The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  As for telling Ronall.... Actually, Elelar hoped her half-caste husband had already fled Shaljir for the mainland. She had married that whoring drunkard, born of a Valdani father and a Silerian mother, strictly out of duty. She had taken advantage of his wealth and his Valdani connections to serve the Alliance. It was through Ronall, in fact, that she had met Borell, the former Imperial Advisor in Sileria. No matter how distasteful Elelar found Borell's bed, becoming his mistress had given her access to information that helped Josarian drive the Valdani out of the mountains. Soon after Elelar's arrest, Borell committed suicide when he realized he couldn't avoid the public disgrace earned by his careless passion for a woman who had repeatedly betrayed his trust to help the Silerian rebellion.

  Ronall had, in his ineffectual way, tried to get Elelar out of prison by convincing his Valdani father to petition the Imperial Council on her behalf. When Ronall visited her once in prison, Elelar discovered, with mingled confusion and exasperation, that he even loved her in his strange and self-pitying way. The Valdani took Ronall hostage after Elelar's escape, but they eventually released him. Elelar didn't care, either way. What happened to Ronall was no longer any concern of hers. With her true loyalties exposed and with freedom so close she could smell it, the reasons for which she had married Ronall no longer applied. He was a Valdan and should go back to Valda. She hoped he already had. If not, if he was still in Shaljir, then she would make sure he left immediately. It shouldn't be hard, after all, to convince a coward like Ronall to flee Shaljir before it came under Silerian control.

  Which it must. No matter what I have to do.

  When the Outlookers were finally done with their lengthy search, Elelar was allowed to mount her horse and proceed through the Lion's Gate into the exotic city of Shaljir.

  Here in Sileria's ancient capital, the island nation wore her long and tumultuous history like the jewels of an aging courtesan. Thirty-seven sky-reaching marble spires still rose gracefully above the city, though there had reputedly been three hundred of them during the reign of Daurion, the last Yahrdan of Sileria. The tall, round towers of the Moorlanders, who built thick walls around the city they had conquered after Daurion's death, still guarded Shaljir from enemies; and the enormous stone dragons and horned creatures which decorated these towers still protected Shaljir from the demons whom those hairy barbarians had feared more than they feared any mortal.

  The complex and sophisticated culture of the Kints, who had taken Sileria from the Moorlanders, had gifted Shaljir with hundreds of red-domed stone buildings which had lasted even longer than Kintish rule in Sileria. The Kints had made Shaljir a city of fountains and flowing water, of bath houses and floating gardens.

  The Society, of course, had changed much of that, gaining strength and power as the centuries passed, and making all of Sileria pay heavy tribute for the blessings of water. Even the Valdani, whose Emperor had waged relentless war against the Society for the past forty years, gave the waterlords what they wanted in order to ensure the flow of water into the conquered cities of Sileria.

  And even the Valdani, Elelar admitted grudgingly, had contributed to the beauty of Shaljir. Their elaborate public palaces, ornate villas, and fine homes were impressive, if sometimes vulgarly ostentatious. Their broad boulevards and massive city-squares gave Shaljir an aura of grandeur that belied its humble status as a conquered city.

  Some of Elelar's tension faded in her pleasure at returning home. She loved this city and had been away for too long, exiled in the mountains while her enemies continued to strategize an increasingly desperate war from Shaljir's Santorell Palace, the seat of imperial power in Sileria.

  People from all the nations of Sirkara, the watery heart of the world, usually filled the crowded streets of the city. Men and women from all walks of life normally bustled and jostled for their place in the throng. But all that had changed since Elelar was last in Shaljir. If Advisor Kaynall had received news of Josarian's death, he had evidently not yet announced it to the city. Shaljir was still awaiting the rebels' planned siege—the long, bloody battle which the Alliance's betrayal of the Firebringer was supposed to make unnecessary. Josarian's death was meant to secure surrender and peace, to spare the Silerian rebels what promised to be the worst fight of the war. Shaljir had been conquered too many times to be thought impregnable, but it would be very costly for the rebels to take the city by force.

