Chapter 7

      Gasping, sitting bolt upright, Tarrin recoiled from the dream in the cold night air, feeling the cold air all but freezing the sweat slicking his body.  His heart was racing, and that nameless terror had again swept over him.  He panted like he'd ran fifty longspans, his heart pounding in his chest and his paws trembling visibly.

      No rest.  For ten straight nights the dreams had haunted him, and he'd managed to get very little sleep.  Not even shapeshifting into cat form helped, which usually did when it came to dreams.  The lack of sleep had been getting to him, but not nearly as much as the dreams themselves.

      Ten days.  It seemed like an eternity of torture.  Ten days since he'd skirmished with the Selani, ten days since fighting with the kajat.  Since then, he'd only seen a few small desert dogs and a few oversized lizards, what Allia called umuni.  He knew to stay away from those, for they had the most potent poison in the world.  Umuni literally meant "killing lizard."  The lack of sleep and that eyeless face dogged him now, made him short-tempered--even for him--but there seemed to be nothing he could do about it.  The only thing he could do was wait for the dreams to fade, or make them stop somehow.  Ten days had not tempered the abject terror they spawned in him, a nameless dread that couldn't be denied.  This dream seemed just as frightening as the first, and it was the same dream, over and over and over again.

      He was sleeping in a boulder field, in a tent Sarraya had conjured which was attached to the flat side of one large boulder and staked to the ground everywhere else.  The sand between the great rocks was soft and strangely warm, even now, as if there were hot springs beneath the sand to keep the sand comfortable.  The irregular outline of the boulders would hide him from the Selani, he knew, and keep the larger reptillian predators from reaching him without giving him enough warning that they were on his scent.  It had been ten days since seeing anything large enough to threaten him, but that didn't meant that they weren't out there.  If something that weighed more than a riverboat could sneak up on him, he wouldn't assume much of anything about anything.

      Laying back down in the warm sand, he put a paw over his face and tried to recover his breath, slow his heart.  Why?  Why the same dream over and over and over?  It just didn't make any sense!  And why was he still afraid of it?  When it began, he knew absolutely everything that was going to happen next.  Why should it still frighten him?  And yet it did.  Just as strongly now as it had the very first time.

      It just didn't make any sense.

      Closing his eyes, he tried to think of something else.  He remembered Sarraya's lessons from the night before, lessons on how to conjure large things, how to conjure many of one thing.  Ten days of lessons also occupied his mind, and they all centered around conjuring.  It seemed to be the beginning for Druids, but then again, Sarraya said that she didn't intend to teach him anything else.  It certainly seemed to be useful.  And it was easy.  Like she said, maybe it was too easy.  His biggest problem was focusing through the ever-present face, the hauntingly beautiful young girl who had no eyes, whose empty gaze burned him with the searing purity of its accusation.  When he could push that memory out of his mind long enough, he could conjure.

      It was useless.  He was up now, and there would be no going back to sleep.  There never was, after the dream.  He sat up and sighed, looking over to Sarraya, who slept on a conjured cloth laying on the sand in the corner of the tent.  She would be alright for a while.  He crawled out of the tent and climbed up onto one of the boulders, looking up into the sky soberly, at the bright stars, the Skybands, at Duva and Kava as they began to set, and Vala as it began to rise.  Dommammon had risen before sunset and set about midnight, and by the look of the night sky, it was a few hours until dawn.  The gentle wind, carrying its icy bite, was almost devoid of any smell but sand and rock, but there was a hint of salt in the smells reaching him.  This wasn't a very populated area.  Probably because of a lack of water.  The Weave in this region was a bit thicker than it had been in the border of the desert.  The strands were larger, more charged, and a minor Conduit existed not far from where he was.

      His sense of the Weave had only increased in the ten days since meeting the Selani.  Now he could sense it all the time, as if here touching the Weave all the time, sense the strands, sense their power and size, sense their arrangement even beyond his sight.  It was an expansion of his former ability, and he had already become accustomed to it.  He could literally see the strands now, see them as if they were just beyond his sight yet were not, but he more or less ignored them.  They had become part of the background now, just like how he looked over the boulder field and saw rocks, but no specific rock caught his eye.  The Weave was there, but there was nothing to make him pay attention to it.

      Maybe now was the time.  He'd been in the desert for fifteen days now, and he'd yet to try to make contact with the Selani goddess.  A part of him was afraid to do it.  A part of him didn't want to do it while the dreams haunted him.  Another part of him shuddered at the idea of begging aid from a god other than his own.  That smacked of heresy to him.  The Goddess hadn't said if she would mind if he did that, but he didn't really want to take that step into blasphemy just yet.  He was hoping that Fara'Nae, the Holy Mother, would be the one to initiate contact with him.  He had hoped that the Goddess had spoken to her, asked her to teach him about ancient magic, but that hadn't happened.  None of it had happened.  He had come into the desert hoping to be taught old secrets, but the only thing that had really happened was the resurrection of old demons inside him, demons he thought he'd conquered long ago.

      He didn't know what to do.  He wanted to try to contact Fara'Nae, but a part of him rejected that idea.  He wanted to learn about the ancient magic, but he was afraid to take the first step.  In his mental condition, maybe trying to learn new magic wasn't a good idea.  The Druidic lessons had showed him that.  He had enough trouble concentrating as it was.

      In any event, the primary mission had not changed.  To get the book to Suld.  Everything else that happened would have to fit around that mission.  If it happened, it happened.  If it didn't, it didn't.

      Sometimes it felt so silly.  Here he was, Tarrin Karl.  The Tarrin Kael, the Were-cat who had stories, rumors, and now even legends being made about him out in the rest of the world.  The most notorious man alive, probably the most feared, and he was afraid.  Afraid of himself, afraid of the future, afraid of something as simple as trying to make contact with a Goddess when he spoke to a different one all the time.

      He just didn't feel quite as towering as others probably made him out to be.  Those were stories.  This was his reality.  And in reality, despite his size, despite his appearance, despite his history, he was still that innocent, slightly naive farmboy that had left Aldreth so long ago.  His outlook and personality may have changed, but it still rested deep inside him.  He could deny it, even to himself, but part of him knew that it was true.

