South Wind

"Circles within circles within spirals!" Tygra murmured. "There must be a path through this maze." Since he had passed the night watch to Panthro, the architect had lain quietly on his bed. He had considered the puzzle whose solution had eluded him. The Thunderan gently fingered a strand of his mate's ivory mane. In her sleep, Talitha sighed, and shifted her position slightly. Fearful that he might disturb her rest, Tygra reluctantly allowed the strands to fall from his hand.

There must be a way for me to help Bengal'i, he thought, once again focusing on the problem that had denied him sleep. In the twenty suns since the young white tiger's arrival at the Lair, the shock of his ordeals had begun to fade, but anger and depression had risen in its place. Whenever he had emerged from his quarters, the swordmaker had become agitated. Only a look or a word from Chand'ra quelled his contempt. Thank the gods that Bengal'i still obeys the a'drin'a, Tygra decided. And it is to Lion-o's credit that he has exercised patience when confronted by his rudeness.

The darkness yielded to the light before dawn. Before moving off the bed, Tygra kissed Talitha lightly on her lips. Yesterday he had resumed his duties after recovering from a sudden illness that had not touched the others in the growing household. Several suns of forced bed rest during the course of the disease had made his muscles stiff. Eschewing mystic healing, Talitha had insisted that he allow his body to fight the infection naturally, so he would acquire permanent immunity to Balkin Fever.

Perhaps my emotional involvement is too great, and that is why I cannot see the path, he thought as he slipped on a thin blue robe. If I were truthful with myself, I would admit that I fear failing in this matter. The architect touched the strip of leather around his neck. The stone amulet that hung on the cord felt cool to his touch. He removed the talisman of Irri'in, and placed it on his nightstand. Winged one, you have not answered my prayer. Why do you keep the light of knowledge from me?

Unexpectedly, an idea illuminated his mind. Surrender knowingly to destiny, he thought. Jumbling the black stripes that patterned his fur, Tygra ran his left hand through his thick orange mane in reflection. The river knows its course. Bengal'i should follow his own path, but his suffering pains me. Is the best action no action? Is this Irri'in's advice?

He pondered the medical problems that the new members of the Lair had presented. He and Talitha had helped them as much as their mystic powers had permitted. They could not alleviate Lynx-o's blindness. Only the energy conducted by a Circle of mystic-priests could have mended the middle-aged flute maker. With Chand'ra, they had instituted a schedule of gradual healing to restore the crippled snow leopard's legs to full functioning. To address the youngsters' psychological problems, they had agreed to divide the work. The female cougar had become Talitha's concern, and Bengal'i, his.

Pum'y'ra's hurt from the rape that she has endured is so deep that she has lost her voice, Tygra thought. Talitha has done nothing to help her except to steer her in Snarf's direction for some housekeeping tasks. Observe and wait for the right moment to make a significant difference, that is my love's tact. How I wish I had her confidence in doing the same with Bengal'i.

He scratched the corner of his jaw in frustration and annoyance, for his brief illness had actually encouraged the irritating growth of his ruff, which blended with the equally white border of his mane. Squaring his shoulders in determination, Tygra strode toward the adjoining bath. Despite his loss, it is time for Bengal'i to do his part in the Lair, he decided as he worked the shower controls. Rest has improved his stamina. Snarf's cooking has put some needed flesh on his broad frame. Physical effort will keep his mind from continually focusing on his problems. Although he may growl at me, he may ultimately find that an assigned chore is a welcome break. Starting today, I am putting him to work.

*****

The architect regarded the elderly figure who stood next to the long, rectangular table that graced the dining hall. Snarf glanced at the adolescent sitting on one of the wooden chairs, and gave a puzzled shrug. Before the servant could speak, Tygra signaled for silence by placing his index finger against his lips. Quite unaware of the silent communication between the two Thunderans, the white tiger stared vacantly at a wide bowl of steaming meat that the snarf had set before him.

