The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  Waiting in the dark with the men's supplies—food, water, ordinary clothing, and Tansen's swords—Zarien listened intently for any sound of his companions' return. There were so many strange sounds on the dryland at night that he could have sworn he heard them coming twenty different times, only to be mistaken every time.

  His head was drooping sleepily and he could barely keep his eyes open when he heard the sound—unmistakable even to his ears, this time—of someone (or something?) stalking through the dense forest.

  Please, please, please, he prayed to all the gods of the wind and the sea. Don't let it be a mountain cat.

  Then he remembered the stahra. Theoretically, it wouldn't let a mountain cat kill him. Or even hurt him.

  All the same, he'd rather not test the theory right now, alone and in the dark.

  He heard more crashing through the foliage and decided that, whatever was out there, it couldn't be an assassin. Wouldn't they use a little stealth? And he knew by now that Tansen and his men wouldn't make that much noise. Well, not unless speed was more important than silence, he thought anxiously.

  Life wasn't hard enough already. No, now Tansen had to go around attacking waterlords.

  As the noise drew closer, Zarien raised his head from his hiding place—a tumble of rocks—and peered out into the darkness. Yes, he could see it now, something moving through the faint dappled moonlight. A shadowy figure—tall like a person, not short like a mountain cat.

  Only when it was fairly close did he realize that it was a woman. The roundness of certain areas was unmistakable when she paused and turned, silhouetted in the faint moonlight.

  A woman lost out here in the dark? He wasn't sure what he should do, but he didn't think that ignoring her was right. So he rose to his feet and said in a loud whisper, "Don't be afraid."

  She froze in the shadows, then shifted slightly, as if turning to him.

  "Are you lost?" he asked. "I'll help you." She started moving towards him. He continued, "My name is Zarien, and there's—" His words ended in an appalled gasp when she was close enough for him to see her better.

  "Yaggghhh!" He backed away as fast as his feet would move, his horrified gaze fixed on her... it... this inhuman thing coming at him from out of the dark!

  He stumbled and tripped, falling down hard on his rump. The thing came closer, moving with strange fluidity, pale as moonlight, translucent and lifeless. It was without color or expression, without eyes or—

  "Gah!" He gave a choked cry of protest as it reached down and seized his arm. Its touch was chilling, its grasp painfully strong. It drew him to his feet and pulled him closer. "No!"

  He felt something hard force its way into his hand.

  The stahra, he realized dimly amidst the chaotic whirl of his fear. What was he supposed to do with it?

  The creature seized his throat and started to strangle him. Choking and eyes watering, Zarien punched it in the belly with the handle of his stahra.

  It responded in total silence, with physical reflexes hideously similar to a person's, flinching backward and doubling over. Its texture rippled fluidly, like sloshing water in the bottom of an oarboat. Zarien stumbled away from its chilly touch, took a firm grip on his weapon, and hit the creature in the head as hard as he could with the broad side of the paddle.

  The translucent monster spun away from him. Terrified into aggressive action, Zarien pursued it, whacking it twice more. When it fell to the ground, he brought the edge of the paddle down on it, hard, again and again. He stopped when he thought it was dead, but then it moved menacingly again, trying to rise and renew its assault on him.

  The winds take me!

  He starting beating the thing again, trying not to see how much like a shapely, defenseless woman it looked as it attempted to shield itself from his blows. He thought he was going to be sick, but he knew he couldn't stop attacking it long enough to indulge in his nausea.

  When he heard someone—something?—else coming through the forest, nearly upon him, he wanted to cry. He couldn't fight two of these grotesque things!

  "Zarien!" The familiar voice was urgent.

  "Tansen!" he exclaimed with relief, afraid to look away from his opponent for even a moment. He clobbered it again with the stahra. "What is it? What do I do?"

  "Get away from it!"

  "What is it? What do I do?" he repeated, indulging his panic now that help was at hand.

  The warrior's strong hands pushed him aside. Then Tansen attacked the thing, tumbling to the ground and rolling over and over as he fought it.

  Someone else arrived on the scene. "What is that?" Galian demanded, breathing hard as he grabbed Zarien's shoulder.

  Zarien's gaze was riveted on the struggle. "I don't know! It came from out of nowhere!"