      Tarrin Kael.  He forgot all about Tarrin Kael.  A tall, strapping young man who had dreams of being a Knight, of travelling the world and seeing exciting things.  A young man with an overprotective mother and a father so mellow that a rampaging Troll really couldn't put him out of sorts.  A young man with a cute little sister.

      Now he was just Tarrin, son of Triana.  Were-cat, Sorcerer, Druid, scourge, murderer, and all-around ruthless monster.  He was a Were-cat with a mission, and the Gods help anyone who got in his way.  Life had lost its luster, its shine for that Tarrin.  Everything was a chore, everything led to nothing but more bleakness.  There was no light in that person's life anymore, where Tarrin Kael always found the light in anything.

      Tarrin Kael had been an optomist.  Tarrin was fatalistic.  Tarrin Kael would have found the good in his current situation.  Tarrin just found it to be yet another needle in him, to go along with all the other needles.  Tarrin Kael would have looked up at the sky and said "Wow, how beautiful!"  Tarrin looked up at the sky and simply saw stars.  Tarrin Kael would sigh in relief when this was all over, and return to a good life.  Tarrin fully expected to die.  And if he did not, then there would no longer be anything left to live for.  He had done too much evil in this world now...he was beyond redemption.  The accusing gazes of the thousands of eyeless phantoms reminded him of that night after night.

      He wondered how his parents and Jenna were doing.  They were probably still in Ungardt.  It was summer there now, a very short summer, starting to wind down into winter.  His mother was probably with her father, Eron was probably learning how the Ungardt brewed their heavy ale and whiskey, and Jenna was probably breaking hearts.  It had been so long since he'd seen them, remembering how they looked seemed hard now.  And Jenna was a year older, she had to be taller, more like a woman and less like a little girl.

      It would be good to see them again.  But they were in Ungardt, and he was in the Desert of Swirling Sands.

      The wind picked up, blowing cold air over him.  The thong holding his braid untied, and his hair quickly unbraided itself in the steady wind, fanning out behind him like a yellow cloak.  It dragged the ground now when unbraided, and though he could change its length, something inside him liked it that way, despite the weight of the braid and the stress it put on his scalp.  Perhaps it was a masochistic bent.  Perhaps it was a reminder, a constant sensation to remind him of how it felt to feel pain when something inside him had become dead to it.  He really didn't know, all he did know was that it was something he preferred.

      He looked up into the sky again...and all he saw were stars.

      He closed his eyes and turned into the wind, feeling its icy fingers caress his exposed skin, felt it pull and tug at the fur on his arms and feet, felt it billow out his hair, felt it pool inside his ears as they caught it.  This was feeling.  Cold biting, the chilly domain of the desert at night, where the air stole away all the heat the sun imparted to things during the day.  This desert was two different worlds.  The burning fires of day, and the cold hand of night.  Yet they existed in the same place, separated by the movements of the sun, forever chasing one another across the land in an endless cycle of repetitive monotony.

      Two different worlds.

      A dark smudge appeared on the western horizon, and he'd been here long enough to comprehend what it meant.  A sandstorm was coming.  It was why the wind had started to pick up, it was the wind wall the preceded them.  The boulder field was a good place to weather a sandstorm, so long as it didn't bury them.  The boulders would break up the wind, protect them from the scouring power of the blowing sand.

      He had time.  He sat down and calmly rebraided his hair, watching the boiling fury of nature approach, studying it carefully to come to a better understanding of how they moved, how they worked.  This one wasn't that fast, but it was still pretty speedy as it neared him.  It was a big one as well.  He guessed that it would last for some time.  Maybe long enough to bury the boulder field in sand, if it died out over them.  Maybe taking a few precautions would be a good idea, and for that, he'd need Sarraya's help.  A couple of large Wards to deflect the sand would keep them from getting buried.

      The time for pondering was past.  The reality of the desert had intruded on his musings.  It was time to deal with things.

      He tied the thong securely around his braid, then scooted over the the boulder's edge and slid down.  Time to deal with reality.

      The sandstorm lasted for three days.  For three long days, Tarrin and Sarraya huddled in the boulder field, inside a tent protected by a strong Ward against the blowing wind and sand.  The wind howled and screamed outside his Ward, making it loud in the protected area, but at least the wind was kept off of the tent, denied the opportunity to rip the tent out of the ground and deprive them of their only shelter.

      The three days were very slow ones for Tarrin.  When not trying to sleep, Sarraya instructed him more and more on Druidic magic.  She taught him how to conjure water; it turned out that he had had the right idea when he tried himself.  Had he not gotten distracted while making the attempt, it would have worked.  She taught him more about conjuring many items, and taught him the techniques behind conjuring very large items.

      But through it all, it was still just Conjuring.  The core method of it did not change.  All she taught him were the little differences and tricks necessary to make it more flexible.

      "Well, that's it," Sarraya announced after Tarrin had conjured a stone about the size of a large dog.  "I've taught you everything you need to know about Druidic magic.  At least for now.  We'll have to find something else to talk about from now on."

      For some reason, this disappointed him.  "That's it?" he demanded.  "Sarraya, I've barely broken a sweat!  I can learn more!"

      "I know you can learn more," she affirmed.  "But I'm not a good teacher.  I'm not going to put your neck on the block, Tarrin.  I've taught you what I feel comfortable teaching you, and I won't teach you any more.  You know what you need to know to survive, and that's all I told you I was going to teach you."

      For some reason, he was bitterly disappointed.  Probably because he felt the same way about Druidic magic that he did about Sorcery when he first started.  He was wildly curious, interested, and he wanted to learn everything there was to know about it.  But he couldn't use his Sorcery without extensive preparation and help anymore, and there was nobody left to teach him anything.  So all he had was Druidic magic.  And now he couldn't learn any more of it, because Sarraya refused to train him.

      "I'm not worried about learning from you, Sarraya," he nearly pleaded.  "You've done a good job teaching me."

      "If you only knew," she laughed ruefully.  "Tarrin, I did a very bad job teaching you.  I didn't do anything that I was supposed to do, and I more or less just let you go on your own.  If Triana knew how I taught you, she'd rip off my wings.  You know how to Conjure, and you know how to Summon.  Because you know both of them, that means you automatically know how to Create--after all, Creation is just the Conjuring of something that doesn't exist.  Why do you need to learn anything else right now?  Just go with what you know for now, get a feel for the Druidic magic.  And when we get out of the desert, when we get back to Triana, she can teach you anything else you may want to learn.  Is asking you to wait such a bad thing?"