Tygra waved his hand. With a frown, Snarf obeyed the gesture of dismissal, and left the hall. The architect cleared his voice. The swordmaker looked up from his untouched meal. His blue-grey eyes flashed with anger at the unwanted intrusion. Tygra ignored his display of hostility, and seated himself. He casually draped his left arm over the back of his chair, and returning the swordmaker's glare, waited patiently for his resolve to break. Several minutes passed before Bengal'i hissed, "What do you want, my lord!"

"To give you a duty assignment," Tygra answered, ignoring the fact that the white tiger had spat his title like a curse. "Your companions have already contributed to the running of this household, offering service for the shelter and food that we have provided. Lynx-o has not allowed his blindness to stop him from learning. Panthro continues to instruct him and Chand'ra on the basics of our computer system. Pum'y'ra has helped by assisting Snarf on simple tasks. What makes you think that you are so special as to avoid work?"

"I have nothing to offer. I detest this place. I want to leave, but Chand'ra's will, not Lord Lion-o's, holds me here."

"Some extra weapons would be useful for protection," Tygra suggested, dismissing his excuse. In time, Panthro can construct a forge, so you can practice your art. If you prefer, we might be able to make arrangements with one of the locals. However, for now, we must find something else to occupy your time." The youngster's mouth pursed in anger. What has enraged him the most? Tygra wondered. My rank, my color, or my refusal to let him brood and deny his skill.

The white tiger's defiance cut into his musings. "You'll get no swords from me!"

The Thundercat retaliated with equally sharp words. "Chand'ra also told me that Pum'y'ra's humiliation hurt you greatly, for you always considered yourself her protector. You failed to save her, and your despair allowed the Zeran Ba'ai the opening he needed into your heart and your gift."

The verbal arrow had clearly hit its mark. The swordmaker pounded the table with his fist, and shouted, "Red-white bastard!" The bowl containing the stew shook. Droplets of gravy soiled the long sleeves of the borrowed tunic that the swordmaker wore.

Keeping his tone measured and casually pulling free a loose thread from his trousers, Tygra answered, "You are mistaken. I am an'ifer'amen. The appropriate councils, however reluctantly, approved of my conception."

Bengal'i's eyes darkened to the color of a thundercloud. Careful, Tygra thought. Although he hasn't reached his ideal weight, he's still bigger than you and ready to throw a punch. The architect reconsidered his options. I have one stone to play that will change the pattern, and I have Talitha to thank, for she had the sense to disregard custom and ask the question of Chand'ra. Let's see him explain away this. Accepting the danger in the youngster's unpredictable moods, Tygra said, "You have something to offer this Lair and your king in gratitude. All white tigers possess a unique mind gift in addition to telepathy. Yours is exceedingly valuable to us."

"Have you no respect for the ways of our race! It was my right alone to give that information!" Bengal'i howled, leaping to his feet, and running toward the architect.

Fighting the urge to rise and bracing himself for an attack, Tygra argued, "You are a crystal dowser. Without thundrillium, all systems in this Lair would collapse. Even with the sensors that Panthro has devised, finding this element is difficult. Do you hate yourself to such a degree that you would willingly drag all of us down with you by denying us your skill?"

The white fist stopped short of the Thundercat's nose. Bengal'i spun on his heels, and directed his blow to the table. The long planks groaned in protest. The swordmaker leaned over the table, and cursed softly.

Tygra slumped in his chair in relief. Finally, a breakthrough! he thought. Although Bengal'i did not face him, the architect addressed the youth. "The day will be cold, but the skies will stay clear. In two hours, we will take the tank, and do some thundrillium prospecting in the mountains." A slight nod was the only response that the swordmaker gave.

The Thundercat stood. Best to leave him alone for now, and give him some time to calm himself, Tygra decided. Besides, it will take me at least an hour to convince Panthro to release the Thundertank to me. He shook his head wearily. No sleep and two battles before breakfast. Not an auspicious beginning to the day.

