The Destroyer Goddess (22 page)

Very soon, he acknowledged privately, she would nag him right into leaving for good. This had been a delightful idyll, but he could now feel it turning into a mistake—and the Three knew what a familiar feeling
that
was for him.

"Go hunt something," Jalilar repeated, rising from the bed and reaching for her simple homespun clothes. "We're out of fresh meat, and the Sister's supplies are dwindling." 

She frowned, looking both sad and worried. He suspected she was again thinking about her husband, who had abandoned her here. Jalilar wouldn't say much about that, but Ronall gathered that she hadn't wanted to be left here and she blamed her husband for her current situation. Ronall fully suspected she was sleeping with him now for revenge as much as out of sheer loneliness.

He watched her pull the humble fabric over her firm, golden flesh, then start to tie back her coarse, gleaming, black hair.

"I don't have a horse," Ronall pointed out, not at all eager to stalk these mountains in search of food.

"So?" 

"I've only ever hunted on horseback."

She snorted in disdain, as she often did when the subject of his privileged existence came up. "It cannot be so hard on foot. Everyone does it."

He sighed. "I know. Your brother regularly killed mountain deer on foot, and then carried them home on his shoulders without ever drawing a deep breath." Jalilar's brother, some paragon of every manly virtue ever defined, had died during the rebellion, though she wouldn't say how. "And your husband can catch wildfowl with his bare hands."

"He usually sets a snare," she prodded, lifting one dark brow.

"I don't know how."

She sighed. "What
can
you do?"

"Very little." He rose to his feet, reached for a bottle of fire brandy, and admitted, "Almost nothing."

She looked exasperated. "We need meat."

"If you make some snares and tell me how to set them," he said, relenting, "I'll go do it."

Jalilar rolled her eyes. "Very well." 

She turned away from him, her whole attitude remote now that passion had been sated. Ronall watched her finish dressing, admiring her grace... and thinking again about leaving her.

If only he still had a horse, he mused regretfully, he could leave here tomorrow. But without one, the thought of
walking
to his next destination... Actually, no, he didn't have a destination. He couldn't return to Elelar's estate, since she might be there now, and he never wanted to face her again (no matter how much he amused himself by picturing her finding Chasimar there). 

Where would he go? He didn't know. The empty ache that lived inside him was deeper, more hollow than ever. His vague and nameless hunger for... for
something
was eating him alive. He swallowed more fire brandy, knowing by now that it couldn't drown the beast consuming him, and yet still willing to try. What else was there to do?

Jalilar turned her head, and he saw her dark eyes flash as she watched him drink. She said nothing. She never said anything about his drinking, actually, but he knew it disgusted her. She thought his hunger for alcohol and oblivion was a weakness. And she was right. So he shrugged off her dark, quiet gaze and drank again, suspecting that she knew he was thinking of leaving soon and wouldn't be very sorry to see him go.

She suddenly drew a sharp breath. "Someone's coming," she warned, her glance taking in his nakedness.

He crossed the Sanctuary and reached for his clothes without asking how she knew. Her mountain-born ears always heard approaching pilgrims well before he did. This Sanctuary was isolated, but they still had visitors once every few days. He had learned by now that Jalilar preferred to remain hidden and let him make sure their visitors weren't assassins. He wondered if her fear of the Society was mere prudence, or if it had something to do with why she wouldn't leave Sanctuary grounds. She didn't tell him and, since there were so many questions he would rather not answer either, he didn't demand an explanation.

It was after midday now, but still early enough that Ronall figured he could reasonably hope their guests were just stopping for food and water rather than planning to spend the night. Ronall had to sleep outside, rather than in Jalilar's bed, whenever visitors spent the night here.

He finished pulling on his clothing, now in tatters thanks to the bandits who had attacked him, briefly met Jalilar's eyes, and then went outside. Another recent explosion from the volcano had filled the sky with ash, streaking it with fantastic colors even at this time of day.