      He stewed for a moment.  "Yes, but I guess I don't have much choice," he grunted.  "I guess I'm unhappy because this is magic I can use."

      "Then why aren't we trying to work out what's going on with Sorcery?" she asked.  "Tell me what you feel from the Weave right now."

      "Everything," he replied automatically.  "I can feel every strand within a longspan.  I can tell how strong they are, and I can feel a Conduit about ten longspans south."

      "And this shouldn't be possible, should it?"

      "No, it's not," he replied.  "I should only be able to feel this when touching the Weave, and I still wouldn't be able to sense things much past a few hundred spans."

      "Me and Dolanna had some long talks about Sorcery.  Answer me this question.  When a Sorcerer is touching the Weave, then he can use Sorcery, right?"

      "Right.  It's what we have to do in order to use our magic."

      "Fine.  So, you say you can sense the Weave.  Ever think that that may be because you're actually touching it?"

      If she would have dropped a grain barge on his head, it would not have produced a more profound effect on him.  Of course!  The sense of the weave was exactly the same as when he was touching the Weave!  Exactly!  The only difference was that he wasn't actually connected to the Weave, there was no channel open between him and its power.  Outside of that one difference, everything else was the same.

      "Almost," he said immediately.  "I'm not actually connected to the Weave, but everything else is the same."

      "Says you," she replied.  "If you can sense the Weave, then there has to be a link between it and you.  Think you can find it?"

      "Why would I want to do that?"

      "Tarrin, you big silly, if you can figure out how you're linked to the Weave, then you could learn how to affect it through that link," she told him with a grin.  "And since this link seems passive rather than active, I don't think High Sorcery would be a threat to you."

      Tarrin stared at her for a long moment.  He could find no hole in her logic.  She was right!  She was absolutely right!  He now remembered a conversation he'd had with Dolanna a very long time ago, when she was teaching him about Sorcery.  As a Sorcerer learns more about the Weave, and practices, it brings that Sorcerer in a more intimate contact with the Weave.  That Sorcerer can draw energy from it faster, from a wider area, can weave flows together quicker, and can even directly affect the Weave without drawing in, she had told him when she was teaching him about Sorcery.

      Directly affect the Weave without drawing in.

      In other words, a Sorcerer with great experience could use Sorcery in a way not considered possible.

      It made him remember what the Goddess had told him, when she explained why his sense of the Weave had changed.  High Sorcery is simply an alternative method of using Sorcery.  She told him that Sorcery and High Sorcery were simply two ways to use the same power, and that there were also other ways to do it as well.  She told him that he could learn how Weavespinners learned their magic, that someone would teach him.

      She didn't mean the Selani goddess, she meant himself!

      It all made sense now.  Tarrin's connection to the Weave had increased, expanded.  It had extended beyond some mysterious threshold and caused him to elevate to a new level.  His many explosions of High Sorcery had intensified that connection, had brought him into touch with the true power of a Weavespinner.  He was just now starting to feel those connections, feel the fundamental changes in his magic caused by having his eyes opened to a new way to use Sorcery.  He was growing into his power, and like any growing process, he underwent a period of change, and a period of discovery.

      He had come to the desert thinking that Fara'Nae would teach him about Weavespinners.  Now, it seemed that he had come to the desert to discover that magic for himself.

      He sat down on the covered sand.  Hard.  Sarraya took one look at him, then started laughing delightedly.  "I take it you just underwent an epiphany?" she asked with a grin.

      "I think you're right, Sarraya," he said quietly, respectfully.  "Dolanna told me a long time ago that experienced Sorcerers could directly affect the Weave while touching it, even without drawing in the power to affect it.  The Goddess told me that there are more than two ways to use Sorcery.  It fits.  I think you're right.  If I can figure out how to affect the Weave through my sense of it, I may be able to use Sorcery without getting burned by High Sorcery.  I wouldn't be opening that direct link to the Weave, and that's how it gets to me."

      "Well, I'm glad I was able to help out," she smiled.

      "Sarraya, you are a wonder," he said with a smile.  "How can such a flake be so smart?"

      "Hey!" she snapped, then she laughed.  "Well, it's just truth in advertising," she admitted.  "So, what do you do to figure it out?"

      "Practice," he replied.  "Just keep trying until I finally figure out what works.  Since I'll be doing it with no idea what I'm doing, it'll just be luck."

      "Then again, that seems to work for you," she grinned.  "The less you know about something, it seems, the better it works for you."

      "Guess I'm not saddled with doubts and worries," he said ruefully.

      "So, what now?"

      "Breakfast.  I'm not ready to tackle this problem just yet, not so soon after learning Druidic magic.  I'll start on it tomorrow.  Hopefully this sandstorm will be past by then."

      "Then Conjure us some breakfast," she told him.  "Just make sure you get ripe fruit this time!"

      "I liked them like that," he teased her as he began the mental preparations necessary to use Druidic magic.

      The rest of the morning, and the day and afternoon and evening, for that matter, were spent in quiet meditation, as Tarrin sought to find this mysterious connection between himself and the Weave, tried to use Sorcery without touching the Weave.  The problem was that he had no idea what he was looking for, what had changed.  He felt no diferent than he did before this change inside.  His sense of the Weave had changed, but it seemed that nothing else did.  The first thing he tried to do was affect the Weave simply by willpower, but that didn't work.  It was like smoke, something he could see but not touch, a hazy illusion without substance.  He searched inside him for something new and different, but that too didn't work.  There was nothing different within him, nothing he could sense.  The attempts wore him out, physically and mentally, just as trying to touch the Weave for the first time had done to him so long ago.  The seeking of the magic required intense concentration and effort, and it took its toll on him as the day progressed.

      And behind it all was the eyeless face, disrupting his attempts to find this new form of magic.  Every time he reached a state of contemplation, it appeared in his mind, and upset his attempts to seek it.  The face did not lose its effect on him, even after so many days of enduring it.  It could still cause a mindless panic and terror in him, if it struck with enough force or he was unprepared to deal with the emotions it incited inside him.  He was forced to try to push it out of his mind and try to find a state of deep concentration at the same time, and that was not easy.