*****

"You'll take your bolo-whip."

"Yes, Panthro."

"You'll wear your insignia."

"If you insist, yes, Panthro."

"And you'll stay within sword range."

"For the love of Jaga, yes, Panthro!"

The tank hit a rock, and jarred Tygra's mind back to the present. The Thundercat medallion on its long chain flapped against his chest. Keeping one hand on the controls, he used the other to pull off the insignia. He pitched it through a small panel that led into the sealed cargo bay. Don't need the blasted thing anyway. It's only decorative. Lion-o can find me without it, he decided.

Tygra rubbed his eyes in the hopes of clearing them of fatigue, but found that the terrain ahead still blurred if he stared at it for too long. He glanced to his right at the sullen occupant who had remained silent during their journey. Can't turn the tank over to Bengal'i. He doesn't know how to drive it. That's something I should remedy. His mouth pulled into a smile. Or Panthro should actually remedy. No one handles his toy without his permission. Why in the seven hells he turned it over to me without a fuss is a miracle.

The miracle's name is Chand'ra, Tygra thought without warning. His brow furrowed as he considered the scene in the control room that had confronted him earlier in the day. The panther had obviously set aside his night watch duties, and had instead listened with attention to his female companion.

Chand'ra had explained, "I was still a catling, and not yet initiated into the priesthood. How was I supposed to know that the elder a'drin'a meant my brother no harm."

Through his laughter, Panthro had managed to say, "She was trying to join ritually with Turrin not kill him. She must have been madder than ten demons when you hit her."

Chand'ra and Panthro had conversed with the ease of old friends. He had observed in the grey Thundercat a deepening tenderness toward the snow leopard that he had never seen him display with Cheetara. Recently the panther had grown uncharacteristically lax concerning the routine maintenance in the Lair. He had given the bulk of his time to the construction of a set of braces for the a'drin'a. Chand'ra had given a triumphant shout when he had finally fitted them correctly to her weakened, but recovering, legs. At the time, he had thought that his friend would explode with pride at the exuberant response that his handiwork had garnered from the female.

Poor Cheetara, Tygra thought. She had a sadness in her eyes that day that I didn't understand until now. She had already discovered what we had missed. Even if he won't admit it yet, Panthro has fallen in love with the a'drin'a. And unless she chooses Lynx-o, Cheetara will have no one to lie with her as her body continues to swell. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Stubborn female's flat belly is already only a memory. Goddess help her if she's carrying twins. Talitha must convince her to let me scan her, either with mystic power or the equipment in the sickbay. To the seven hells with her yearning to preserve the female mystery and her privacy. I want to know if there's going to be trouble ahead. Her idiosyncratic behavior will have to end. It's best for her cub that we know that all is well.

The shadows cast by the mountains grew closer. Tygra cut power, and the tank slowed to a halt. "We get out here," he said to his companion. The architect retracted the clear plastic canopy that had kept them warm and shielded from the cold. The tiger exited the tank, and motioned for the swordmaker to follow.

"Why? We are still some miles from the range," Bengal'i complained, reaching the older tiger's side.

"The foothills look tame enough, but they are treacherous," Tygra explained. He opened a side panel, which revealed controls, and pushed several buttons in sequence. The canopy quickly deployed and covered the front compartment once again. Sealing the panel, the tiger continued, "The land becomes very rocky unexpectedly. If we don't want to wreck a tread, and risk Panthro's fury, it is best that we disembark here. Now go to the rear ancillary port. I've stored two packs there. The heavier of the two, the one with the pick, belongs to me."

"One would think that the engineer would have found a better way to free the crystals than by using manual labor." Bengal'i pulled the hood on his long cloak over his head. "It's not cold, its freezing," he muttered to himself.

