"I didn't mean to enrage him, only to anger him," she defended herself.
" Oija!" Dolanna sighed in her own language. "Amazon, that is a line so faint that no one aside from Tarrin himself can distinguish it! Tarrin is not dangerous so long as you do not provoke him!" she said with impressive power in her voice. "What insanity possessed you to do such a thing?"
"They were playfighting," Sarraya told her. "Tarrin was handling it pretty well until Brainchild over there started taunting him. He snapped and tried to take her head off, and she used magic to subdue him. That managed to just really tick him off."
"No wonder," Dolanna snorted. "To use magic against him is the same in his mind as attacking him. When you did that, you drew his wrath as surely as the sun rises in the morning."
Camara Tal wiped some blood off her leg, the four neat slashes in her abdomen already healed over. "I'll remember that next time," she said calmly.
"There will be no next time," she replied. "If Tarrin even allows you near him again, it will be a miracle. You have probably just permanently poisoned him against you, Camara Tal. I suggest you keep your distance, if you wish to live. If he is too violently opposed to you, we will let you off at Saranam. That will be the only way to save you."
"Come on, one little spat won't-"
"We shall see," Dolanna interrupted. "Tarrin is not a forgiving person, Camara Tal. If he blames you for what happened, he will not forgive you. And if he will not forgive you, then he will probably try to kill you. Tarrin's mentality is very much aligned by thinking of everyone as friend or foe. We will have to see where you stand when he awakens."
The Amazon was silent, crossing her arms under her breasts and staring at the small Sharadi Sorceress with unblinking eyes. Then she turned and walked away.
The night was warm and breezy. The rain line that had dampened the ship had passed long before the sunset, but behind it was cooler, dryer air that was unsettled now that the sun had gone down. It blew from the east fitfully, bringing along with it the smell of more rain to come, hidden behind the horizon. The ship's masts and ropes creaked in the breeze, the sails still down and tended by a handful of men as the ship made up time by sailing at night. Those men ignored Tarrin for the most part as he stood at the bow, looking at the dark seas ahead.
Sarraya had helped fix the damage he caused. She had conjured forth boards to replace the walls of the sterncastle he had destroyed, and an afternoon's work while still moving had sealed up the holes. The smell of the scorched wood was still heavy aboard the ship, as was the faint scents of blood from the few people that had been hit by shards of flying wood. There had been no deaths, not even a serious injury from the flying shrapnel, but there had been enough bleeding to leave traces of its smell in the deck.
He could smell their fear, and he couldn't blame them. They had seen him at his worst, and they couldn't forget it. The smell of their fear roused the Cat within him, response to prey-fear, but it was nothing he couldn't control. Their fear was justified. They should be afraid of him. The memory of what had happened had eased back to him faster than usual for a rage, probably because he was enraged only for a short time. Camara Tal had sent him into a rage, and she had done it deliberately. Well, maybe not deliberately, but she was definitely trying to make him angry. Trying to teach him a lesson, he guessed, a lesson about anger. But she was the one who learned the lesson. Tarrin's anger was a weapon, a powerful weapon when unleashed, a weapon that did not discriminate. It was a double-edged sword, giving him the power to destroy what he normally couldn't destroy, but also representing the greatest danger to himself. He couldn't control his Sorcery, unless he was in a rage. Only then did he have the power, for the Cat had the primal drive, the will, to control what his conscious mind could not. But when he had the power, he had no morals, no compunction to use it responsibly. When enraged, he did not care, not about enemies, not about friends, not even about himself. He would gladly destroy himself, if it would destroy his enemies at the same time. He eventually would destroy himself, the one time Sarraya or Allia was not there to prevent him from doing so.
He was his own worst enemy.
He was still somewhat mad at Camara Tal. He didn't like going into a rage. It was dangerous for him, and for everyone around him. He always had to deal with what evil he committed afterward, when the memories returned and haunted him, drove him to distance himself from his guilt, driving him more and more feral. If Allia hadn't snapped him out of it, he would have killed someone. And the thought of killing someone didn't really bother him, unless it was someone he knew and trusted. It didn't bother him, but he knew deep inside that the human in him would cringe at the act, would make him feel remorse and guilt, emotions that would only make his feral nature more solid. The more evil he committed, the more he would detach himself from the feelings associated with it, and the worse he would get. Not a year ago, he would have been mortified to kill innocent people, but now it wouldn't make him bat an eye. He was becoming more and more violent, less concerned about the suffering he was inflicting on others. What he truly feared was the day when he found pleasure in it. That would be the point of no return, when he would truly become the monster that lurked within.
What price his power had cost him.
Feeling the breeze against his back, smelling the wood and the people and the fear behind him, he put it out of his mind and looked up at the stars. There was only one thing good of what had happened. He hadn't hurt Allia. Even in his blind rage, he recognized her, and the sight of her was enough to instantly melt away the icy rage around his mind and bring him back to himself. Triana had told him once that the key to surviving rage was learning how not to hurt the ones he loved, even when in the throes of it. And that had happened. For the first time, that had happened. In the middle of a rage, intoxicated with fury and looking to kill, he had come out of it at the sight of his sister. He had nearly killed her. He would have killed her, but he had recognized her, and something deep in his soul had risen up and screamed no. That had been enough. He felt comfort knowing that he couldn't bring himself to hurt Allia, no matter what state of mind he was in at the time. The horror, the nightmare of killing his sister in the middle of a rage had lost its impact. It was still possible, if he couldn't recognize her, but now he knew that if he could see her, could know who she was, he could not bring himself to deliver a killing blow. He'd broken a few of her ribs when he smashed her into the deck, but that had been before he recognized her. That was the important thing.
He didn't hate Camara Tal. Something told him that she never meant to do what she did. He doubted that she would intentionally risk the lives of everyone on the ship. Despite not trusting her, the Goddess told him that she was there to help him, and that weighted how he felt about her in his mind. He didn't trust her, but he was willing to give her more latitude than he would anyone else, if only to satisfy the Goddess. He wouldn't have her accusing him of rejecting her outright. He would give her the chance to either befriend him or alienate him. The decision was hers to make. He was mad at her, and would be for a while, but there was no hatred there. She had made a mistake, and he could forgive her for that. But he would not forget.
The moons were out. Dommammon, the great white moon, was full, shining its brightness down upon the sea. This far south, so close to the equator, the Skybands were little more than a knife-edge in the sky, and the night seemed darker because of it. The White Moon took up some of that void with its milky light. The Twin Moons, Vala and Duva, were just cresting the horizon, each half full, and the Red Moon, Kava, was descending towards its setpoint, which was little more than a curved sliver. They all had their own cycles of waning and waxing, and were rarely either full or new at the same time. But it did happen. About every five or six months, they would become full or new for a couple of days, either filling the sky with light or descending it into an eerie darkness that was unusual. The moons had a mysterious allure for him, probably something deep within his Were nature that responded to them. It may be why so many myths about Lycanthropes changing only during the fullness of the White Moon were so rampant. It sang to him, sang to his soul, singing a sweet melody that he could neither hear nor sense, yet stirred his soul with a haunting melody of union. It was something the others couldn't understand, it was why he would stand on the deck for hours on end and stare up into the sky, almost every night that Dommammon was full. The song was strongest during the full phase of the moons, strongest with the largest moon, and it sang to him of peace and serenity, of the fullness and perfection of life uncluttered by human whims and wants. The purity of instinct, unfettered by the human taint that infected the Were-kin. Part human, part animal, both yet neither, the light of the White Moon washed away the turmoil that upset his life, made him feel harmony.