      The end result of it was that by sunset, as the sandstorm died out, he was mentally and physically exhausted.  So exhausted that he almost immediately fell into a deep, dreamless slumber after eating, a sleep so deep that even the dream could not find him.  He awoke the next morning feeling a bit woozy, but a night's complete sleep had done his body very well.

      The next morning had dawned clear and calm.  There was still a bit of a dusty pall in the air from the sandstorm, and climbing onto the boulder showed him that the strong Ward he had made had been a very good idea.  The Ward had about a span of sand built up around its border, and the sand was noticably higher between the boulders now than it had been before the storm.  A span of sand wouldn't have buried them, but it would have collapsed the tent and left them exposed to the power of the scouring wind.

      Sarraya flitted up and landed on his shoulder.  "Dusty," she remarked, then she sneezed.

      "The storm was a big one," Tarrin replied.  "It's going to be dusty for a couple of days, at least."  As he said that, he took the red scarf the girl gave him and settled it over his face, then donned his violet-shaded visor.  The sun wasn't bright enough through the dust to be painful, but it would keep the dust out of his eyes.  "You're going to have to navigate, Sarraya.  I can't see the Skybands in this dust."

      "Not a problem."

      "What about the tent?  Want to take it with us?"

      "Why?" she asked.  "If we need a tent, we'll just make another one.  Let the Selani have it."

      "I keep forgetting about that."

      "That's why I'm the brains of this outfit," Sarraya teased.

      "A Faerie, the brains of an outfit.  I'm doomed."

      "Hey!"

      Navigating the boulder field was easy enough for him, he simply jumped from rock to rock, hopscotching his way through it.  What made it a chore was that the boulder field was very, very large, longspans wide, and a couple of longspans of methodical jumping began to tire him.

      "I wonder what happened to put this many rocks in one place," Tarrin mused to Sarraya as he jumped onto a particularly big rock, towering over the others.

      "I'm not really sure," she replied. "The rocks don't look like they were in water, but something had to spill them out here."

      "How can you tell they weren't in water?"

      "They'd be smoothed down," she replied.  "Water is even more corrosive than a sandstorm, over time.  "Ever notice that the rocks you find in streams are smooth and look polished?"

      "I never thought of that," he admitted.  "You sound as smart as Phandebrass sometimes."

      "I'm not sure if that's a complement or not," she said uncertainly.

      The passage through the boulder field was more or less uneventful, at least up to a point.  It changed quickly when he jumped from one rock to another, and his feet immediately sank down into the rock on which he landed.  It wasn't stone!

      Dislodged by a sudden, violent shift of the rock beneath him, Tarrin was spilled to the ground as the rock on which he had landed seemed to unfold itself, unbend, and he found himself looking up into the hungry gaze of a small kajat.  It had huddled down, and it had looked so much like a rock with its brown scaly hide, he had literally jumped on top of it.

      Snapping jaws instantly sought him out, and in desperation, before he could even feel fear, he twisted on the ground and got a foot on the lower jaw and both paws on the upper.  Crushing pressure instantly struck him, and his foot was punctured by the spearpoint of a tooth, but his inhuman power proved to be the match of the monster's jaw muscles, if only just.  Trembling with effort, staring into the maw of the huge lizard, Tarrin struggled against the vice-like crush of the monster's jaws.  The pressure the monster put on him was astounding, threatening to shatter the bones in his arms and legs and he fought with all his strength to keep the jaws from closing on him.  The things' fetid, hot breath blew over him, fueling his purpose, inciting the Cat within to lend all of its strength to keep him alive.  With a growling roar of a cry, he pushed the jaws apart just a little, enough to straighten out his back and try to reach the sword on his back with his tail.  But the monstrous reptile picked him up off the ground and began whipping its head from side to side, seeking to dislodge its meal enough to where it couldn't resist its jaws any longer.  He hung on for dear life, both trying to keep the jaws from crushing him and keep his paws and feet where they were to keep the monster from killing him in one bite.

      His paws slipped.  He started falling backwards, out of its maw, but the fanged mouth snapped shut on his thigh, severing his right leg just above the knee.  He tumbled to the ground as the intense pain of losing his leg ripped through him, before quickly being replaced with the angry tingling that told him that the leg was already starting to regenerate.  The pain and the shock of the ambush pushed him over the edge, causing the Cat to rise up within him and cause his human consciousness to be shunted to the side.  He got up onto his one remaining foot and jumped up onto a boulder, eyes consumed with the unholy greenish fire of his anger as he roared his challenge to the massive reptile.

      It got a good look at him, got a sight of the rather gruesome process of regeneration when Tarrin lost a limb, as the leg literally grew out from the mangled stump bone first, fleshing out as it progressed, and then finally covering over with skin and fur grown from the stump down.  Tarrin put his weight down on his new right leg, anger and fury overwhelming good sense.  As the Cat always did, it sought out its most powerful, destructive option immediately, seeking to destroy the threat before it without considering the consequences of its actions.

      The power of the Weave suddenly rampaging into him, through him, seeking to burn him to ash within heartbeats, the Cat used raw fury to bring the maelstrom under some sense of control, ignoring the burning from within of so much power, a burning that was very real.  The kajat recoiled slightly as the fire-like numbus of Magelight suddenly exploded from the Were-cat's body, limning him in gentle bluish light that wavered and pulsated as if being carried by some invisible wind.  Weaving together a chaotic mixture of Air, Fire, Water, and Divine energies, with only token flows the other Spheres woven in to grant the weave the power of High Sorcery, the Cat used that Weave it had used so many times before, a weave of such power that nothing could withstand it.  The Cat rose a single paw and presented it palm-out to the beast, then thrust it towards the monster as it released the Weave.

      An incandescent bolt of pure magical power, carrying the heat of a thousand bonfires, unleashed from Tarrin's upraised palm, ripping through the air as it travelled from Tarrin's palm to the terminus of its power in the blink of an eye.  Its path carried it directly through the kajat's head, vaporizing everything it struck from just above that bloody maw to the top of its head in a perfect circle about a span across, then continuing on for nearly four longspans before the power of the weave reached its limit and dissipated.  A cracking sound, something like thunder, proceeded the blast of magical fury, the sound of the air being instantly displaced and superheated by the power of the weave.