Tygra reached into his trouser pocket, and took out a smooth, ovoid object. "Catch!" he cried, tossing it to Bengal'i, who had yet to retrieve the packs.

"What in the seven hells!" the swordmaker shouted. Owing to his quick reflexes, his right hand easily intercepted the silver form.

"It's a sensor. We'll utilized your skill to search for small deposits of thundrillium that the sensor cannot detect. It can only indicate a huge vein, and when it finds one, it will beep. The higher the frequency, the closer we are to the source. It took Panthro many suns to scrounge enough components in order to construct the set of seven that we have at our disposal. In case you haven't noticed, such devices are at a premium in the Lair. Conservation of mechanical parts and the good will of our neighbors have been essential to our survival. Why, without the Berbils' magical abilities, we'd be living on the plain in a hut, and not in a fortress."

"Ber'bil?" Bengal'i asked, his clipped pronunciation of the word betraying his southern origins. "Aren't they the metal ones? Chand'ra spoke of them."

"Yes. Unlike your companions, you have been Lair bound. It's about time you met the Berbils. They are quite an unusual...race. Overall, our region is blessed with many fine people."

The white tiger put the sphere in a pouch tied to his belt, then pulled the two packs from a small recess located at the back of the tank. Handing one cloth bag to Tygra, he growled, "Mutants both enslaved and killed our people, and in the end, destroyed our world. Now there virulence infects this planet."

"As does that of the evil Seti," the architect added quietly, "but we survive." Closing the door on the port, he said, "Stand back. I'm going to activate the security shield." Again reaching into his pocket, Tygra retrieved a small metal rod, and aimed it at the tank. A thin layer of blue light suddenly outlined the vehicle. "That ought to keep out vermin," he commented, smiling and trying to lighten the mood. "Let me help you get that pack on your back."

Bengal'i returned a frown, and struggled with the bag himself. As he repositioned his cloak, a gust of wind blew back his hood. With a sharp cry of frustration, he pulled the wayward hood back over his disarrayed mane.

His patience strained by the youth's enmity, Tygra remained silent as he arranged his gear. He looked to the sky, and the wispy grey clouds that he hadn't expected. All we need now is snow, he thought. I hope the weather holds, or Bengal'i will become infuriated. Although his clothing is adequate, his fur is not as thick as mine. I pray he doesn't contract a chill because of my excursion.

Realizing that any further worry was useless, Tygra pointed to the mountain range in the distance. "Let's move. Although the day is young, we still have a hike ahead of us."

*****

As the sun climbed toward its zenith, Tygra led his companion along the rough path that traversed the maze of standing stones that characterized the foothills. The bleating of mountain goats, who had moved down from the higher elevations to the lower slopes, provided the architect with a welcome distraction from Bengal'i's resentful silence. Indicating one beast, he commented, "They make good eating, but they are difficult to catch. At this level, they certainly challenge one's hunting skills. In the mountains, they are impossible to subdue." On a flat stone that rose well above the other rocks, another goat, its curving horns glinting in the patchy sunlight, regarded them with boredom. "They fear us not, for they know that they command the terrain," Tygra continued.

The swordmaker gave him a bored grunt. The architect pointed to a collection of stones ahead. "I can see the marker that Panthro and I left on our last trip. Let's rest here before we start on that trail. It won't be long before the land rises sharply, and we find ourselves in the mountains proper."

Stopping beside a boulder that dwarfed them both, they shed their packs. Bengal'i moved a short distance away from the architect. Leaning against a tall column, the swordmaker stubbornly maintained his taciturnity. Tired and grateful for a break, Tygra sat on a flat stone. He quietly listened to the lulling melody of the wind as it moved through the fissures in the rocks.

