The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

"No. I'm saying that if you want to stay in Sileria—"

  "I do! Where else can I go? I've never been to the mainland. I know no one there! And I have nothing—no money, no clothes, no relati—"

  "Then you'd better pray for Tansen," he advised.

  "Josarian's brother," she murmured with a distressed frown.

  That startled him. "They were brothers?"

  "Bloodbrothers," she elaborated.

  Which, Ronall knew, meant as much to a shallah as a birth relationship. "Are you sure?" he asked curiously.

  "Of course I'm sure," she replied impatiently. "I knew Zim..." She stopped herself, shrugged, and said faintly, "Everyone knows." Her heightened color and shifting eyes stirred some vague unease in him.

  "I didn't know," he pointed out a little irritably.

  "Torena Elelar knows. She knows them both." She paused and, evidently remembering that Josarian was dead, amended, "Knew."

  "Yes," he agreed morosely. "She knew them both."

  Chasimar frowned. "Why wouldn't her own husband know they were bloodbrothers?"

  "My wife and I are, um, not close. We don't talk much." Ronall poured some more ale and mused, "Bloodbrothers."

  What a country, he thought, feeling only slightly better as he drained his mug yet again. Guardians setting things on fire and talking to the dead, waterlords ensorcelling whole lakes and rivers, assassins capturing toreni and holding them for ransom, shallaheen cutting their own flesh in bloodpact commitments which ruled their lives, zanareen flinging themselves into the volcano, sea-born folk covering themselves in indigo tattoos and ignoring the whole rest of the country with open disdain... And in the end, Sileria had murdered its own savior, the Firebringer. Why had the Valdani even bothered fighting Josarian, Ronall wondered, when some Silerian or other was bound to turn on him sooner or later? What a nation.

  Really, he decided, any sensible person would be positively gleeful about fleeing to the mainland.

  "But you and I are still half-Silerian," he muttered. "And therefore incapable of sense."

  Yenibar gasped. "You, too?"

  He shrugged, the strong ale helping him recover his sense of fatalism. "My name is Ronall. My father was a pure-blooded Valdan. Fourth generation to be born in Sileria. My mother..."

  "Silerian," Chasimar breathed. "Like mine."

  "From Adalian."

  "Can you..." Yenibar glanced at the torena, then continued, "Can you take us to them?"

  "They're dead. Murdered by a mob in Shaljir."

  Chasimar lowered her head and started weeping again. Ronall felt like hitting her, but he restrained himself.

  "And Torena Elelar," Yenibar persisted. "She really is your wife?"

  "She's my wife," he replied glumly.

  "Where is she now?"

  "Shaljir, I assume."

  "Has she a country home?" Yenibar asked.

  He nodded. "She inherited the family estate from her grandfather."

  "Would she give us shelter there?"

  "I don't think she'd given any Val—"

  "Elelar shah Hasnari?" Chasimar lifted her head and stared at Ronall. "That's right. You... told them I was her cousin."

  "Yes," he agreed absently.

  "Perhaps you could tell the same to her servants at her estate."

  Ronall shrugged. "I suppose I could."

  "Elelar shah Hasnari's home, of all places, will be safe under native rule. Her relatives will be respected, as you proved last night. If she's in Shaljir," Chasimar added, "perhaps I wouldn't inconvenience her by staying at her country estate for the time being."

  "Inconvenience her?" Ronall repeated pensively, starting to appreciate the ironic beauty of the suggestion.

  "And if you tell her..." Chasimar licked her lips and continued, "Tell her I'm Porsall's wife. I'm the one who—"

  "I don't have to tell her anything. I'm her husband. She'll do as she's told," he lied, beginning to like this new development.

  Even Elelar wouldn't banish a homeless, pregnant, half-Valdani torena from her house to starve in the streets or be murdered by a mob. Even Elelar, whose morals were as depleted as Ronall's, would have compassion for an unborn child. She had her faults, but Elelar was a creature of duty who maintained certain rigorous standards (while wholly disregarding others).

  Elelar would almost certainly leave Shaljir before long. She was a conscientious manager of her property. Since she was a fugitive after escaping the Valdani prison in Shaljir, Ronall thought it unlikely she had been able to visit her grandfather's estate in months, and he knew that meant she'd be eager to go soon.