      The kajat stood numbly for a long moment, then toppled to the side, partially on a large rock.  Tarrin found himself struggling against the unmitigated power of the Weave, as it almost instantly replaced all the energy he had expended creating the killing weave, feeling like a man drowning in a sea of fire.  But then the power flowing into him began to slow, and he sensed Sarraya using her Druidic magic to restrict that flow, to get it to where Tarrin could resist or control what was coming into him.  But she was a basket trying to hold an avalanche. He could feel her struggling with her Druidic magic with everything she had, reaching the limits of her power, and it had very little effect on his connection to the Weave.

      In that instant, as the Cat fled him, he understood the incredible danger he was in.  If Sarraya could not reduce what was coming into him, he could not cut himself off without having the backlash kill him.  If she couldn't, he would be burned alive from within, destroyed by the power of the Weave, he would be Consumed.

      It was just too much power.  He could feel that Sarraya was at the limit of her ability, and the power did not slow down enough to allow him to cut himself off without killing himself.  He threw himself into controlling that power, to push against what was coming into him, even going so far as to seeking to use the power within directly against the power outside, seeking to have them strike one another and cancel each other out, just as a misweaved spell fizzled if flows of the same Sphere touched.

      Fizzle!  Of course!

      In a terror-induced moment of brilliant clarity, Tarrin recalled one of the most basic rules of Sorcery; a Sorcerer cannot weave spells on himself.  An attempt to weave on one's self caused the weaving flows to contact the power within, and it made it drain back into the Weave through the flows.  Every time he had touched the Weave with his power, he had been drawing in, rather than trying to drain off.  If he attempted to weave on himself without High Sorcery, the flows would strike him, come into contact with the power inside, and then the power within would suddenly drain out of him.  The power of the Weave always follows the path of least resistance, Dolanna had told him so long ago.  It was why a Sorcerer couldn't use magic on himself.

      Reaching out, Tarrin accessed every strand near enough to him, and called all six Spheres from them.  Flows of all six sphere reached out like tentacles, reached out to him, and then he pulled them inside of him, having them make contact with the power at the core of his being.

      The effect was not what he hoped.  The power drawn within was that of all seven Spheres, where he was only attempting to drain off six.  The power within was held in a combined state because all seven Spheres were present, the sphere of Confluence holding the other six together.  He realized that when in contact with High Sorcery, trying to induce a fizzle to leech off power would not work.

      Unless...he fizzled a weave of High Sorcery.

      In the instantaneous spans of consideration, he realized that that was a paradox.  High Sorcery could not fizzle, because its very nature would not permit it.  A misweaved spell of High Sorcery could not fizzle, so logic dictated that it would always explode in a wildstrike if it went wrong.  An attempt to fizzle the spell in the weaving also wouldn't work, because a fizzled weave wouldn't drain off the power inside.  The spell would have to form and affect him, but that wouldn't do any good either.

      Or would it?

      Feeling his blood boil inside, feeling his organs expanding dangerously from the incredible heat, feeling the fur burn off his arms and legs and his skin begin to char, smelling his hair burning away, feeling internal tissues begin to sear from the power, Tarrin started again, weaving together a weave almost completely made up of Divine flows, with only token flows of the other Spheres to grant the weave the power of High Sorcery, to grant the weave the power to affect him.  Even as he weaved it, he fully understood that if this did not work, he would die, suffering the untold agony of being burned alive from the inside out, to die in a funeral pyre of his own creation, to be Consumed by the very power that had saved his life so many times before.  There would be no time to try something else, to try again.

      It was all or nothing.  Everything that he had done, everything that he was, everything that depended on him, it all focused down into that instant in time, when Tarrin used his last desperate ploy in order to cheat death one more time, risking everything on a simple rule of High Sorcery, a rule he had never really bothered to study, never really seemed important, until that moment.

      A Sorcerer using High Sorcery could weave spells that affected himself.

      Tarrin released it, and then he felt it pierce into him, pierce the core of him where his magic was building, was burning him, threatened to destroy him.  It infused into him, and then it started doing what it was intended to do, what it was woven to do.

      Drain off magical power.

      Where his attempt to fizzle failed, this did not.  The power within suddenly found an outlet through which to flow, siphoned away by the power of his own weave.  The sudden bottomless nature of his being seemed to strike back at the Weave, at his connection to it, making it shudder and recoil from him.  His powerful connection to the Weave faltered as the totality of the power within drained out, and in that unstable instant, Sarraya struck.  She attacked his connection to the Weave with every fiber of her Druidic power, and where she failed before, she succeeded now.

      Tarrin could feel his connection to the Weave break, and it did not cause a backlash.  The weave he wove on himself, no longer having anything to sustain it, unravelled harmlessly.

      Tarrin collapsed onto the rock, sucking in air like a man just pulled from the sea, feeling the intense burning ache from inside like an agony, like he'd been spitted on a red-hot steel spear.  Close, it was too close!  The Weave had done damage to his body inside, and he'd come a mouse's tail from being Consumed.  All because of a single moment of irrational anger.  His body was utterly, completely drained of everything he had, and it was an effort simply to breathe.

      "Tarrin!  Tarrin, are you alright?" Sarraya asked in a fearful voice, landing beside his head and putting her tiny hand on his forehead gently.  Her touch suddenly became warm, gentle, and he could feel her using her Druidic magic on him.  The burning and painful injury done to him by High Sorcery began to ease, covered over by a feeling of blissful warm softness, as she used her power to accelerate his own healing and numb the pain.  "Tarrin!" she called in a frightened voice.  "Answer me!"

      He was totally exhausted.  It was an effort to think, to move, to form coherent will in order to speak.  "Too close," he said in a weak voice.  "Sarraya."

      "I'm here, I'm here," she said assuringly.  "Does it still hurt?"

      "I'm tired," he said in a listless voice.  "So tired."

      "Then go to sleep, Tarrin," she said in a cooing voice.  "I'll be here to watch over you.  I won't let anyone hurt you."

      If she said anything after that, he would never know.  He almost immediately fell unconscious, a deep, dreamless sleep from which he could not be awakened.

      It was morning.  Tarrin opened his eyes to find himself looking into the large reddish disc of the sun as it rose from the eastern horizon.  The sun shone on him with the gentle warmth of the start of the day, warm rather than brutal, pleasant rather than oppressive.  The air was still cool from the night, but something was draped over him to protect him from the biting night air.  The smell of dried blood and the first stages o decaying flesh greeted him in that cool air.