  Tansen raised his shir, which glittered with deadly sorcery, and tried to stab the monster. It resisted, seizing his arm in both hands and fighting for control of the wavy blade.

  "I'll hit it again," Zarien announced, raising his stahra.

  "No, you might hit Tansen!" Galian's arm—thick with mud—blocked him.

  "It'll stab him!" Zarien protested.

  "That's Tansen's shir," Galian argued. "It can't hurt him."

  "How is that possible?"

  "Could we discuss water magic some other time?" Galian snapped.

  In a sudden flurry of movement, Tansen grabbed the shir with his free hand and plunged it into the creature's face. He made a violent motion, like he was ripping its head open. The strange monster's whole body convulsed, sagged, then lay quiescent. Tansen tried to rise, but the thing's hands were still clinging to his arm. With a strange noise and an expression of profound disgust, he pried its fingers off his flesh.

  Then he looked at Zarien and demanded, "Why didn't the stahra protect you, for the love of—"

  "It did, sort of. I mean, it jumped into my hand." He shrugged and added, "My father told me you can never count on the gods—"

  "Are you all right?" Galian asked Tansen in a dazed voice.

  Zarien glanced at him—and finally noticed that he was covered in mud, every bit of him, head to toe. "What in the Fires happened to you?"

  Galian grimaced, cracking some of the mud caked on his face. "Don't ask."

  "Fires of Dar!" said a voice behind Zarien.

  Zarien turned and saw someone—Radyan, he realized an instant later—coming up behind him. Radyan was as filthy as Galian. Zarien asked, "How did you get so—"

  "I don't want to talk about it," Radyan answered. "What happened here?"

  "We're not entirely sure," Galian said as the rest of the men—all covered in mud—joined them and began asking questions about the bizarre scene.

  Tansen retrieved the shir he'd used to kill the monster, then rose to his feet. He was muddy, too, and also soaking wet.

  Zarien asked him, "Why are you all—"

  "Let's not dwell on it now," Tansen said.

  Zarien stepped forward and gingerly nudged the dead creature with his stahra. The motionless form began diminishing, slowly turning into... a puddle of water. "What is it?"

  "Water magic," Tansen replied.

  "Is this a White Dragon?" Zarien asked in awe.

  Tansen actually snorted. "Not even close." The warrior retrieved his swords and his satchel from their hiding place and announced, "Those assassins are right behind us, and Wyldon's bound to attempt some more tricks like this if we don't make tracks. Let's go."

  "Where are we going?" Zarien asked.

  "North, to Zilar."

  He'd learned a few things by now, so he asked anxiously, "Isn't Kiloran's territory north of here?"

  Tansen took his arm to hurry him along. "Exactly. Wyldon's men will track us as far as Kiloran's territory, and then confirm to him that we are indeed Kiloran's assass—"

  "But we aren't, so is it wise to risk running into Kilor—"

  "Kiloran's in Cavasar," said Tansen. "Can't you move any faster? We are still in deadly peril, you know."

&nb
sp; Zarien picked up his pace and tried not to resent the way Tansen dragged him through the dark forest while the other men pulled ahead of them. "Even so, won't Kiloran attack us if w—"

  "We'll be out of his territory again before he knows we were here."

  "I thought it was a big territory?"

  "It is."

  "How long will it take to cross—"

  "A lot longer than it needs to if you keep wasting your breath talking."

  Zarien scowled at him in the dark and ventured one more question. "How did the attack go?"

  "Oh," Tansen said, "let's not dwell on it."

  Chapter Twenty

  War is the business of one kind of man,

  and peace the business of another.

  —Toren Varian

  Elelar had spent many long hours in Santorell Palace before today. As Imperial Advisor Borell's mistress, she had even acted as hostess here on several occasions. Now, a few days after Searlon had come to her bedchamber, she hoped and prayed that this afternoon's visit to Santorell Palace would result in the end of Valdani rule in Sileria. She and Searlon had used the time between that late-night discussion and this moment to prepare the elements needed for their hastily concocted plan.

