphins swam alongside, breaking the water occasionally. They moved in a group, swimming effortlessy at a speed faster than a fit man could run on land. He wondered fleetingly what it would be like to be like that, to not have a care in the world, and have the entire world as your playground. Even when he tried to not have a care in the world, they always seemed to seep back into him. They had been what had brought him out of his instincts after he nearly killed his mother, that nagging knowledge that there were serious things out there that needed his attention. He didn't much like knowing that so much had been set on his shoulders, but life was hardly fair.

Holding up a paw, he absently ordered it to change, and it flowed and melted down into his human hand. He could change into his hands, or his feet, could also get rid of the fur on his arms or his legs, but that was as far as he could go. Doing anything else meant a full change. He couldn't even change both hands and feet at the same time, or get rid of the fur on both arms and legs. It still hurt, but Allia's concentration techniques allowed him to simply ignore the pain, shunt it away into a corner of his mind where it didn't distract him. What amazed him was how quickly he had learned them, over the course of only two days. The concept of meditation wasn't new to him, and it had been relatively easy for him to apply his prior training to what Allia was teaching him.

He stared at the hand. It looked so alien. It looked as it had before he was changed, but it didn't change the fact that it looked like someone had stuck someone else's hand on the end of his arm. He wiggled his fingers at himself, trying to remember what it had been like to see it every day, to never notice the hand because it was so normal. Just something he saw every day, day in day out. Just a hand. Not anymore. Now it was special, unique, probably the same way people thought of his paws and feet and tail. What was normal to him was unusual for them, and the tables were turned. What was normal for them was now unusual for him.

Yet another way his life had been twisted all around. Everything seemed as backwards as that anymore, but at least he could find ways to tolerate it. He could tolerate being trapped on a moving prison surrounded by strangers. He found that if he worked at it, he could even tolerate conversation with them, or being in close proximity for long periods of time. He even found that he liked Phandebrass. Why, he had no idea. The man was a scatterbrained danderhead who just had a penchant for telling a good story, and his two pet drakes were very unfriendly to him. Strange that not six months ago, being on a ship full of interesting people would have been wildly fascinating to him.

It seemed like a lifetime ago, and his human, younger self seemed like a different person. He had been so, sociable. He'd liked people, and could talk to them. He'd been curious about the world, absorbed in learning the arts of warcraft. He'd wanted to be a Knight, riding out and doing grand deeds in the name of Karas and Sulasia. He'd wanted to learn every language there was, since he'd found that he was so good at learning them. It had been, and to be fair to himself, still was, one of his real talents. But then Dolanna and Faalken came, and turned his life on its ear. It really wasn't her fault, and he didn't blame her for it, but that had been the beginning of the end of his first life. It started with Dolanna, and it ended with Jesmind.

Jesmind. Just thinking about her conjured an image of her, with her fiery red hair and powerful, determined look. She was so much her mother's daughter, he'd come to find out. He missed her, and part of him hoped that she'd be standing on the dock the next time they came into port. Well, if he saw her again, first he'd throttle her, then he'd kiss her. She left him, left him alone, and that still stung. He'd had no idea how much he depended on her nearness until after she was gone. Even when she was an enemy, a part of him took comfort in the fact that she was always nearby. It was probably an aspect of Were that he still didn't completely understand, but it was there nonetheless. Even now, a part of him yearned for her to be near to him. It was related to the part that just wanted her. She was the only female he'd ever been intimate with, and he wasn't so out of touch not to realize that he still had strong feelings for her, both emotionally and physically. His feelings for Jesmind were a jumble of love, hate, anger, regret, frustration, and sexual attraction, and it certainly never made thinking about her boring.

But seeing her again probably wasn't meant to be. She'd left him, and he doubted he'd ever see her again. If he even lived long enough for it to happen.