  Houses, palaces, and shops were now boarded up and abandoned. Foreigners were conspicuously absent, though Elelar supposed that might be due to Valdania's two-front war on the mainland as much as to the battle expected in Shaljir. The colorful Kintish merchants and free Moorlander traders who were usually so abundant in Shaljir might have deemed it prudent to depart the Valdani-ruled city while their own nations were locked in deadly struggle with the Empire.

  It was the two-front war on the mainland, of course, which had created the opportunity that Sileria had needed to make its bid for freedom. The Valdani had never expected it, and they couldn't rally the men, money, and supplies needed to suppress the Silerian rebellion before Josarian had driven them all the way back to Shaljir. But if they could hold on to the capital for a year, perhaps even just half a year, who knew which way the wars on the mainland would go? If the Kintish Kingdoms or the last free tribes of the Moorlands surrendered, the rebels in Sileria could never withstand the might which the Valdani could then bring down upon them with the mainland armies they would then be able to spare.

  Whether through the secret treaty or—Dar forbid—the expected siege, Sileria must take Shaljir now. Delay could well mean disaster, an end to the rebellion, the death of all their dreams, and a brutal Valdani reconquest of Elelar's homeland.

  "I feel almost as if we are strangers here," Elelar heard Faradar murmur to Derlen. "Everything has changed so much since we were last in the city."

  Now there were no shallaheen, no sea-born, so Society assassins, no zanareen, and even very few lowlanders to be seen in Shaljir. Any faction known to support Josarian couldn't safely enter the last Valdani-ruled domain in Sileria.

  There were Valdani everywhere, though, and many, many Outlookers. Even as darkness descended, Elelar saw long lines outside the few shops that were still doing business; people were evidently trying to hoard what food they could still find. So much water had been stored that Elelar even saw barrels on roofs and in courtyards. They thought Josarian would convince Kiloran to turn the Idalar River back on itself and starve the city of water. Or that, failing that, he could convince his ally and Kiloran's notorious enemy, Baran, to find a way to do it.

  Thinking of this brought a sick lump of dread back into Elelar's belly. What would Kiloran do now? Whose side would Baran take in the coming struggle? How would the shallaheen respond to the news of Josarian's death? And what would Advisor Kaynall do?

  It was with relief that she found her own house looking relatively normal under the encroaching night sky. Although Ronall was Valdani, they lived in a Silerian section of the city—because they lived in Elelar's house, the palatial residence she had inherited from her grandfather, Gaborian, who had founded the Alliance. Along with Elelar's parents, who had died when she was young, Gaborian had taught her to devote her life to the Alliance. She loved this house, as she had loved her grandfather. She had guarded its many secrets, as he had. Since her arrest, however, only one of its secrets remained: the mystical Beyah-Olvari who lived in the ancient tunnels running beneath the cellars.

  "Torena," Derlen said, gaining her attention again. "I will go in first and ensure that you are properly received."

  Elelar thought that was a little absurd, given the circumstances. She been in prison since last inhabiting this house, had spent most of the rainy season in a cave on Mount Niran, and lately had been living in a drafty, ruined villa outside of Chandar—and openly sharing her bed with Zimran, a shallah rebel. She knew that her house here had been sacked by the Outlookers when she was arrested, and she didn't even know if any servants had been i
nside it since then. It seemed doubtful, since no torches blazed outside the massive doors to herald the night. So Derlen's concern for her being received with the dignity due a torena almost made her laugh.

  However, she nodded her head graciously and allowed him to do as he thought best, watching him as he entered the house.