As the time passed, the architect marked a slight shift in the air current. He suddenly detected a scent that heralded danger. "Mutant!" Tygra hissed. He leapt to his feet, and padded toward Bengal'i, who had not noticed the threat. The imperial mountain goat, who had viewed the Thunderans disdainfully, stiffened. The ubiquitous bleating ceased. The cold air snapped with the sound of an arrow being discharged from a bow. The shaft sank into the creature's neck; the force of the impact knocked him neatly off his lofty perch. Part of the animal disappeared behind another outcropping of stones. From the Thunderans' position, only the long face with its vacant stare remained visible. The broken arrow, crudely made, but deadly, quivered in the breeze, a limp standard to the felled beast.

Instinctively, Bengal'i crouched behind the column. Reaching the youth, Tygra tugged at his cloak. He said softly in warning, "Mutant!" With a low growl, the swordmaker turned on him, and pushed him with surprising strength. Caught off guard, Tygra fell.

A large naked shape lumbered into view. The small dorsal scales that outlined its hunched back indicated that it was a lesser male of the Reptilian race. Its protruding bones attested to the hunger that it had endured since its exile from the Mutant fortress by decree of the new leader, the avian Veezmar.

"Murderer!" Bengal'i shouted!

"That fool," the architect gasped, recovering from the unwarranted attack.

The youth lunged toward the startled reptilian. "Stop!" Tygra cried, stumbling forward.

"Z'zar'yn Slythe!" the mutant wailed in terror, and fled.

Tygra reached for the invisible weapon resting against his hip. Focusing his mind, he silently commanded the magical bolo-whip that the sorcerer Jaga had given to him. With a crack, the lash, now visible, extended from its metal base. Hitting its target, the cord, which was weighted with three metal balls, wrapped itself around Bengal'i's neck, and recoiled. Arms flailing, the swordmaker fell back. With a quick movement, Tygra freed Bengal'i, and retracted the whip.

The architect cautiously approached the youth, who sat up and rubbed his bruised neck. Tygra said calmly and without judgement, "Let's get back to the tank. There might be a Mutant warren somewhere in these hills. That warrior may return with reinforcements."

Without acknowledging the older Thunderan's decision, the swordmaker rose. Satisfied that the fall had taken the fight out of his companion, Tygra raised his hand in a gesture of peace, and said, "Come."

Bengal'i attacked with incredible speed. Thanking the gods for his warrior training, Tygra easily blocked the blow with his arm, and pushed the white tiger back. The thwarted youth's roar echoed throughout the stone strewn landscape as he leapt at the architect with renewed fury.

I wanted to breakdown the wall he had placed around his pain, but not like this! Tygra thought with dismay. He sidestepped the swordmaker, and kicked him in the buttocks as he passed.

"Eff'ri'tran!" Bengal'i cursed, turning for another attack.

Tygra jerked to one side to avoid a white fist. He landed a blow to Bengal'i's chest that sent the youth reeling. The swordmaker disappeared behind a boulder, but only for an instant. Cloak flapping wildly behind him, he descended upon Tygra with an intensity that had not diminished.

Block and parry, that's all I should do, until he tires, and drains himself of this anger, the architect decided, skillfully ducking another punch. He has not fully recovered from his past ordeals. He'll soon weaken.

Distracted by his concern, Tygra failed to avert another blow. Claws slid along his temple. Blood trickled over the architect's black brows, and dripped onto his tunic. Tygra shook his head to clear his eyes of blood, and barely managed to stop the swordmaker's fist from connecting with his jaw. Disregarding the augmentation of his own pain because of his mystic empathy, he viciously twisted Bengal'i's wrist in retaliation. The youth howled in pain and sank to his knees. Fearful that he had reacted too harshly in his own defense, Tygra immediately freed him.

The air filled with sobs from the catling who bent over in defeat. Although his sympathetic instincts urged him to comfort Bengal'i, Tygra resisted. I've lanced the boil of his grief. It is best to let it drain as much as is possible, the architect decided. Let him weep until he can weep no more, and then he will be open to me. Meanwhile, I must trust that the gods will keep the scaled one from returning. That reptilian recognized me as the slayer of Slythe. If he is alone, his fear may keep him at bay.