Next on Renoit's schedule was the city of Shoran's Fork, the westernmost coastal city in Arkis. He remembered the maps he'd seen of the area. On the east bank of the River Ar, there was Shoran's Fork. On the west bank of the river laid the city of Var Denom, an independent city not part of the Arkisian kingdom. The two cities were supposedly friendly yet vigorous rivals, always competing with each other for ships to dock and trade with them, yet never coming to blows over their competition. Like two friends who competed against one another. Tarrin wondered fleetingly what made Renoit choose Shoran's Fork over Var Denom for his location. Maybe Shoran's Fork had a large marketplace or empty area where the circus could set up its large tent. Maybe Shoran's Fork offered Renoit money to come there rather than Var Denom. Maybe Renoit liked things on the right rather than the left. Maybe the ship couldn't make left turns. He didn't know, and any of them were equally good reasons until he found out.

It was one step closer to Arak. He knew he wouldn't like going there. Just saying that word made Azakar shudder. The Mahuut had been a slave there, first working in the mines, then fighting in the gladitorial arena, a place where men killed each other to entertain the crowd. Tarrin thought it was barbaric, and that was only the good things he'd heard about the place. Arakites had nasty reputations outside their empire, well known to be egocentric, effete snobs who thought everyone else wasn't even human because they weren't Arakite. A vast empire where slavery and barbarity were cultural requirements, where a man was only as good as the money he was worth. A brutal society full of ruthless people, his father has told him a long time ago. He knew that his father had been right on the mark. Tarrin knew the Arakite language, and it was as harsh as the people who spoke it were reputed to be. Full of hard sounds and gutteral pronunciations. The Arakites and their language supported the idea that a language was a good indication of the cultural disposition of the people who spoke it.

And getting there was just a part of their problem. They had to look through the largest city in the world to find a single book. It was an impossible task, and it was made harder by the fact that there were sure to be others doing the same thing. If one of them found it first and got it out of the city without Tarrin knowing it, he could be there for the rest of his life undertaking a futile search. That didn't sit well with him. There had to be an easier way.

If there was one, it wasn't presenting itself to him.

He looked out towards the land again. The sea was a brilliant blue, the wind was steady and cool, and the sun was warm. The sky had only a few small clouds, puffy and well away from the sun, which were being pushed along by the steady westerly wind. It was certainly pretty from so far away. He glanced to his side, where a Wikuni acrobat was practicing handstands. He wondered idly if they had any idea that Keritanima, their Crown Princess, was sharing the ship with them. Nobody called her by her full name. She was Kerri to the people on board, and they probably didn't identify her as who she really was. They probably thought the Princess was some silk-clad figure escorted by armies wherever she went. They probably had no inkling that the foul-tempered dancer was the woman that had once been destined to rule them. Imagining their reaction if they found out never failed to make him chuckle.

It was too bad they couldn't see her in less stressful circumstances. Keritanima wasn't usually so vicious, but Renoit's games with her had worn her patience to the bone. Keritanima had discovered, much to her shock, that Renoit was just as underhanded and subtle as she was. The man never let up on her, not only making her dance, but making her suffer for her adamant refusal to do so with cunning set-ups and situations that humiliated her into compliance. Keritanima was a very proud girl, a product of her upbringing, and those little humiliations made her utterly furious. What probably made her more furious was the ease with which Renoit manipulated her into doing what he wanted her to do. She had become waspish with the performers, and even a bit short-tempered with her friends, but they all understood why she was being that way.

Allia seemed to have taken to her role a bit better. She was no longer a performing acrobat. Renoit wouldn't be able to display her in Arak, because they despised the Selani. She was a teacher now, teaching the acrobats ways to make themselves even more flexible and limber, teaching them how to do more complicated and more difficult acrobatic feats. The other reason for the change was her promise to Renoit that she was going to kill Henri if he disrespected her one more time. After that blunt warning, Henri was removed as the leading acrobat. He was taken completely out of the acrobats, sent to the jugglers to perform in that capacity as long as Allia was in the troupe.

