"I guess not," he sighed. "Triana was involved in that?"
She's the oldest of your kind, kitten, born just after the Breaking. She was part of it.
"It must have been awful, knowing you had to kill your own parents," he said compassionately.
Hold on to that feeling, she told him. There will come a time when what you say to Triana will decide whether you live or die. Look at her before you answer.
"What does that mean?"
What you want it to mean, she answered cryptically. Just remember what I told you, kitten, about Triana, and about the path you decide to take. It's time for me to go. Be well, and know always that I love you.
And then the sense of her presence was gone, leaving him feeling like there was an emptiness inside. And leaving him with more questions than answers.
A path to take. Maybe she was right. Maybe, if he worked very hard, he could reclaim some part of himself that he'd lost to the Cat.
Two days in bed had done wonders for Tarrin's health, but little for his ire. And the main reason for that was standing at the doorway, in the form of Phandebrass the Unusual.
The doddering mage had discovered that Tarrin's bedridden condition left him incapable of defending himself from the man's endless ranting. He had a captive audience, he and his two little teacup dragons, and he had taken advantage of it. Phandebrass had quite effectively bullied his way past Keritanima and Allia, and then he went to work on Tarrin. The mage was fascinated with the Were-cat condition, asking endless repetitive questions about every facet of Tarrin's life, even the most intimate and private things, without so much as batting an eyelash. He would write endlessly in his little book, with a drake on each shoulder looking down. Even Sevren and some of the other Sorcerers hadn't hounded him as severely as Phandebrass did. It was an ordeal for Tarrin, who had come close many times to breaking the man's arm just to make him shut up. But the words of the Goddess always drifted back to him, about how the path he travelled was up to him. Phandrebrass was aggravating, but he represented a rather grim challenge to the Were-cat, to keep from killing him as an exercise in self control.
But as two days went by, something strange happened. Tarrin started to like Phandebrass. He was a bit scatterbrained, but he was very smart, and his questions were inciteful and searching. He loved to talk, and he knew many stories. When he wasn't grilling Tarrin about being a Were-cat, he would tell the most wonderful stories about faraway lands and times long gone, about dead legendary heroes and sinister villains. Tarrin quickly became completely infatuated with the mage's ability to tell a tale, how his voice would reach out and grab hold of him, and not let go until the tale was complete. It turned out that that was one of the things Phandebrass did for the carnival. He was a storyteller who used his arcane magic to enhance the story, bring it to life, supplying visual and audial effects to add weight to the story's plot. But even without magic, Phandebrass was exceptionally gifted in bringing a story to life with his voice alone. But it was more than the stories. Phandebrass was a bit addled, but he had a good heart, and his sincerity was worn on his sleeve. Tarrin couldn't help but like him because he didn't feel in any way threatened by him, and the man was alot like Dar, having a nearly infectious personality that people couldn't help but like. After he'd overcome his irritation with the human over his endless questions, Tarrin started liking the man.
But where Tarrin was starting to warm to Phandebrass, he was not so friendly with the drakes. Chopstick and Turnkey were small dragon-like creatures, but they were still animals. Tarrin's scent was one of a predator, and his size made the Were-cat a perceived threat to the two little dragons. They didn't like Tarrin, hissing and snapping at him whenever Phandebrass approached him, and that quickly rubbed Tarrin's fur the wrong way. He'd already decided that the first one that bit him was going to lose all its teeth. Maybe even the head in which they were rooted as well.
It was a very unusual position for Tarrin. He liked Phandebrass, despite his irritating personality, and it was obvious that Phandebrass was working very hard to befriend the Were-cat. And what was the most confusing was that he still didn't entirely trust Phandebrass. It was just like Kern. Tarrin respected Kern, would even fight for him, but didn't completely trust him. He had the feeling that it was because he was human. Tarrin was very distrustful of humans, mainly because they had proven themselves to be untrustworthy in the past. Phandebrass hadn't conquered his mistrust yet, and until he did, Tarrin wouldn't let the man get too close to him. He did like him, but only from a distance. When Phandebrass started trying to get close, Tarrin would stiffen his back and push the man away, forcing the mage to start all over again.
He may be a bit more open, but Tarrin was still feral, and he understood that. He doubted he would be anything but feral for the rest of his life. He had simply been betrayed one time too many. But what he was hoping was that he could dull that intense distrust of everything not known to the point where he could operate in a human society without killing someone. That was his only realistic goal.
The mage was there that morning, sitting in a chair usually reserved for Keritanima, wearing a silly black robe with patches portraying mystical symbols sewn randomly to the fabric. And that hat. It was a truly ridiculous conical hat, with a wide brim, that tapered to a sharp point some two spans over the mage's head. It was Phandebrass' stage costume, and he was wearing it because he'd spilled ale on all his other robes. A mug of ale was casually held in his left hand, threatening to soil the last garment the mage had left with each movement of his hand. Turnkey and Chopstick-or was it Chopstick and Turnkey?-sat on his shoulders, glaring at the Were-cat as the mage finished off what was left in the tankard. The two little drakes, with their reddish scales, looked almost exactly the same. Their scents were different, but Tarrin had yet to figure out which drake was which. Phandebrass rarely called them by their names, nor were they often separated from each other. The mage was relaying a tale of the gods, of the twin gods of death, Dakkii and Dakkuu. The origins and histories of the Elder Gods were very blurred and uncertain, but what was generally known of the twin gods was their roles. Everyone referred to death as she because nobody wanted to see the male Death come to claim them. Only those who had lived a live of selfishness or evil, whose afterlife would be a punishment, were claimed by Dakkuu, the male Death. Those who had lived a good life, and were being carried on to an afterlife of reward, were claimed by Dakkii, the female Death. When Death Herself came to claim someone, it was a fear only of what was lost. When Death Himself came for a person, it was a fear of what was to come.
The story he told was the story of the twin gods' eternal hatred for each other. So the story went, they had been borne at the same instant, and had originally been meant to be only a single entity. But fate had split them into two, and each secretly felt that they were what was originally intended the god of Death to be. Dakkii saw the god of death as a nurturer, to gently carry the souls of the deserving on to their patron gods, who would mete out justice. Dakkuu saw Death as an avenger, someone to keep the souls of the damned and torture them for their failures and evil natures. They had nearly went to war with each other, until Ayise, Allmother, the creator of the gods, stepped in and separated them. To each she granted that position in which they believed. Dakkii became the god of Death for the vast majority of the world, someone to ferry the souls on to their final destination, doing it with compassion and love. Dakkuu became the punisher, who kept the souls that the other gods told him were beyond hope of redemption, to make them suffer for the hatred and evil he had in his own heart. Because of the horrible finality of this punishment, the very name of Dakkuu became taboo to the world, and nobody ever spoke of death as male. To be claimed by Dakkuu was a fate worse than a million agonizing deaths, because it meant that an eternity of torment awaited the hapless fool.