  When she got there, Ronall relished the image of her finding Chasimar and, against all personal preference, feeling obliged to shelter the woman. Elelar would have applauded while the mob in Shaljir killed her own loathed husband; but even Chasimar's Valdani blood wouldn't compel Elelar to abandon the widow's unborn child to hunger, violence, and death.

  "That's an excellent plan," Ronall said at last, aware of Chasimar's and Yenibar's hopeful gazes. "I'll take you to my wife's estate." He grinned and added, "I need a change of clothing, anyhow."

  Mirabar protested violently, but Najdan won the argument. So she fled to Sanctuary while he attempted to track the assassins who had abducted two Guardians: Tashinar, and an initiate named Suligar whom Mirabar knew only slightly.

  Mirabar hated allowing Pyron to escort her to safety while Tashinar was carried off to Kiloran. She hated waiting while Najdan and a dozen other men tried to follow and rescue the two captive Guardians. But Najdan was right when he said that if she accompanied them, they would waste most of their energy trying to ensure that she wasn't killed or captured, too.

  She knew—and hated knowing—that Najdan was right when he said she was too valuable to risk losing in an attempt to save Tashinar. She was born to shield the new Yahrdan, whose destiny was to rule Sileria in freedom and prosperity. Not even Tashinar's life could not take precedence over that.

  So Mirabar huddled in the safety of Sister Basimar's mountain Sanctuary, where Pyron and an escort of five men had brought her with all due haste after the battle on Mount Niran. The other survivors of the massacre on Niran had fled, too, going to join another Guardian circle.

  Upon arriving here, Mirabar had the unpleasant task of confirming Zimran's death to Sister Basimar, who had loved him. Heartbroken, the Sister wept for him.

  Basimar couldn't do much about the shir wound on Mirabar's arm. Just a scratch, it wouldn't have bothered her if it had been made by an ordinary blade. But everything she'd been taught about shir was true; nothing hurt the way an assassin's water-born dagger did. The scratch burned with an ever-present cold fire, and it kept re-opening, bleeding afresh. It would leave a scar, ensuring that she always remembered the assassin who had cut her. As if she could ever forget.

  Darfire, I've killed a man.

  She had seen people die before, had even felt responsible for people's deaths before; but she had never held a struggling man in her hands and killed him before. She had never before heard a man scream in agony while she burned him to death. She had never felt a living person squirm in desperate, smoldering agony while she murdered him.

  I've killed someone.

  Tansen was right. It was not a thing to be done lightly.

  I had no choice. He'd have killed me. I was defending myself.

  She knew that was true. Yet the knowledge of death in her hands, the memory of murder in her nostrils, the song of her victim's screams in her ears... It changed her.

  Elelar deserved to die. Mirabar still believed that with all her heart; but now she wasn't sure what to do about it.

  If only Tansen had killed her as he promised to do. If only it were already over and done with.

  If only...

  What was she to do about Elelar? Tansen had made it clear he would do nothing. Now Mirabar felt nauseated every time she considered doing to Elelar what she had recently done to that assassin.

  If only...

 
He should have killed Elelar. It was his duty. It was his right.

  He can't. Part of him belongs to her. Part of him will always belong to her.

  Mirabar wanted to weep. There was no safe direction for her thoughts to turn anymore.

  Why did the strange display of whirling smoke, colored clouds, and flashing lightning continue at the peak of distant Mount Darshon? What did Dar want? What was She preparing for? The coming of the prophesied Yahrdan? Or something else?

  And how would Mirabar know him? In the wake of her recent vision, she wondered if he was an infant. But what about Semeon, the flame-haired fire-eyed child whom Cheylan had promised to protect? No infant, but a child nonetheless, and one whose coloring matched that of the infant in her vision.

  How will I know him?

  Above all, how would she protect him when she'd been unable to protect Josarian himself, the Firebringer, a strong warrior in the prime of manhood?

  Why did You let him die, Dar? Why?

  What would happen to Tashinar? Why did Kiloran want Guardians captured? What would he do to the woman who had tamed, taught, and loved Mirabar? Did he know what Tashinar meant to her, or was it merely chance that she was one of the Guardians he had captured? Since he'd wanted more than one, and the assassin whom Najdan had tortured knew of no instructions to take someone in particular, Mirabar prayed that Kiloran at least didn't know that Tashinar was dear to her.