      He was stiff, sore.  Weak.  He remembered what happened all too clearly, from the pain to the fear of it.  The Cat had used Sorcery, and Sarraya had not been able to contain him.  Had he not did some very fast thinking and done some creative experimentating with his power, he would be dead.  He had escaped by a whisker that time.

      Pushing himself up onto his arms, feeling the rock bite into him under his hip, he looked down at himself.  He was covered by a leather blanket, which had that strange uncorrupted scent to it that told him that it was conjured.  His sword was laying beside him, with a broken thong and some dried blood on the scabbard.  Sarraya was nowhere to be seen, but that didn't mean that she wasn't around somewhere.  The sky above him was cloudless, which was normal, but a great many vultures circled slowly over him, probably because of the kajat, but something kept them from landing to feast.

      He shifted into a sitting position, rising up to get his tail out from under him, then rubbed the back of his neck gingerly.  That was something that he never wanted to go through again.  He'd overextended himself before, but never had he felt so close to death than he did that time.  Always before, Sarraya or Triana or someone had intervened, had saved him, but that time he felt the stark reality that there was nobody that could protect him now.  He had saved himself, literally before jumping into the abyss, with a desperate gamble that literally came down to life or death.

      Once again, he managed to cheat Death.  He had the feeling that She was starting to get frustrated.

      The wind changed, and on it came the smell of Selani.  Very close Selani.

      Turning his head, he found himself staring at a Selani warrior sitting on a rock not far from him, covered from head to foot in the baggy clothing which they wore, head wrapped by sand-colored cloth and with a veil covering its face.  Brown eyes peered between the veil and the turban-like head covering.  He simply sat there, patiently, calmly, watching Tarrin with those unblinking eyes.  That he had evaded Tarrin's notice before the wind changed said something for the Selani's ability to remain still, like he was a part of the desert.

      It took him a moment to realize that the Selani had not attacked during the night, while he was unconscious.  Then again, no Selani would do such a thing.  Odds were, he was waiting for Tarrin to wake up, so he had the chance to defend himself.  It wasn't dishonorable to attack an unsuspecting foe, but it was dishonorable to attack one that was incapable of defending himself.  Ambushing Tarrin was perfectly fine, but attacking him in his sleep was not.

      "Ande no adu bai," the Selani said with amusement, pulling down his veil.

      It was Var!

      "Var!" Tarrin said in surprise.  "What are you doing here?" he demanded in Selani, forgetting himself.

      "You do speak the True Tongue," he said with a smile.  "I knew it!"

      "What are you doing here?" Tarrin demanded, trying to sound strong, even though he was as weak as a kitten.

      "Following you," he replied.  "I would not challenge you now, so don't worry.  I'll not challenge you after you're well either."

      "Isn't that against your custom?"

      "Custom is one thing, a debt repaid is another," he said calmly.  "You spared my life.  I have sat vigil over you so the little blue one could scout for kajat, so honor has been repaid."

      "And why are you here after ten days?"

      "I came to challenge you again, but found you like this," he replied with a calm expression.  "With a dead kajat not ten paces away from you.  I think I'll bow to your sword now, rather than lose to you again," he said with a light smile.  "There is no honor in foolishness.  I'll not challenge one capable of killing a kajat single-handedly.  My mother did not raise a fool."

      "I appreciate that, I'm not really feeling up to a fight right now," he said wearily.  "Believe me, the kajat gave back as good as it got."

      "The little blue one told me.  Bit your leg right off, she said, but I think she was making the tale more colorful."

      "No, it bit my leg off," he affirmed.  "It just grew back."

      "Truly?"

      "I'm a Lycanthrope, Var.  A Were-cat.  I can regrow lost limbs."

      "Ah.  That answers my next question," he said.  "If I may ask, why are you here?  Seeking to honor the one who taught you?"

      "Actually, I'm just passing through," he replied.  "I'm travelling from Saranam to Arkis, and I can't take a ship.  This is the only way to go, so here I am."

      "If you seek Arkis, you're going the wrong way," he replied.  "The Sandshield is impassible along its southern reaches.  If you intend to cross the mountains, you must cross over in the north."

      "I didn't know that," he said honestly.  "I thought there some passes in the south."

      "There are, but they're impassible at this time of year," he replied.  "The storms coming out of the southern passes would kill you.  The storms you've seen here started there, and they're no less powerful for travelling so far."

      "I remember someone saying that the storms start at the Sandshield, but I guess I didn't think they'd be that bad," he fretted.  "But the passes along the northern reaches are safe?"

      "As safe as any pass in the Sandshield," he answered.  "If you seek Arkis, you should turn northwest.  It will save you time."

      "That's true, but it's a longer journey."

      "Much shorter than travelling west, then going north until you find a pass that's safe enough to use."

      "True," he said with a rueful snort.  "Guess I'm not thinking."

      "You're new to our lands, so there's no reason to feel foolish," he replied.  "I'd feel just as lost in the forests of Arkis."

      "So would I," he said absently as he pulled off the blanket and struggled to his feet.  His knees felt shaky, and the wind ruffled the fur on his right leg.  His new right leg.  The pant leg that had once covered his leg was gone, somewhere in the gullet of that dead monster, and what was left of his pants were covered in dried, hard blood.  His shirt was also spattered with dried blood, and the smell of it was enough to make him want to get rid of them.  He grabbed the shirt by the front and pulled it over his head, pulling his braid out with it, then cast it aside.  His torso showed his normal pale skin, where his face and neck, subjected to days in the sun, were as brown as a Selani.

      "Siswani," Var noted.  "I don't know that clan."

      "What?"

      "Your brands.  That's the clan brand of Faedellin.  We call that brand Siswani, the Brand of Clan.  I know the brand, but not the clan."

      "I don't either," he grunted.  "The brands were given to me by my deshaida, and she's not in the desert right now.  Her clan doesn't know about me."

      "So that's why you come as an invader instead of a brother," he said calmly.  "You have the mark of the Holy Mother?"

      Tarrin turned enough for him to see the sword-brand symbol of Fara'Nae on his other shoulder, and Var nodded.  "You took a good brand," he complimented.  "A much better brand than I expected to see on an outlander."

      "I'm not human, Var," he said calmly.  "My kind have a very high tolerance for pain."

      "A good trait."