Tygra moved back toward the flat stone. Sitting quietly, he closed his eyes, and concentrated on his breathing. When he had sufficiently relaxed, he placed his hands on his wound. Shifting his awareness, he entered the trance state required for mystic healing. The dissonant notes that the wound added to the harmony of his being were easy to detect and correct with a simple pulse of mystic power. The wave of healing he summoned warmed his brow. The disturbance faded; the wound had sealed cleanly. He shifted his awareness back to reality, and opened his eyes. Licking the traces of blood from his fingertips, he wondered if either the Sword of Omens or his mate had registered the danger that they had faced. Since Talitha had not contacted his mind with telepathy, and the power surge from the sword had not affected him, he felt assured that neither she nor the magical blade had marked the disturbance.

Tygra directed his attention back to the white tiger. The swordmaker, his weeping ended, stared blankly at the barren ground. He approached the sad youth. "There is danger here. We should leave," he said, "but I want to see to that wrist first. You know that I possess the mystic gift. Let me mend the damage that I have caused. It won't take long."

Bengal'i gave no sign that what the architect had suggested had registered in his mind. Tygra knelt before him. Emptiness had replaced the catling's anger. He touched the swordmaker's right wrist. The flesh was swollen. "You must give permission, or I cannot help. It is the mystic way," he added. The youth focused only on the colorful pebbles comprising the rocky soil.

Tygra snarled in frustration and fatigue. Meeting with no resistance, he pulled the swordmaker to his feet. "We have to leave." He propelled him toward the supplies. "You must hold one," he said, arranging the pack on the youth's back. While Tygra gathered his own pack, Bengal'i stood as still as a docile beast used to carrying burdens and following commands.

The architect locked arms with his companion, and pulled him forward. Gods make this journey a swift and safe one, he prayed.

*****

"That must feel better," Tygra said to Bengal'i, who stood beside the Thundertank, and gingerly flexed his wrist. The swordmaker gave a slight affirming nod that was identical to the one that he had given when he had finally agreed to the healing. "I am glad that I did not break the bone," Tygra said, as he removed the security field around the tank in preparation for their journey home.

True to the architect's expectation, Bengal'i made no comment. Once they had traveled beyond the point of danger in their retreat from the foothills, his attempts at communication with the youth had failed. Bengal'i had remained within the silence with which he had shielded himself from the world. He had not even displayed astonishment during the healing that the architect had performed. Tygra retracted the canopy. Trying once again to reach the swordmaker, he said, "I am grateful that you allowed me to heal your bruises."

Although he whispered, the catling's sorrow roared. "I am sanuri, a disgraced one. No mystic can mend the crack in my soul. No mystic can restore the purity that I have lost, for I have willingly served evil."

Bless the gods, I've finally gotten through. Now's my chance to gain more insight into the destructive demons he has set loose in his own mind, Tygra decided. He argued, "You are not sanuri. For me to believe what you have declared, you must give me a better explanation."

"During our time of slavery on Zera, Tas'mir, our master, refused to send Pum'y'ra to the bed of his cousin Ba'ai. In return, the Zeran demon slew Tas'mir and my parents. Only four of our slave band survived his attack. Afterwards, the others suffered Ba'ai's wrath. I should have found a way to meet my family in the silence, for I feared, and rightly so, that Ba'ai coveted my swordmaking skill for his wicked purposes. You must understand, elder, that under Tas'mir's protective yoke, my family had retained its honor on that terrible world. By the master's decree, we had only made ceremonial swords for the Zerans. In this, the gods smiled on us, for no one, not even those who had the right, had ever challenged Tas'mir on this point. With Tas'mir's death, no obstacle remained to Ba'ai's ambitions. After his treachery, I chose life only because of Pum'y'ra. In our many seasons of slavery, we had become as brother and sister to one another. I could not honorably journey to the silence while she lived.