  If only I had gotten to Mount Niran sooner. If only we had pressed on and arrived that night, before the attack. If only there had been moonlight.

  If only...

  Her mind was whirling, her thoughts as tumultuous as her emotions. Basimar's frequent weeping over Zimran's disgraceful death didn't help. Nor did the sulky fear of Haydar, Najdan's mostly-silent mistress, improve Mirabar's state of mind.

  "Stop looking at me like that," Mirabar snapped at Haydar as the three women sat down to supper the day after Mirabar's arrival here. Pyron and the other men had already prudently decided to take all their meals outside, safely distant from the three overwrought women. "I'm not a demon."

  "Forgive me, sirana," Haydar murmured, casting her dark gaze down to her untouched food.

  "Why should I forgive you?" Mirabar demanded, all out of patience.

  "Mira," Basimar admonished in watery tones.

  "No, let's settle this now," Mirabar insisted, eager to unleash a little temper on someone.

  Basimar's plump, rosy face was distressed. Her steadfast devotion to Zimran, who'd once been her occasional lover, had always baffled Mirabar, since it was no secret that he slept with many other women. However, though unable to understand, Mirabar nonetheless sympathized with Basimar's broken heart when Zimran developed an intense devotion to Torena Elelar after helping her escape from prison.

  Now Zimran was dead, and Sister Basimar's mourning was tinged with bitterness over his passion for another woman and with shame over his betrayal of Josarian.

  Mirabar felt guilty about upsetting Basimar even more, but the demon inside her must be fed. So she now turned angrily on Haydar and demanded, "Why do you flinch when I move, shift your gaze when our eyes meet, cringe when I talk, sulk when I—"

  "Because he will die for you!" Haydar cried, her dark eyes flashing with startling fury.

  Taken aback by the first sign of spirit she had ever seen in Najdan's woman, Mirabar gaped at Haydar in stunned silence.

  "I do not fear you. He says you are no demon," Haydar continued, her voice filled with hot emotion. "And I believe him, because he always knows best."

  Mirabar said, "So you're the one who convinced Najdan that he always knows b—"

  "Mirabar," Basimar snapped.

  "Well, I knew it wasn't me," she grumbled.

  "He left me to follow you," Haydar said in growing anger. "And I endured it, because that is a woman's duty."

  "Oh, for the love of—"

  "He spoke of your visions, your power, your courage, your honor—"

  "He did?" Mirabar asked, startled.

  "I agreed that a man must serve such a great destiny." Consumed by emotion, Haydar swept her arm across the table, knocking her plate, food, and cup onto the floor. Basimar gasped and jumped, but Mirabar remained riveted on Haydar's tormented expression and passionate words. "But then you made him betray Kiloran."

  "No, Haydar," Mirabar said softly. "I didn't make him—"

  "He did it for you!"

  "He did it because it was right," said Mirabar.

  "No. It was because Kiloran ordered him to kill you, and he could not do it."

  And they all knew it wasn't because Najdan was afraid.

  "Then surely," Mirabar said, "it was Kiloran who caused his betrayal."

  "Najdan served Kiloran loyally for twenty years." Haydar grasped Mirabar's wrist with a strong, work-roughened hand and demanded, "Do you think he'd have betrayed his master for anyone but you?"

  "It is Dar who—"

  "He doesn't care about Dar! He serves you, not the goddess."

  Wondering if there had perhaps been a huge misunderstanding, Mirabar said, "But he loves you, Haydar. There's no question of... um..."

  "I don't fear you as a woman," Haydar snapped. "You're young enough to be his daughter."

  "That has never mattered to any man of my acquaintance." Basimar's tone was laced with uncharacteristic cynicism.

  "Be quiet," Mirabar told her.

  Haydar glanced at Basimar. "He's the most honorable man I've ever known."

  "He's an assassin," Basimar protested.

  Mirabar kicked her and said, more forcefully this time, "Be quiet."

  "He loves me." Calmer now, Haydar let go of Mirabar's wrist. "I have never doubted his love."

  Basimar's eyes clouded and she looked down at her plate. Mirabar felt a sharp stab of envy, too. Haydar spoke with simple, warm confidence. She sounded like a woman who'd always been given every reason to know that she was loved—steadfastly and exclusively.