      "That's a subjective point of view.  It can cut both ways."

      Var raised an eyebrow.  "Truly, you are fluent in the True Tongue.  I hear words from you I don't hear from scholars among my people."

      "My sister doesn't believe in doing anything half way," he grunted, slashing his tail a few times as the motion, the activity, returned strength to him.  As usual, his body was recovering very quickly, probably just finding itself after the long sleep.  He clenched his paw into a fist until his knuckles cracked, then he spread out his arms and stretched to get some blood flowing into them.

      "Are all your kind as tall as you?"

      "No," he replied.  "I'm tall for my kind, but almost all of my kind are taller than you."

      The buzzing of wings preceded Sarraya, who flew straight at him with a joyful cry.  She clamped onto his neck, hugging him exuberantly, giggling like a girl.  "I see you feel better!" she exclaimed.  "How do you feel, Tarrin?"

      "I'm alright, Sarraya," he replied gently.  He reached up and offered his paw to her, and she climbed into it and sat down in his palm.  He held her up before him so he could see her as they spoke.  "Are you alright?"

      "It never touched me," she replied.  "By the time I picked myself up off the ground, it was already dead.  Don't scare me like that!"

      "I didn't do it on purpose, believe me," he told her.  "At least we found out that the Goddess wasn't kidding."

      "No doubt," she said.  "How did you do it?  How did you weaken yourself?"

      "I got creative," he grunted.  "I used High Sorcery on myself.  It was the first time I ever thought to try it."

      Sarraya laughed.  "Well, it worked, but let's try not to do that again.  You're going to give me a heart attack at this rate."

      "No argument here," he grunted in agreement.  He looked to Var.  His suspicion hadn't really rose up yet, but then again, Var was all the way over there.  It would probably be best to cut it short, before he began to feel threatened by the Selani.  "Could you make me some new clothes?  Then we'll get moving."

      "Are you sure you're up to it?" she asked.

      "I'm fine, you little worrier," he smiled.  "I'm hungry and thirsty, but I can wait until we get the Selani behind us before I stop to deal with it.  I want to shake him first."

      "Alright, one new set of clothes, coming up," she said, flitting off of his paw.  "What does the master prefer?  Something stylish?  How about something with frills and fringe?  Maybe a nice waistcoat?  I hear straw hats are all the rage in Tu Lung."

      "How about the same thing you made last time," he retorted.

      "No imagination," she teased, then bent to the task.

      When the clothes simply appeared, Var stood up.  "Pardon my intrusion, but if you want to make it in the desert, don't wear the shirt," he spoke up.

      "What?  Why?"

      "Because you carry the brands," he replied calmly.  "They are true brands, and any Selani that sees them will know.  If you show the brands, you'll avoid a great many challenges.  You don't have to meet every clan you cross, but they won't chase you down if they see you."

      "I figured that I'd get into trouble if the Selani saw them," he said uncertainly.

      "You'll get in less trouble if you do," Var told him with a slight smile.  "You're not wearing clothes appropriate for the desert and you're still alive, so I guess that your kind are resistant to the desert heat.  If that's so, I suggest you go without a shirt."

      "What did he say?" Sarraya asked.

      "He told me I'll get into less trouble with the Selani if I show my brands," he told her.  "I thought otherwise, but I'll go on Var's word."

      "Var?"

      "He's the same one I fought," he replied.

      "I know that, but I didn't realize he gave you his name."

      "His friend did," he told her calmly.  "What do you think?  A black vest, to go along with my fur?"

      "May as well go with style," Sarraya grinned.

      "You don't seem too surprised about the clothes, Var," Tarrin noted as Sarraya conjured a vest.  It was black leather, as supple as cloth, plain and utilitarian.  Sarraya had even had the foresight to put slots in the back through which the sword's thong could pass.

      "I know that both of you are magicians," he said calmly.  "Surely one of you is using whatever magic you know to make the clothes."

      That legendary Selani stoicism.  Nothing really surprised them.  He put on the vest, and found that it fit well enough.  It left his chest and midriff bare, pale skin that was already beginning to visibly darken under the intensifying sun.  Without giving it a second thought, Tarrin pulled off the ruined trousers, then put on the new ones.  They too fit perfectly, mainly because Sarraya had conjured clothes for him so many times that she had the sizing down to an art.  He laced the thongs of his sword through the vest, a trick possible only because of his unnatural dexterity and coordination, then pulled it into place and tied the two ends together with a secure knot.

      The result was a curious sight.  Tan breeches, black vest, and it opened almost like curtains to proudly display the black metal amulet around his neck, the symbol of the katzh-dashi, the holy symbol of his Goddess.  It had been a long time since he'd left his arms completely bare.  He felt more uninhibited in the clothing than anything he'd worn before, and found almost immediately that he liked them.  He put on the simple belt carrying a dagger and a few other simple belongings around his waist, and found that he felt ready to move.

      "I appreciate your watching over me, but it's time for me to move on, Var," he said.  "I hope your journey back to your clan is a safe one."

      "You're leaving?" he asked.  "But I had many questions to ask you."

      "I'm not the kind of person you want to know, Var," he said grimly, looking directly into his eyes as he said it.

      "Perhaps I could travel with you?"

      "No," he said adamantly.  "If you could even keep up, I still wouldn't allow it.  I don't like strangers.  Call it a racial trait.  You'd find me to be more dangerous than that kajat was.  I can deal with you when you're over there, but if you get too close to me, I may strike at you without warning."  He settled the sword into place on his back, giving the Selani a calm look.  "You'll be much safer going back to your clan anyway.  I attract trouble like that carcass attracted the vultures."

      "A pity.  It would be worth the time to speak with you, to come to know one with such honor that a Selani would grant him blood kinship without the approval of her clan."

      "It's a very long story, and one that would change your opinion of me," he said directly.  "Just forget it, and forget me.  You're better off that way."  He shifted his thinking so that he could speak to Sarraya.  "Are you ready to go?  Anything in our path?"

      "Yes and not a thing," she replied.  "Finish scaring the Selani, and we'll be on our way."

      "What makes you think I'm scaring him?"

      "I can hear the attitude in your voice," she winked.