To his relief, the new arrivals were
shallaheen
, not assassins. Two grown men and a... a sea-born boy, Ronall realized in surprise. As incongruous as the sea-born lad was in these surroundings, though, it was the taller of the two
shallaheen
who captured Ronall's attention. He had rarely seen a more intense-looking man. The
shallah
was lean, with a serious, hawk-like face, hotly dark eyes, and long coarse hair that was even blacker than Jalilar's. His tattered clothes were liberally stained... with blood, Ronall suspected, which someone had unsuccessfully tried to wash out.

Ronall took a step back, suddenly wondering if he was wrong, if this
was
an assassin. The shreds of the man's clothes revealed enough skin to display a wealth of combat scars, and he was armed... "With two swords," Ronall murmured, realizing. Finely crafted hilts stuck out of long, slender sheathes in an engraved leather harness which fit the warrior as if he'd been born wearing it. Even Ronall knew that one man in all of Sileria was famous for such an appearance. "Tansen?" he blurted doubtfully.

The warrior stopped and gazed at him, assessing Ronall. Evidently realizing they'd never met, he replied, "Yes." His quiet voice was deep, as if it belonged to a larger man.

Ronall just stared. So this was Tansen, the most famous warrior in Sileria after the dead Firebringer. He glanced down at the torn neckline of the man's homespun tunic and saw—yes, there it was—the start of that famous scar of his, the one some Kintish
shatai-kaj
had carved into his chest with a red-hot poker, Dar have mercy, to mark the successful completion of his training  as a swordmaster.

"Tansen," Ronall repeated, sure now.

The man who killed my wife's lover
, he thought with a faint grimace, remembering what he had learned when dallying with
Torena
Chasimar's chatty maid.

The man who was now leading Sileria in a bloodfeud against the Society. Interesting—Tansen didn't
look
that crazy. Then again,
shallaheen
loved a bloodbath, even the best of them.

Tansen's gaze remained impassive. "We're looking for Jalilar."

"You know Jalilar?" Ronall said in surprise. In all the time  they had been together, she had given no hint of such an illustrious acquaintance.

The other
shallah
now came forward and said, a little tersely, "She's my wife. Where is she?"

Your wife?

Panic spread through Ronall like wildfire. The
shallah
  looked strong, violent, and less than friendly. The glance he exchanged with Tansen showed Ronall that these two were friends. 

I'm a dead man.

A faint frown now creased Tansen's brow. "Where is she?"

"In... Inside." Ronall choked out the word.

There was an uneasy pause as the two
shallaheen
watched him in puzzlement.

Then Jalilar's voice came from inside. "Emelen?"

The
shallah's
face cleared, a smile transforming it. He was a good-looking fellow, and a little younger than Ronall had thought at first.

"Jalilar!" he called.

Ronall heard Jalilar's footsteps behind him. He quickly stepped out of her way. Tansen's expression lightened into one of indulgence as Emelen shoved past them both to rush forward and embrace his wife as she emerged into the sunshine.

While Emelen kissed Jalilar, Tansen discreetly turned his back, silently directing the sea-born boy to do so, too. Then he caught Ronall's eye and lifted one brow slightly—which Ronall took to be a sign of amusement in this famously stoic man.

"I'm thirsty," the sea-born boy said.

"There's a well around back," Ronall said absently, listening to the terrified pounding of his heart.

"Yes," the boy replied with an intent expression, taking a step in that direction even before Ronall was done speaking.

"Wait." Tansen removed the waterskin slung over his own shoulder and tossed it to the boy. "While you're there, fill the waterskins," he instructed.

The boy paused to ask Ronall, "Is there any food here?"

"Yes," Ronall replied weakly. They were all speaking
shallah
, but after so much time spent wandering the mountains he could follow most of it, though he still replied in common Silerian.

"It's been at least two hours since he ate," Tansen told Ronall dryly. "He may perish of hunger if I don't feed him soon."

"It was a long walk here," the boy insisted, in what sounded like an ongoing but good-natured argument between them.

I'm a dead man
, Ronall kept thinking.

"Shall we go inside?" Tansen suggested to Ronall.

"No!"

The
shatai
eyed him inquisitively. Even the sea-born boy paused again to look at him.