  Derlen was a Guardian, though he did not, of course, wear his insignia here in Shaljir. Guardians had been outlawed by the Valdani centuries before the rebellion, and they were now known to have been among Josarian's earliest supporters. Derlen was a fussy, slightly pompous widower whose rather irritating young son (left safely behind in Chandar for now) probably accounted for the early graying of his short hair. Born to a family of wealthy city-dwelling merchants from Shaljir, he had left the mountains to become part of Elelar's household during the rebellion, pleased to return to the city and act as a link between the Alliance and the Guardians. After escaping Shaljir when Elelar was arrested, he had, like most of her other servants, rejoined her when she settled temporarily near Chandar. They had never actually discussed it, but he now seemed to be a permanent part of her household. He still carried messages between the Alliance and the Guardians, but he was increasingly devoted to ministering to her household's spiritual needs. Although more than a little lapsed in her religious observances, Elelar accepted his presence as fitting. It had once been the custom for toreni households to have a Guardian in residence. It should, she decided, become the custom again.

  Whatever Elelar was expecting next, it certainly wasn't that Derlen would come flying backwards out of the imposing front door of her house and roll painfully down the broad stone steps to land in a heap before her startled mount.

  "Derlen!" Elelar slid off her nervously prancing horse and bent over the Guardian's prone, panting body. The woven cords of her headdress swung across her eyes, obscuring her view of his face. She removed the headdress and tossed it aside.

  "Derlen," she repeated, but got no answer. He lay stunned, possibly unconscious.

  "Torena?" Faradar dismounted and knelt beside her.

  "Someone's hit him," Elelar noted. His gushing nose had already dirtied her silk tunic with blood.

  "Come away, torena," one of her male servants urged. "We have no weapons to defend you."

  It was a good point. But when she glanced up, she saw no attack issuing from the vast, dark doorway of her house.

  "Derlen?" Elelar gently shook the Guardian. "What happened?"

  He mumbled incoherently. Then his eyes opened. He put a hand to his face, then snatched it away and scowled when he saw the blood on his fingers. "Dar curse that stinking drunk, that whoring, half-witted..." His voice trailed off awkwardly as his rolling eyes met Elelar's. "Er, I beg your pardon, torena."

  "Oh, no," she sighed, already guessing the truth.

  "Toren Ronall," the Guardian informed her with strained courtesy, "is in residence."

  Chapter Ten

  Honor my home, eat at my table,

  and sleep beneath my roof.

  —Traditional Silerian Welcome

  The climb to Dalishar might have made Zarien weep with the pain it caused his feet, had he not been so preoccupied with curiosity about the volatile scene between Tansen and Mirabar.

  The flame-haired Guardian had abandoned them in a blaze of rage, followed by the assassin—whose company Zarien couldn't honestly say he missed. Then the big, bearded shallah—Lann—had talked a great deal, though he'd only said one thing that mattered: They could leave immediately for the sacred caves, since the funeral pyre burned with Mirabar's disciplined magic and wouldn't set the hillside on fire even if a stray breeze came along.

  It was obvious to Zarien that although Lann was discomfited by the fight between Tansen and Mirabar, he had been too far away to hear their angry exchange of words and had no idea what it was about. Tansen, after a few absent-minded attempts to distract Zarien's train of thought, had simply ordered him to stop asking questions about it and to concentrate on keeping up. Although Zarien would never say so aloud, it was good advice; even a weakened shallah could make that punishing climb with more speed than a footsore sea-born lad. By the time they reached the caves after dark, Zarien scarcely even noticed the woodless fires, the strange paintings (made by the Beyah-something-or-other), the staring shallaheen, or anything else. He collapsed in a breathless, pained heap while Tansen was welcomed with obvious relief by a lot of heavily-armed rebels.

  Zarien was sitting at the edge of the clearing, resting his unhappy feet, when Tansen finally came to his side. "Are you all right?"

  "I think I was in more pain when the dragonfish killed me," Zarien said, "but I'm not sure."

  "I've spoken to Rahilar—"

  "Who?"

  "The Sister staying up here right now," Tansen said. "She's going to tend your feet."

