Honor and Blood

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 begi

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 Shacean 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 a

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-ski

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 ma

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 i

And that suited her just fine.

But these were not good times for her. Her brother Tarrin was alone, with no one but the erratic Faerie Sarraya to watch over him. Alone in the desert, her desert, a place with which she was intimately familiar, a place that would quickly kill the unaware or unfit. It was not a place for her brother, at least not without her there to guide him, teach him, protect him.

First Keritanima, her beloved bond-sister, was abducted by her father, and now Tarrin had also left her, leaving them to draw away those that sought to use them to get to him. The loneliness she felt was dramatic, poignant, leaving her feeling as if everything she held dear was being stripped from her piece by piece. She knew that she would see them again, but it was no substitution for having them there with her, to laugh with, to touch, to be near her and reinforce the powerful bonds of love and devotion that held them together. Though all three were different species, they were a family, a family more tightly knit and loyal to one another than any family united by blood alone.