"Uh..." Ronall gestured to the still-embracing couple in the doorway. "Perhaps we should give them some time alone." And the bed inside the Sanctuary was still rumpled and ripe with sex. 

Dar and the Three pity me.

"They'll get time alone after I leave," Tansen said reasonably. "Let's—"

"Emelen..." Jalilar finally found an opportunity to speak between her husband's hungry embraces. "What are you doing here?"

She sounded so nervous that Ronall thought she might just as well
say
she'd been bedding another man only moments ago. He was tempted to run, so tempted... but, cursing the gods, he knew that he couldn't leave Jalilar alone here to endure whatever her husband might do to her when he found out she'd been unfaithful. Cuckold was the second worse thing one Silerian could call another, and Emelen looked like a man who took a traditional view of such matters. Not that Ronall was in a position to criticize; he had once beaten Elelar for her infidelity.

He tried not to think about it now. Actually, he always tried not to think about it.

Please, Dar, let this Emelen be a complete idiot who'll never guess the truth.

But a moment later, Emelen stopped happily babbling something about being camped only half a day's walk from here and having missed Jalilar so much, and he stumbled to an awkward halt, evidently realizing that something was wrong. "Jalilar..."

Don't look
, Ronall ordered himself,
don't look at her.

But Tansen was looking, and the sea-born boy was looking... and it was somehow irresistible, so Ronall found himself looking, too. 

It was a mistake. Jalilar looked right back at him, her face betraying everything. 

Tansen saw it immediately. He stiffened, subtly but perceptibly. 

"
Kadriah
?" Emelen said, the
shallah
endearment sounding anxious. "What is it? I know you're angry about the way I left, the way I made the Sister..." Emelen paused again, then said, in a different tone of voice, "Where is the Sister?"

"Gone," Jalilar replied, her voice low and harsh. "She left  not long after you did. I've been alone here ever since."

Now Emelen looked at Ronall, but so far there was only confusion in his dark eyes. "Alone?" he repeated blankly.

"All alone!" Jalilar replied, her expression fierce. "There has been
no one
for me. No word from you or Tansen. My brother dead, my clan scattered, my village abandoned. And I am left here with no one and nothing! Where have you
been?
Why could I not be with you? I told you I would not stay here and—"

"You smell..." Emelen's expression underwent a fairly hideous transformation. "You smell of..."

"Zarien," Tansen said suddenly, "go fill those waterskins."

Ronall glanced at the boy, who ignored Tansen. The tattooed young face showed the dawning of understanding, and his gaze shot to Ronall—who was fervently hoping to be swallowed in a sudden, ground-splitting earthquake.

Jalilar yanked herself out of Emelen's embrace, glaring at him with the fury which only a spouse could feel. "What did you think I would do?" she shouted. "What did you think would happen if you abandoned me here alone, with no one to—"

"I left a Sister with you!" Emelen shouted back.

"She went off to Darshon!" 
      Emelen's anger dissolved into regret. "
Kadriah
, I'm sorry. I didn't know. How could I..." Then he seemed to remember what she smelled of. He turned very slowly and confronted Ronall now. "Where is the rest of your party?"

"There's just me," Ronall said faintly.

Tansen said, "Zarien. The well."

The boy didn't move

"
Zarien.
"

Emelen's face darkened with growing rage as he glared at Ronall. "How long have you been here?"

Jalilar spat, "A
long
time."

I'm a dead man.

Emelen whirled on Jalilar, searching her face for the truth. She gave it to him. He backed away from her, shaking his head. "Oh...
no.
No! How could you do that?"

"How could you leave me?" she screamed.

"You've been with another man?" he screamed back.

"Every day since he came here!" she shouted.

"Not
every
day..." Ronall closed his mouth again, realizing that the details hardly mattered now.

While the couple hurled angry accusations at each other, the sea-born boy—Zarien—crept up to Tansen and murmured, "What should we do?"

"We should stay out of it," Tansen replied firmly.

Emelen pulled his
yahr
out of his
jashar
. Ronall flinched.