  Other members of the Alliance had hoped to participate in this historic moment, and it might be better if they were here. Men like Toren Varian probably had more influence with Advisor Kaynall than Elelar did. But Varian was at home in Adalian and possibly even still unaware—like the other signatories to the secret treaty—of Josarian's recent death. That, however, was a detail which neither she nor Searlon had any intention of revealing to the Valdani. As for the other leaders of the Alliance who were currently here in Shaljir... In truth, Elelar didn't want them to learn today that she had helped destroy the Firebringer.

  Now, as she entered the council hall of Santorell Palace, following the formal announcement of her arrival, she found Advisor Kaynall and Commander Cyrill awaiting her. Kaynall, an older man of elegant if unremarkable appearance, was sitting at the massive table that dominated the richly-furnished hall. Cyrill was standing by the tall glass doors which led out onto the balcony overlooking Santorell Square. While not revealing himself to the crowd that had massed below, he was watching them intently with a dark scowl.

  Elelar had just fought her way through that crowd, when coming here, and she knew how restless and eager they were. Indeed, she and Searlon had ensured they would be so—by spreading the rumor that Advisor Kaynall would announce Valdania's surrender today.

  Even here, one story above the crowd and shielded by these thick Valdani walls, she could hear voices from the crowd wafting through the windows along with the spring breeze.

  "Free Sileria!"

  "Roshaheen go home!"

  "Native rule in Sileria!"

  "Surrender to Josarian!"

  "Free Sileria now!"

  Elelar acknowledged Advisor Kaynall's greeting and replied courteously to his insincere questions about her journey to Shaljir and her health. Evidently even this foreign goat-molester appreciated that a torena was due a certain measure of respect.

  Cyrill's greeting, however, was abrupt. He inclined his head so slightly that it barely moved, and muttered, "Torena."

  She smiled and asked after his family.

  "I have sent my wife to the mainland." His tone was brusque.

  "Very wise," she replied gravely. "To stay with your parents?"

  Cyrill gave her a look of burning hatred. "No. My mother is still in mourning. Her brother—my uncle—died this past year. As you know, torena." And he obviously blamed Elelar for his uncle's death.

  She frowned with feigned sympathy and murmured, "Suicide, I understand."

  "Yes," Cyrill snapped.

  "Such a pity." Elelar sighed. "Suicide is anathema in Sileria, of course." She arched a brow. "But you're probably no more familiar with our customs and values than your uncle was."

  Cyrill lost his precarious hold on his temper. "May the Three curse you, woman!"

  "Dar will shield me from your petty Valdani gods," she replied, enjoying the way his face colored with anger. Really, it was a pity they'd never gotten to know each other better; she had always appreciated men who were this easy to manipulate.

  Kaynall raised a hand as Cyrill took a reflexive step toward Elelar. "That's enough," he admonished.

  Elelar nodded and changed the subject. "I don't feel I can commence this discussion—"

  "What discussion?" Cyrill demanded.

  "—without Searlon. Could I prevail upon you, Eminence," she asked Kaynall, "to request his presence?"

  Although Kaynall's face could hardly be called an expressive one, Elelar saw his surprise. He studied her with curiosity and veiled suspicion as he said, "Of course." He nodded to Cyrill, who went to the door, opened it, and ordered one of the guards in the corridor to summon the assassin.

  After closing the door and giving Elelar a look of hot loathing, Cyrill returned his attention to the crowd below in Santorell Square. "I estimate their numbers have doubled since we dispersed them at midday, Eminence," he said.

  "They keep coming back?" Elelar asked innocently.

  Cyrill ignored her, but she thought she saw his ears redden. He had Borell's bad temper but wasn't nearly as intelligent. Now he turned and addressed Kaynall as if Elelar wasn't even there.

  "I suggest we send mounted Outlookers into the crowd to disperse them again."

  Kaynall looked at Elelar. "They'll only come back, won't they?"

  "It seems likely," she agreed.

  "Why?" Cyrill demanded. "Why are they doing this now? Why today?"

  "Why, indeed?" Kaynall murmured, studying Elelar.

  Cyrill asked, "Shall I order it, Eminence?"

  Elelar said, "You don't think it will start a riot?"

  "Stay out of this, woman," Cyrill ordered.

