Storm Rising

An'desha had encountered more than once.

Perhaps that was because no one in the Alliance recognized how directness could be used as cleverly as guile… nor did they realize how telling only part of the truth could be as deceptive as telling a full lie.

For three days, An'desha left the defense of Karal's honor in the hands of Karal's other friends and concentrated on Jarim himself. It had occurred to him that there might yet be a way to get to the man; he was not unlike the Chief Healer of Karal's old Clan. Tor'getha was not a bad man, but he was quick to leap to conclusions, and quick to look for enemies outside his own folk. Yet when he was presented with enough evidence, Tor'getha had been known to change his mind.

So the first thing was to establish that he really was what he claimed, and not simply some rootless vagabond pretending to Shin'a'in blood as a door to opportunities. Dressing conservatively, but unmistakably in the Shin'a'in style, An'desha hovered about the edges of any group that included Jarim. Karal's actual whereabouts were not known except to those few of his friends who could be trusted with the information, so Jarim was not aware that An'desha was playing host to the young Karsite. After three days of near-constant attention, Jarim had stopped frowning and sneering whenever he saw An'desha, and was watching him with a puzzled expression, as if he was wondering just what An'desha wanted.

An'desha let him wonder; his plan depended on Jarim approaching him, not the other way around. He felt very much like those who hunted falcons and hawks, who would bury themselves in sand or leaves with a live, fluttering pigeon in one hand, waiting for their quarry to come and take the bait. When the hawk descended, it would be a fight to keep him—though hopefully this particular quarry would not realize there was a struggle going on.

At last his patience was rewarded; the quarry came to investigate the bait. Jarim intercepted him on the third afternoon of Karal's absence, just as he was leaving the Palace, heading for the ekele.

Jarim was actually waiting for him at the door to the path through the gardens. 'An'desha. I wish to speak with you.' He paused awkwardly, looking puzzled as he groped for words. Dust-motes drifted in a shaft of sunlight from the window above the door, lancing between them like a wall. 'You claim Shin'a'in blood, yet you do not look Shin'a'in, for all that you ape our dress and customs and speak our tongue freely. I—' His mouth twitched as he tried to find diplomatic words and came up with no diplomatic way to say what he wanted. 'I am the representative of the Shin'a'in here, and I would have no impostors claiming to be of the Clans.'

An'desha smiled mildly. This was exactly what he wanted, to establish his credentials. 'My father was Le'kala shena Jor'ethan,' he replied steadily. 'My mother was an Outlands woman, a weaver, dwelling at Kata'Shin'a'in. My father, they say, had a need to wander, which took him often to the edge of the Plains, most often to Kata'Shin'a'in, where he would see and mingle with the largest number of foreign folk.' He licked his lips. 'My mother died at my birth, and he brought me into the Clan to be raised there as a son of the Bear.'

'Halfblooded, then—' Jarim began dismissively, clearly preparing to deny him true Clan status. An'desha interrupted him.

'I have more of the blood than most of Tale'sedrin,' he replied boldly. 'You cannot deny that. When did the Goddess create hair of gold and russet among the Clan, or eyes of green? Those are the legacy of Kethry shena Tale'sedrin, and if you would deny Tale'sedrin to be of the Blood, then you must answer to Kal'enel, for She decreed Kethryveris to be blood-sworn into the People.'

Swallow that, old man. There is not a Shin'a'in on the Plains who would dare say Tale'sedrin was less than wholly of the People, yet the Clan-seed came from a man and a woman who never even heard of the People until they were full grown.

Caught without an answer, Jarim grimaced, his eyebrows drawing together into a frown. 'When did the Goddess decree that the People might boast eyes as slitted as a plains cat's?' he finally said. 'Or hair bleached to silver by magic?'

Quickly, An'desha weighed all the possibilities and decided on the boldest course. 'Will you close your mind because of what your eyes see, as if you were an Outclansman who believes only in what he has before his face?' he asked. 'Or will you hear my tale and learn what happened when you were not there?'

Jarim reared back a little, his head coming up, his spine going stiff. He had not been challenged like this since he had arrived here, and An'desha was well aware of this. But he had phrased his challenge very carefully, appealing to blood and clan, and the tradition that a Shin'a'in would always hear out a fellow Clansman before he made a judgment.

Finally the envoy grimaced and jerked his head sideways. 'Come to my rooms, then. I will hear you.' He headed toward a nearby staircase, and An'desha followed him willingly.

Jarim's rooms were precisely as An'desha had thought they might be; spare by Valdemaran standards, with most of the furniture gone, but quite luxurious by the standards of one who lived all of his life in a tent. At Jarim's gesture, An'desha took a seat on a flat cushion on the floor, automatically dropping into the cross-legged position of anyone born in the tents. Jarim's mouth twitched; obviously he hadn't thought An'desha could even manage the seat on the cushion, much less the posture that marked a Shin'a'in the moment he sat.

Interesting. I could almost believe that this man has not bothered to learn a single thing about any of the people here! Is that possible? Can he have been sent off so ill-prepared?

Perhaps that was why he had been so willing to jump to conclusions about Karal and An'desha. If so—and if