"I should have been able to resist the Zeran demon, but the drug he forced upon me replaced my pain with a numbing contentment. I met my other self, the part which desired the escape his drug offered, and saw to my horror that it was incredibly strong. In that moment, hope fled from my heart, and I lost the battle to that part of myself which had no honor.

"The Goddess of Fate brought Talitha and Panthro to the spaceship of the merchant who had rescued us. When the mystic finally freed my body of the last of the drug's effects, I faced myself, and hated what I saw."

Young one, you are too much like me, Tygra thought solemnly. Unhealthy pride and an impossible standard of personal perfection are your worst enemies. He answered, "I have suffered as you have, young one. In a moment of weakness, I too allowed a drug to take control of my mind, and I served the purposes of the priest Seti. When I broke free, I felt unworthy, for although all ended well, I had placed the entire Lair in jeopardy. My friends and our king countered my despair with compassion; against their weapon, I had no defense. Although it was difficult, I accepted what I had done, learned from it, and released my guilt. Life unrelentingly challenges us, so we may grow. Sometimes, I have passed the test given me; other times, I have failed miserably. In the seasons I have lived, I have discovered one truth: no one who has truly lived journeys to the silence unbroken."

The Thundercat set his hand upon Bengal'i's shoulder. Pleased that the youth did not flinch, he said, "Only one who embraces defeat is sanuri, for that individual has refused to learn from failure, and is trapped in a painful prison of his own making. You have endured much, Bengal'i. You are not sanuri because despite your torment, you placed Pum'y'ra's welfare before your own. Your life has kept its value. Remember the teachings of the mystic Xar'li: 'Although a broken pot cannot hold water, it can still carry light.'"

Comprehension eased the tension in the youth's stance, but the effect swiftly passed. Marking the change, Tygra commented, "You have made a beginning, Bengal'i. When you remove the veil of self-contempt that still clouds your vision, you will fully accept the truth of what I have said."

The swordmaker shrugged, his slumped posture reflecting his sorrow. Convinced for the present that he had accomplished all that he could with the catling, Tygra gestured toward the tank, and said, "Let's board. There will be another day to find thundrillium. We must report our findings to Lord Lion-o." Bengal'i complied with his request without argument.

Once they were both inside the vehicle, Tygra deployed the canopy. A gentle rain commenced. The special coating on the plastic surface prevented the fine droplets from beading and obscuring the architect's view. "That's better," the tiger said before turning on the tank's ignition. "I can endure the cold, but I detest getting wet."

The Thundertank engine roared. Cutting a wide arc, Tygra directed the vehicle toward the southwest, and home.

*****

The patter of the rain against the windows in the recreation hall intensified. Alone in the large chamber illuminated only by the grey afternoon light, Tygra watched the storm, and hoped that he could remain awake. When will Talitha bring that cup of tea, he wondered, stifling a yawn. He shifted his body to a more comfortable position on his chair. I'm glad I didn't dose while driving the tank. It would have certainly been an easier task with a livelier companion, he decided, readjusting the pillow propped under against his neck.

"That's better," he murmured once settled. His eyelids grew heavy. The lines of the sash undulated. Pinpoints of color danced before him.

"Lord Tygra?"

The soft, questioning voice near his ear was higher than his own, but distinctly male. The discrepancy immediately pulled him back from the borders of sleep. "Bengal'i?"

"Yes, my lord. I've brought you some tea. Shall I set it on the table or would you prefer to remain seated here by the window?"

The level of politeness and formality exhibited by the youth brought Tygra to full attention despite his weariness. "Here is fine," he answered although stunned by the change in the swordmaker's behavior.

Bengal'i offered him a tall, thick-walled mug. A trail of steam spiraled upward. "Hot enough to scald. Just the way that you like it... at least that is what Lady Talitha said."