  "The kind of rioting," Elelar continued, "that tore Cavasar apart before it fell to the rebels."

  "And does Josarian mind," Kaynall asked, "that it is Kiloran who holds that city now?"

  "Josarian," she said, "is in no position to mind anything. Ever again."

  "Then it's true!" Cyrill pounced. "I thought maybe that Outlooker had lost his wits out there in the mountains. But it's true? Josarian's really dead?"

  Elelar ignored him and addressed Kaynall. "The Alliance has met the conditions of the treaty."

  "It was my understanding that Kiloran killed him," Kaynall said. "If he is indeed dead."

  "He's dead."

  "Then produce his body."

  "We can't," said Elelar. "Your men blundered the attack and our people had to improvise."

  Kaynall said, "You're referring to this water monster that our man described?"

  "Before he disappeared," Cyrill muttered darkly.

  "Yes," Elelar replied. "We call it the White Dragon."

  "Which leaves no corpse?"

  "Precisely."

  Kaynall sat back. "How convenient."

  "Far from it, obviously."

  "Then why not just kill Josarian the ordinary way?" he asked.

  "That was the part which your men blundered," she reminded Kaynall.

  "But surely—"

  "Josarian was surrounded by powerful friends: the shatai, a fire sorceress, shallah rebels, and many zanareen all willing to die to protect him. And on our side..." Elelar's stomach churned with shame and hatred as she used the words our side, but she shrugged and continued, "There was one sole Outlooker who'd survived the ambush against Josarian and had been taken prisoner." She gave him a cool look as she asked, "Under the circumstances, what would you recommend?"

  "I would recommend producing a body."

  "Water magic was the only way to kill him," she insisted.

  "Kiloran was his enemy," Cyrill said. "If Josarian is indeed dead, how do we know—"

  "All you need to know is that Josarian is dead," she interrupted.

  "But if the Alliance didn't kill him..." Kaynall
let the implication dangle.

  "You would refuse to honor the treaty?" She made sure that no shadow of pleading, panic, or fear colored her tone.

  "We would have to await instructions from the Imperial Council," he said judiciously.

  "Yes, I see." Elelar smiled with open malice. "And, of course, you have so much time before Kiloran rolls the Idalar River back on itself to starve Shaljir of water, the Guardians burn down its walls—"

  "The walls are stone," Cyrill said.

  "—with their fire magic, and Tansen leads the rebels in a bloodbath against every last Valdan in the city." She paused for effect, then purred, "Yes, I'm sure there's plenty of time."

  "You're not r—"

  Kaynall's comment was interrupted by shattering glass and the noisy clatter of a candelabra that keeled over as something flew into it. Elelar flinched with surprise, as did both men.

  "A rock," she said shakily, spotting it on the floor. Someone had thrown a rock through the window.

  "Damn them!" Cyrill started drawing curtains across the windows, moving hastily from one to the next. "Eminence, we must disperse—"

  "What brought them here?" Kaynall demanded of Elelar. "What put them in this humor?"

  The heavy doors swung open then, and Searlon entered the hall. The Outlookers closed the tall, formal doors behind him, leaving the four enemies in privacy.

  "Torena." Searlon crossed his fists and bowed his head. "I heard you were back in Shaljir. I've been awaiting your arrival here."

  She nodded cordially. "Searlon."

  He searched her gaze. "It is done, then?"

  "Yes." She glanced at the two Valdani and added, "But they seem skeptical."

  "The Outlooker's story was not entirely convincing," Searlon replied politely.

  Kaynall studied them with a cynical expression. "You expect me to believe you worked together?"

  They looked at him, then at each other, then back at him.

  "Believe what you like," Elelar said indifferently.

  She had agreed with Searlon that they couldn't produce some shallah's body for him to identify as Josarian's. Not after the Outlooker's testimony about the failure of the ambush followed by Josarian's horrifying death by sorcery. Searlon hadn't contradicted the Outlooker's tale at the time, so he'd make Kaynall suspicious if he did so now. Moreover, a substitute corpse would be their downfall if Kaynall had a second witness, one they didn't know about, available to verify or deny that it was Josarian. So they must instead convince the Advisor that Kiloran's destruction of Josarian had been the Alliance's back-up plan.