It was good that the others had managed to blend in so well. Azakar and Dar were well liked by the performers. Dar had quite a covey of the youngest women after him, though he was too young or naive to notice it. Then again, he didn't have Tarrin's sense of smell. He could smell it when women were after a man, because the texture of their scents changed. Just the way he could smell fear. Azakar wasn't pined over by the girls, but he had made solid friends among the circus people. Dolanna was too mysterious to be approached by most, and none of them would try to make friends with Binter or Sisska. The Vendari devotion to duty precluded such socializing.

He didn't see them practice often. He was still restricted off the deck during the daylight hours. The performers were very afraid of him, and he had to admit that they had very good reason to be. Of all of them, only Phandebrass would speak to him, and sometimes Tarrin felt that that was because the absent-minded mage didn't have the sense to be afraid. Not even Renoit would approach him or talk to him without Dolanna. That suited him just fine. He had his friends and his sisters. They were all strangers, and he didn't trust any of them. So long as they stayed out of his way, he was perfectly content to let them hover about on the edges. Their fear of him didn't sting as much as it used to, as it had when he was in the Tower. He had grown used to it over time.

Faalken approached him, and he looked like he was the father of Marcus Lightblade. Pride exploded all over his face, and his scent couldn't contain the elation that he was obviously feeling. "Dolanna said you were going to give me that sword," he blurted out, his dark, curly locks bobbing up and down as the Knight literally bounced in place. "Was she toying with me?"

"No," he said quietly. "I don't like swords, and it's too small for Azakar to use. You can have it."

Faalken gave out a whooping sound, then grabbed Tarrin in a fierce hug and picked him up, then spun him a few times. The move startled Tarrin, but the fact that it was Faalken doing it was the only reason he managed to keep his gizzard inside his belly. "Have I told you today how much I like you, my boy?" he said with a laugh, then he literally ran towards the stairs leading below decks. He left Tarrin standing there with a surprised look on his face, and all twenty of his claws extended. He had to breathe deeply a few times to get over his shock, calming down to the point where he could sheathe his wicked claws and chuckle ruefully. Faalken was an eternal child. He would never grow up.

Shaking his head, Tarrin changed form, the deck blurring until he gained a much lower perspective of it. He padded over to a coil of rope and settled himself down inside it, laying his chin on the edge of it and closing his eyes. There had been a time, which seemed a lifetime ago, when he would have done something like that.

Sometimes it wasn't the days, rides, months, and years, it was what happened within them that changed someone.

Tarrin drifted off to sleep, musing at how he had lived two lifetimes in only eighteen years.

It was apparent to anyone looking that the two collections of buildings on either side of the wide river Ar were not the same.

The buildings on the left were stone with tiled roofs, and the streets were narrow and very crooked. It was an ancient city, with old buildings and a rambling layout that had probably been much neater some five hundred years ago. The buildings on the right were timber and stone, with tiled roofs, but what made them so distinctive was that they were larger and more spread out than the buildings on the opposite bank. Wide, straight avenues separated the buildings, apparent even from the ship, and the layout of the place was one of straight streets, gardens, and space making the place seem less cloying and restrictive.

Var Denom to the left, Shoran's Fork to the right. Two cities within sight of one another, yet visibly and obviously as different as night and day.

The two cities were separated by the wide, slow- moving waters of the River Ar, fresh water that poured into a shallow yet very wide bay. That bay was filled with many ships, alot like Tor had been, but what Tarrin noticed was the unusual concentration of Wikuni warships that were anchored off from the wharfs and quays of both cities. There were even a trio of frigates parked squarely in the middle of the river's mouth. There were alot more Wikuni ships here than there had been in Tor, and for some reason, that worried him.