  Haydar sighed. "But he has betrayed Kiloran, and he will die for it. For you. Very soon. Kiloran will not let such a deep insult go unpunished for long."

  "Tansen will destroy Kiloran," Mirabar said.

  "How can he?" Haydar asked quietly. "How can anyone destroy Kiloran?"

  "He will," Mirabar insisted, feeling her stomach churning again. She pushed away her plate, leaving the food untouched.

  "Since the day Najdan paid my father a bride price and took me to live with him near Lake Kandahar, I have learned many times over that no one can challenge Kiloran and live."

  There seemed little to say in response to this. The Firebringer himself had died for challenging Kiloran, just like everyone else who had ever done so.

  Almost everyone else.

  "What about Baran?" Mirabar asked suddenly.

  Haydar shrugged. "Yes, it's true, he has lasted a long time."

  Mirabar nodded. "We must make him our ally."

  Sister Basimar looked at her thoughtfully. "He did side with Josarian against Kiloran."

  "But the Firebringer is dead," Haydar said. "And Baran has always been as shrewd as he is mad."

  "Yes, I've met him," Mirabar said. "It's a very unsettling combination."

  "He knows too much to become your ally now," Haydar said with certainty. "He will never believe that Tansen can win, not with Josarian dead and Kiloran already in control of Cavasar."

  "If I could make him believe in the coming of the Yahrdan, in the visions of—"

  "He's a waterlord," Haydar said. "This vision will not attract him."

  Mirabar remembered Tansen's words with regard to Baran: Do whatever you have to.

  What could she do? If Baran didn't want to join them, what would convince him to change his mind?

  And how, she wondered wearily, could she ever be sure Baran was sincere, that whatever he might say or promise was at all reliable?

  She sat slumped in her chair, worrying until her head ached. Baran. Tashinar. Kiloran. Elelar. Tansen. Zarien, his watery go
ddess, and his search for the sea king. The Beckoner. Cheylan. Dar. The Firebringer. The Yahrdan. The visions...

  Together, they were all a burden that was driving her to her knees.

  Please, Dar, as I have been faithful and true, as I have served You with an open heart and fire in my soul... Please help me. Please lead the way. Please show me what to do.

  Weary beyond bearing, yet knowing she wouldn't sleep tonight, she searched for the only comforting words she could find: "Whatever happens next, Haydar, I won't let Najdan die for me."

  Haydar replied, with all the stoic resignation of a Silerian woman, "If he means to die for you, there is nothing you can do to stop him."

  It rose out of the water, looming over the shallow Zilar River like some monster from a madman's worst nightmares. Tansen knew what it was even before he heard Najdan's hoarse, shocked voice utter the words: the White Dragon. A voracious creature born of a magical union between water and a wizard.

  It was huge, far bigger than a Widow Beast or a dragonfish, and its fierce roar made the ground tremble with awe. It shifted and glittered beneath the brilliant light of the moons, gleaming like the blade of a shir, shining like the diamonds of Alizar. Its long, serpent-like neck swayed and twisted, the sharp icicles inside its great mouth snapping at its enemies. If it had eyes and ears, Tansen could not see them, so he didn't know how it had found its intended prey—the Firebringer—with such deadly accuracy.

  Tansen ran forward through the shallow water, feeling its deadly chill. This was Kiloran's river now. He had given birth to this monstrous creature here in the heart of Josarian's territory.

  "No!" Tansen screamed, running straight at the enormous, dripping beast, his swords drawn.

  He swung at its haunches. His blade cut through pure water. He swung again, cutting, stabbing, slicing, thrusting. He circled the roaring beast, plunging through thigh-deep water, his flesh burning in a thousand places from the bitterly cold, ensorcelled droplets flying off the White Dragon. Each splash was like the touch of a shir. Tears streamed down his face from the pain.

  "Josarian!" he howled, attacking the creature again.

  An enormous claw came down and struck him. It was like being hit by a galloping horse. He flew backwards. The waters of the Zilar closed over his head as he fell. He lunged to the surface, still hanging onto his swords. The great dragon-like head lowered, following him, the hungry jaws snapping and seeking him. He swung a sword with an arm that felt heavy and numb. His blade scraped along the shir-like fangs. The cold breath of the beast froze his wet flesh.