"Lady Talitha!" Tygra blurted, and rose to his feet. Well, I suppose he is correct, she is my consort, but I've just never thought.... Distracted by the revelation of his prejudice, Tygra swiftly crossed the room, ignoring the white tiger.

"Have I given offense, my lord?," Bengal'i asked with puzzlement as he shadowed him.

Tygra sat on one of the two chairs placed by the oval table. "No, you haven't" he replied, tapping the wooden surface in an attempt to restore his composure through the rhythmic movement.

Bengal'i took a deep breath that indicated his relief, and set the mug on the table. "Then I shall leave you to your--"

"Sit!" The swordmaker dropped onto the other chair as if his legs had failed him. The barked order surprised the Thundercat who had uttered it. "Fifty demons," Tygra sighed, leaning over the table, and resting his head against his palms. "Forgive me, Bengal'i. I'm exhausted."

"You've every right to be tired and agitated considering what I did today on our excursion." He paused before adding emphatically, "My lord!"

A pleasant memory bloomed in Tygra's mind. It transformed the catling's penitent voice, into merely another note in the sound of the rain, which proceeded to fade. A red tiger cub, head bowed, stood before an imposing figure seated on a malachite throne. The tiger lord's dark amber eyes matched those of his son. His stern face signaled the terrible judgement he intended to inflict on the young one.

The cub squeaked, "Ta'sa'ba, I'm sorry I punched cousin Ash'i'ri's nose, and made it bleed, and upset uncle Trel." Although the cub put his heart into the apology, his sense of justice was as strong as his sire's. In defiance, he added, "But he grabbed my book without asking!"

"He is a guest in our house, young one, the son of my older brother, and deserving of the respect his rank affords him. As my son, Tygra, I expected you to display control. You should have brought the matter to my attention."

"Yes, Ta'sa'ba," the cub agreed meekly.

The lord approached the young one, and knelt before him. "No dinner, tonight, young one, and in the morning, you will apologize to Ash'i'ri and Lord Trel."

"Yes, Ta'sa'ba." The proud cub fought his desire to cry. His mouth tightened with resolve. A mass of comforting fur surrounded him. He buried his head against his father's chest, and wept in shame.

Father, you hated to punish me, especially when you found it difficult to truly fault my actions, Tygra thought with bittersweet amusement. I can still taste the food that you brought to my room that night. How thankful I was that you stood by me the next day when I made that apology.

"My lord?"

The hint of confusion in the swordmaker's voice made the architect abandon his thoughts on the past. May the gods grant me Siberan's wisdom and compassion, Tygra prayed. This young one has set aside his pride, and has sought my company. He said, "You need not use the honorific with me."

"But you are--"

"One whose father was sanuri. By the judgement of those who were concerned for my welfare, I retained my rank. However, before Thundera exploded, and made all titles, except for our king's, moot, I was a lord without a following, property, or respect among my race. The events that led to my father's death and disgrace make for a long story, but one that I will tell if you care to listen."

"How old were you when he died?" Bengal'i asked with growing interest.

"Fourteen," Tygra said, between sips of his tea.

"What of your mother?"

"Therein lies another interesting tale. I really didn't know her as I would have liked. She was a mystic. Her visits at my father's house were all too brief."

"Than I've been luckier than you," the swordmaker admitted. "My father and mother were with me until their deaths."

"I was never a slave," Tygra countered. "You are strong-willed, Bengal'i. I don't believe that I could have survived as you have."

"I guess our burdens are our own, and cannot be judged against those of others."

Tygra lifted his mug. "Spoken with the wisdom of the sages."

Bengal'i smiled at the gentle teasing, but quickly grew solemn. "Ta'k'tin, I would like to hear the story of your father."

Elder brother? I suppose that will do just fine, the architect decided, immensely pleased with the new title that the swordmaker had bestowed upon him.

Tygra said, "Min'k'tin, the story begins before my birth. Like all great tales, it flows from love."