Tarrin stood at the rail with Dar, watching as a longboat rowed out to meet them as they carefully wound their way among the ships in the bay. The man inside shouted out in Arakite, telling Renoit's ship to follow it to a wharf. Dar looked a little wistful. Arkis was his home kingdom, though Shoran's Fork wasn't his home city. Dar was from Arkisia, the capital, a very large city on the coast closer to the Sandshield Mountains, which separated Arkis from the Desert of Swirling Sands.

"Homesick?" Tarrin asked, flexing his human hand absently, getting used to the nagging pain, shunting it to the back of his mind so he could do his job without it distracting him.

"A little, I guess," he sighed. "My parents probably think I'm still in school at the Tower. They'd have a fit if they knew what I was really doing."

"At least mine know what I'm doing."

"I'm surprised they're not right here with you."

"You know, if it wasn't for Jenna, they probably would be," he said after a moment of thought.

"It's strange hearing Arakite without an accent."

"My accent isn't that bad," he protested.

"Not bad at all, but you still lack the dialect of a native speaker," Dar teased with a smile. "Look at all the Wikuni. You'd think this was one of their naval bases."

"I noticed. I don't like it."

"It makes me a little nervous too, but I doubt they'll find us. Kerri doesn't look anything like what they think she'd look like, Binter and Sisska will be hiding behind illusions, and you and Allia won't be out there to give us away. As long as we don't attract attention to ourselves, we should be alright."

"I hope so, Dar. I really hope so."

The longboat directed them to the wharf at the very end of the city's docks. It was a small quay, barely long enough to support the garishly painted galleon. The wharf beside theirs was occupied by a Wikuni clipper, and he could see the Wikuni on board rush about, as if preparing to cast off. There was an open area between the wharf, the city wall to the right, and the large warehouses to the left. The place was empty, but that wasn't all that unusual for a part of the city that didn't have much traffic. The wharf was in the corner of the city, and the wharf which probably supplied the warehouses across from them was empty. It was probably a good place to have Renoit dock, where his troupe wouldn't interfere with the cargo loading and unloading where the docks were busier.

Hawsers were thrown out and caught by men on the dock, which were then tied down. Tarrin moved to help the others bring up the first of the poles that would form their large tent as Dar went below to Dolanna, where they would create the Illusions that concealed the Vendari's true identity. They came up a few minutes later, Dolanna, Faalken, Binter and Sisska, with Keritanima and Miranda coming up behind. Miranda was disguised as well, looking like a human woman of the same dimensions as she had when she wasn't hidden by Illusion. Tarrin understood the strategy behind that. Fox Wikuni weren't uncommon, but Miranda, with her mink features and very striking appearance, was very rare. It was much easier for Keritanima to change her appearance without magic than it was for Miranda. Keritanima took one look around, and immediately frowned.

"What is it?" Miranda asked.

"That's an Eram clipper," she said, giving the Wikuni ship beside theirs a cursory glance. "One of my family's private commercial ships."

"Do you think they will recognize you?" Dolanna asked.

"I doubt it," she replied. "Most of them have never seen me. The Brat hated anything that even closely resembled work, so she didn't accompany her father to the docks very often."

"I do not like this, Princess," Binter said quietly. "This does not feel right."

Tarrin looked at the huge Illusion's face, looking like a monstrously tall man with bulging muscles, knowing that he was really looking at Binter's chest.

"Come, my friends, we must set up!" Renoit called from the stern. "We will showcase Shoran's Field this day!"

The gangplank was lowered, and the dancers filed down, carrying smaller bundles of rope. Tarrin was among a group of eight, carrying the poles that would help raise the tent. But when he got down on the dock, he stopped dead, making the man holding the back end lose the pole off his shoulder and start cursing. Tarrin felt it slip off his shoulder, but he barely registered its presence.

The men that had tied down the ship were nowhere to be seen.