  "What's she going to do?" Zarien asked suspiciously.

  He saw that slight tightening at the corner of Tansen's mouth which he was starting to recognize as a smile chased away before it could offend. "You can trust her. She's a Sister." Tansen sat beside him and added, "But first, we'll eat. You must be hungry."

  "I have been hungry since the last time I ate my mother's cooking," he grumbled irritably.

  "And tired," Tansen observed.

  "Not that tired," he said significantly.

  "We'll talk tomorrow."

  "I would rather talk now."

  "I'm sure you would. But I've decided we'll talk tomorrow," was the inflexible reply, "so that's the way it will be."

  Zarien was annoyed enough to blurt, "No wonder she hates you."

  Tansen glanced at him. "Mirabar doesn't hate me. She's just very angry."

  "On that woman," Zarien observed, "anger looks a lot like hate." When Tansen's only response was a sigh, he probed, "Who were you supposed to kill?"

  "Didn't I just say we'll talk tomorrow?"

  "Whoever it is—did she really betray Josarian? Is that why he's dead?" Zarien asked.

  "If I could say 'we'll talk tomorrow' in sea-born dialect, then would you—"

  "It seems very strange that a shallah, of all things, wouldn't avenge a—"

  "Zarien."

  He heard the warning note this time, something else he was learning to recognize in Tansen, and decided it might be prudent to wait until tomorrow, after all.

  A scarred, one-eyed shallah wearing a Valdani swordbelt and sword brought them a basket filled with food. Zarien's stomach rumbled, but then he smelled something repulsive, and he recoiled with an exclamation of disgust.

  "What's wrong?" Tansen asked.

  "Ugh. That." He pointed to the offending item.

  "The venison?"

  "The cooked flesh."

  "Cooked flesh?" Tansen regarded the grease-gleaming blood-dark pieces of animal flesh for a moment and admitted, "I suppose I wouldn't be very enthused, either, if I thought of it that way."

  "How do you think of it?" Zarien asked without real interest.

  "It's meat."

  "Whatever."

  "It's good," said Tansen.

  "It's revolting."

  "Have you tried any?"

  "No, and I don't intend to," Zarien said firmly.

  "A boy your age should—"

  "Should stick to food that won't make him gag."

  Tansen sighed again. "Have it your way. But you won't get much fish up here."

  "Surely there are fish in the sweetwater?" Zarien hadn't had time to investigate, but it seemed an obvious conclusion.

  "You mean in lakes and rivers?"

  Zarien nodded.

  "Yes, but..." Tansen shrugged.

  "You don't fish?" Zarien asked.

  "Poaching from waterlords has never seemed wise."

  "They even own the water here?"

  "Not here at Dalishar," Tansen said. "But there are no fish in the water up here."

  "Do the waterlords control the water further down the mountain?"

  "I don't think so, but it's all gott
en very confusing since the rebellion started. Everyone's territory has changed, and some waterlords have been killed by the Valdani. Some of the water that the Society controlled may even be free now." Tansen added, "But I don't want you fishing anywhere without asking me first."

  "Yes, siran."

  "My name is Tansen."

  "I know your name," he replied, surprised.

  "I mean, you can use my name."

  "Call you Tansen?" Zarien said doubtfully.

  "My friends do."

  "But they don't know—"

  "And let's not tell them."

  "But I must take—"

  "We'll talk about it tomorrow," Tansen repeated wearily. "Now eat something."

  Zarien peered suspiciously into the basket. "What is that?"

  "Those are roasted vegetables."

  "I've never seen them before."

  "They're wild mountain beets. I don't suppose they'd be sold in the floating markets."

  "And that?"

  "Goat cheese," said Tansen.

  "And that?"

  "Just taste it."

  "The flesh is touching it," Zarien grumbled.

  "If I take the flesh out of the basket, will you stop complaining and just eat?"

  "I am not complaining. I'm just asking. Would you put strange things into your mouth?"