      Tarrin snorted, but he couldn't really argue with her.  He was trying to scare off the Selani.  He turned to Var as Sarraya flitted up and away, towards the west, to precede him and warn him of any dangers.  "I thank you for your advice, and I'm sorry if I sound cold, but reality is a cold place," he told him.  "Just go back to your clan.  You don't want any part of me.  Trust me."

      And with that, Tarrin turned and started bounding from boulder to boulder with the same ease that a human would walk along a street.  He quickly put the Selani behind him, going faster than he could follow, his mind already working to make sense of what had happened.

      And to deal with the strange sense of regret he felt at leaving Var behind.  Why would he feel that way?  Var was a stranger, an outsider, and Tarrin feared him.  But then he realized that speaking Selani, to hear it from a native, was kindling his yearning to be with Allia.  Var's voice and manner had reminded him of loved ones far away, and a part of him wanted to be near Var if only to feel that he was closer to Allia.

      But he wasn't Allia.  She was well out of the port of Tor, maybe even around the Cape of Storms, the peninsula that marked the end of the Sea of Glass and the beginning of the Sea of Storms, the southwestern tip of the mainland of Shacè.  She was on board a ship, surrounded by other friends, safely escorted by Wikuni warships as they sailed to Suld.

      Allia was far away.  He only had his memory of her, his love for her, to sustain him until they were again together.

      The other problem was Sorcery.  He remembered what had happened.  It was just like any other time he'd lost his temper, but this time, there was nobody there to reign him in.  And there would be nobody from now on.  He could not afford to lose his temper again, he knew that now.  If he went into a rage, and stayed in it long enough to prevent himself from using that same trick of High Sorcery to defuse himself, he'd end up dead.  The Cat didn't care about life or death, it was supported only by his own fury, and it would not seek to preserve itself so long as it perceived threat to itself.  He wasn't about to die now, after having come so far, having survived against all odds so many times.  He wouldn't get killed by his own temper.  He would not.  He had never had much success keeping his temper before, but now the stakes were much, much higher.  Now, he had a very good reason to do his absolute best not to fly into a rage.

      His very life depended upon it.

      Tarrin moved away from the Selani, mind working to deal with what had happened when he nearly lost control of the Weave, haunted by images of an eyeless girl whose empty stare chilled his soul, seeking something within that would allow him to use his magic safely.

      It was a mind heavy with problems.

      Up.  Down.  Up.  Down.

      The sea carried with it a kind of numbing monotony, rising and falling as the wind unsettled its suface, wind that could travel thousands and thousands of longspans without encountering something to oppose it.  Over this endless bobbing surface sailed eight ships, gathered together tightly, moving at a stately pace dictated by the ship in the center of the formation.  Seven of them were sleek, polished examples of maritime excellence, seven Clipper ships, among the fastest ships ever to sail the twenty seas.  All were heavily armed, packed to the rails with sailors and Marines, and ready to battle just about anything as they kept a protective ring around the eighth vessel.

      As ships went, this one certainly classified as being a unique sight on the water.  It was a Shacèan galleon, one that was painted the most hideously garish bright pink that one could comprehend.  Its blaring color clashed with the blue of the sea, caused anything within eyesight to be drawn to gawk at it in horrified amazement.  As if the pink hull was not enough, the ship's sails looked like a grandmother's quilt, a riot of conflicting colors, patches of different colored cloth sewn together.  Even the ship's rigging sparkled in the sun, looking as if the ropes were spun out of gold, shimmering in the sunbeams that managed to pierce between the clouds in the sky.  The paint of the ship was interrupted here and there by makeshift patches, proof that the old vessel had seen some action in the recent past.

      The ship was called Dancer, and it was a ship that fulfilled a specific objective.  She was a transport, carrying a troupe of circus performers from port to port, where they performed for the citizens.  This day, she was returning from the mighty city of Dala Yar Arak after the troupe performed at the annual Festival of the Sun, one of the high points in Arakite society.  On board her decks were circus performers, performers that would usually be manning the rigging and tending to the ship's needs as they plied the waves.  But those performers found themselves to be passengers now, shunted aside by a crack crew of veteran Wikuni sailors, sailors trained for sailing a galleon.  Wikuni sailors that had extensive battle experience, and could get the ship out of danger should it become threatened.

      The ship carried more than simple performers or Wikuni sailors.  Standing at the rail was a being that was rarely seen in the West, rarely seen anywhere except the trackless deserts that her people called home.  She was a very tall woman, sleek and slender, whose height defined her more than her appearance did.  Dressed in western trousers and a baggy white shirt made of silk that offset her dark skin, she looked very much unlike a lady with which a western man would identify.  She had dusky brown skin, the result of generations of evolution under a mercilessly strong sun, but her hair was a silvery white color, a color that made it well suited to deflecting the sun's heat away from her head.  Beyond her height or her hair, what made people stare at her more than anything else, was her exquisite beauty.  The dark-skinned woman, with her pointed ears and her four-fingered hands and her silver-white hair, was noticed not because of any of those things, but because her face was the absolute epitomy of breathtaking feminine perfection.  It was as if the anima that created the female had discovered the pinnacle of its achievement in the white-haired woman, and could now proudly boast of its creation.  Delicate eyebrows framed large eyes that were the color of the sky, a striking feature in one with brown skin.  A heart-shaped face sported high, ethereal cheekbones, a slender, pert little nose, and perfect lips that any man would find pleasure in kissing.  A sharp, slender jaw supported that feminine perfection, rounded out a face that any painter would kill to capture on canvas.

      The outstanding beauty of this woman could turn heads, but those with her had been around her for so long that her beauty no longer struck them with the same force at it had when they first saw her.  To them, she was not a paragon of feminine beauty, she was Allia.  A Selani, and a warrior at that.  A gentle-natured woman with highly refined ideals of conduct and propriety, with a pride that was not arrogance and a careful, methodical manner that made her seem dependable and steady, who also happened to be one of the most lethal, dangerous, most highly skilled fighters the world had ever seen.  She looked like a fragile maiden, but any who spent any time with her understood that there was nothing but steel beneath the silk of her skin.

      As with the best of nature's most successful species, this Selani beauty was much more than she seemed.  And therein lay her greatest advantage.  She was one of the deadliest warriors alive, but she was also a Sorceress.  Granted the innate ability to make contact with the magic of the Weave, it was an ability that most people overlooked in her, even herself from time to time.  Allia was not one to use her magic for her every mundane task.