Fear began to rise up in him. Where did they go so fast? They should have stayed on the dock. They would have had to run to get out of sight so quickly, and if they did run away, then they obviously knew something was about to happen. Tarrin felt that was the case. Something was about to happen, and it wasn't good. The fact that there was a Wikuni clipper tied up right beside them was a good indication of that. The man who had dropped the pole was cursing at him in Shacèan, reaching down to pick it up again.

Tarrin heard something behind, something that made him turn to look. A massive Wikuni frigate had moved in behind the galleon, cutting off any attempt for it to escape.

It was a trap!

He wasn't the only one to notice. Sudden shouting erupted all around him, frightened screams from the performers, shouts of alarm from Faalken and Binter. To his left, Tarrin saw armored Wikuni pouring out of the clipper beside them, and more of them flooding out from the doorways of the warehouses in front of them. They were all armed with swords and those strange projectile weapons that Keritanima called muskets, firearms that shot small metal balls with the powerful force of gunpowder providing the power to make them deadly. They took a long time to reload, giving each Wikuni only one shot, but there were twice as many Wikuni as there were carnival performers. Enough to kill them twice over.

He didn't know if they were going to fight. He had to get back to Dolanna, get someone to tell him what they were going to do. He could see Keritanima ahead of him with the other dancers, screaming, pointing at him frantically, then motioning back towards the Wikuni clipper. He glanced over in time to see a line of Wikuni along the rail, holding muskets. Except for a handful, which were armed with crossbows. And they were all pointed at him and the other performers on the dock.

Keritanima! She was out in front, and she was unprotected! Binter and Sisska were already scrambling forward, weapons in hand, moving to interpose themselves between the Princess and the Wikuni Marines rushing at her from the front. But Tarrin was closer. Changing form in midstride, Tarrin vaulted over a few people, charging ahead, then skidding to a stop in front of her, claws out, challenging the advancing Wikuni to try to get to her through him.

They had made a good trap, Tarrin thought grimly. Letting them dock in the corner, where the wall and the sea cut off any escape routes, and hiding a hundred men on the ship beside theirs and in the warehouses in front to cut off the other two escape routes. They were surrounded, and the only way out was to fight against superior numbers. It would be ten to one, because Tarrin didn't expect any of the performers to put up resistance. This wasn't their fight, and he didn't blame for it.

"Kerri, get out of here!" Tarrin snapped, laying his ears back and giving the Wikuni in front of him a murderous look. "Get back to Binter! Go!" He half-turned towards her, motioning at her to run--

--and then something struck him in the chest solidly. And then there was nothing but darkness.

Keritanima stared for a moment in dumb shock, then she gave out a strangled cry.

Tarrin was splayed out on the ground, with a crossbow quarrel sticking out of his chest, which twitched sickeningly with every beat of his heart. And he wasn't moving.

Kneeling, mindless of the pool of blood forming around his chest, staining her fur, Keritanima put her hands on his chest and realized that he wasn't breathing. He wasn't breathing! The quarrel shouldn't have hurt him! She'd seen him take worse injuries and not even flinch!

In a panic, Keritanima grabbed the quarrel and yanked it out violently, feeling his body jump, hearing him take in a ragged, shallow breath, staring at the bloody head in horror.

It was silver.

"No!" she said in strangled tone, putting both hands down to stop that flow of red from his chest. "No! Don't you die on me, Tarrin Kael! I won't let you!" she screamed hysterically, touching the Weave. Powerful healing energies welled up in her, and she sent them into him quickly, carefully. But the truth became clear to her after only the briefest assensing of him. The silver had wounded him horrifically, had struck as close to his heart as it could without piercing it, and his body wouldn't survive the stress that healing would place on it, even if she had the time and the power to try.

Tarrin was going to die.

She was only dimly aware of Binter and Sisska, of Azakar, surrounding her and Miranda with weapons drawn, holding off a large formation of Marines. Tears streaming from her eyes, she concentrated all her energy on Tarrin, trying to heal him despite the fact that his body couldn't withstand it, desperate to do anything to try and save her brother.

