88 Spring 515
Evenings in Endrykas were filled with dancing and song around pavilion fires, when the women came out with their braids and their jewelry and the men showed off all they trapped during the day. Belhatir liked the evenings, when the air was crisp and there was enough noise that he could sneak out to be alone to watch the city from afar.
That night he sat alone again, but only at the mouth of his tent. Belhatir was wounded and didn't like to move too much so as not to disturb the fresh bandages that a young healer from the Opal Order put on Belhatir. She had been a novice, and clumsy, and too eager to show off her skills with grassland herbs, and now and then put too much pressure on a wound that by the time she was done, Belhatir nearly felt that he would have taken his chances against another zith.
Mareeya, sitting with the other women, looked back at him every now and then. She always did that when he was being quiet; stared at him as if she were afraid he would suddenly disappear. Belhatir winked at her. She pinched her lips against a little smile and looked back into the fire. He saw the stately arch of her neck, the fine hairs on her nape and shoulders glowing red from the fire. She was such a handsome woman, and it was a shame that she had no children. Perhaps, Belhatir thought, he would try again.
"Belhatir," a familiar male voice came from his left. Belhatir flinched, looked over his shoulder, and saw Belhaur looming over him.
"Father," Belhatir said, remebering to breathe. He sat up in front of his Ankal, pulling his back away from the cushions.
"Come with me," the Ankal said. "I need to talk to you."
Belhatir got to his feet, trying not to wince at the pain in his right side and on his chest. He followed Belhaur past the dancing and the storytelling, past the children play-fighting and laughing over each other, past the women feeding their husbands and the husbands showing off---there he might have caught Dravite's eye---and into the Ankal's tent. Belhaur closed the flap and muffled out the sounds of the rest of the pavilion. He didn't tell Belhatir to sit.
"You were in an incident with a zith," Belhaur said.
"I was," Belhatir said, "a few days ago when I was with The Watch."
"I know," Belhaur replied, "and Aris says you acted quickly and you did well. For a new recruit."
Belhatir thought he misheard. Praise from Belhaur? It was rare, especially for Belhatir. Belhatir didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.
"But you're not progressing quickly enough," Belhaur continued. "I'm getting old, Belhatir. You are my only son. Who am I supposed to pass the pavilion on to?" Belhaur sat cross-legged in the middle of his tent and lit a bit of tobacco from the market.
Belhatir felt a familiar sense of irritation and bitterness spread over his nape and his chest. "Give it to Dravite," he shot back. "He already knows Webbing."
"And you should already know, too, if you ever listened to me!" Belhaur said, raising his voice.
"I'm not interested," Belhatir told him. "I've never been interested. Give it to Dravite."
Belhaur stood and crossed the floor to where Belhatir was standing. His face was red, anger distorting his features. He raised his hand to strike Belhatir, and Belhatir's hand turned into a fist. Belhaur stopped, stared, and paced like an angry lion in front of his son.
"You FOOL!" Belhaur hollered, turning back to Belhatir. "You damn, lazy fool! I've worked too hard for this pavilion. I won't see someone who isn't of my blood as its Ankal."
"Dravite is Windborne," Belhatir said quietly.
"He is Blackwater," Belhaur hissed.
"He's more Windborne than you and I will ever be. Perhaps the pavilion should have stayed with the Blackwater."
The sound of skin hitting skin rang out in the tent when Belhaur struck Belhatir. It was followed by a tense, angry silence, Belhatir flexing his fingers. "You have no idea what you're talking about," Belhaur growled. "You'd be dead if it had."