And found that the wound resisted any attempt to heal it. She remembered numbly the stitches in Tarrin's arm. Dolanna hadn't healed it, because she couldn't.

Silver was bane to Were-creatures, and the wounds it inflicted couldn't be healed by magic.

"No!" she wailed. "You bastards!" she shrieked in rage, jumping up and running at the officer in charge of the Wikuni Marines, hands flaming with fire, fully intent to kill the lot of them. But Azakar grabbed her around the middle and pulled her back, standing resolute as flaming hands burned him every time she grabbed at his wrist.

"Your father wants a word with you, Princess Keritanima," the officer said bluntly. "Surrender, or we kill everyone on the ship."

Keritanima glared at the raccoon Wikuni, her lips passing horrible promises and curses. "Why?" she finally managed to scream. "Why did you shoot him!?"

"Because we were fully aware of how dangerous he was," the officer said calmly. "Any attempt to recover you meant that he had to be, removed."

"I'll show you dangerous!" she screamed, raising her hands. A vicious blast of fire erupted from her hands, and it hit the Wikuni officer dead in the chest. The Wikuni managed to scream only once before he was reduced to a smoldering pile of melted steel and ash.

"This is not the time, Kerri!" Azakar said, squeezing her around the middle. "If you start killing them, they will start killing us!"

"They killed Tarrin!" she screamed. "They killed my brother!"

"And you're going to lose your sister if you don't stop!" he said in a powerful voice. "Look around you! They have us surrounded, and Tarrin wouldn't approve if you got everyone else killed!"

Keritanima looked around. There was Allia, a murderous look in her eyes, but her head was tipped back with a dagger point held to her throat. Dolanna was laying on the wharf, and Keritanima didn't know if she was dead or unconscious. Dar had a bear Wikuni holding him in a powerful grip, a claw at his throat, and Faalken had his hands raised with muskets pointed at him, looking at Dolanna in clear worry and concern.

"Bring them, quickly!" someone shouted from the ship. Wikuni started jabbing at Keritanima and those around her with the bayonets fixed to the barrels of their muskets. They were herded, Azakar still carrying Keritanima, to the gangplank of the ship, where what looked to be an Admiral or other very highranking officer stood at the top. He was a leopard Wikuni, with spots over each of his yellow eyes and a scar running on the right side of his muzzle, the scarline devoid of fur. "Come quietly, and we leave those behind alive," he said in a strong voice. "Resist us, and we'll leave them all like your friend over there, but either way, you will be coming with us. Even if we have to drag you back in chains."

Keritanima glared her rage at the officer, but she remained silent. Rage had overtaken grief, but she kept enough control of herself to know that it was not the time to fight back. The lives of everyone else depended on her good behavior. "Alright, but I promise you this," she said in a hissing voice. "You will pay for killing my brother. I swear it on Kikalli's spear."

"Then blame Jander," the man said, staring right at her. "He's the one who told us where you were, where you were going, and how to deal with the Were-cat so he couldn't destroy us before we could get control of you."

"Jander!" Miranda gasped. "Jander sold us out?"

"I prefer to think of it as doing his patriotic duty," the man said idly. "Take them below, and cast off. Leave the others unharmed, so long as her Highness here behaves herself." He turned and started walking away. "And one more thing, your Highness. We have operatives here. If you start misbehaving once we're at sea, I'll have them kill your friends. Keep that in mind before you start hatching your little schemes."

Keritanima looked back as someone grabbed hold of her wrist and pulled her out of Azakar's arms, looked back to the dock, looked back to soemthing that would forever be burned into her soul.

Tarrin, laying in a pool of his own blood. He laid there, and he was all alone. That hurt her as much as seeing him like that, seeing that nobody was there to comfort him as he breathed his last. And it felt like she was leaving a part of her own soul with him.

©2000, James Galloway. All Rights Reserved.