The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  She didn't go up in flames, as Kiloran had feared from the start. No, she glowed hotter and hotter, her fire coming from her core and radiating outward, until she crumbled into ashes.

  Her death left behind a deafening silence. The shir stopped shaking. The men stopped shouting. Kiloran absent-mindedly made the water drift back into walls and ceilings while he stared at the pile of ashes—now soggy and spreading slowly across the water-drenched and blood-smeared floor.

  "What was that?" one of the assassins demanded at last, his voice stunned.

  "That," Kiloran said, "was an example of why we need to kill them all."

  "How did she—"

  Kiloran turned to face Dyshon, who had witnessed the interrogation in hopes of learning more effective sorcery. The assassin was diligent, if only modestly talented. Kiloran met his green-eyed gaze. "Have someone clean up this mess."

  "Yes, siran."

  "Scatter the ashes. Far from Kandahar."

  "Right away, siran."

  "But first..." Kiloran looked back at the ashes again.

  "Yes?"

  "Leave me alone for a moment."

  "Of course."

  He heard someone retrieve the shir which had fallen to the floor. He heard footsteps behind him, men obeying his every command, because he was the their master. Because he was the greatest waterlord in Sileria.

  What form will he take?

  Fire.

  Now that he found himself without much hope of getting answers to the additional questions this puzzling statement raised, he almost regretted capturing and questioning the old woman in the first place.

  However, the old Kintish proverb was wrong. Knowledge was not, in fact, hollow. It was just sometimes difficult to apply to a given situation.

  Kiloran let the silence of the empty room fill him, and then he closed his eyes and listened. The screams of the Firebringer now filled his senses. So wracked with pain, so steeped in agony that it almost hurt just to listen. Yes, Josarian was as humbled as ever. As thoroughly defeated as Kiloran had believed ever since consuming him with the White Dragon. There was nothing new in those cries of torment. Neither the grief nor the pain had diminished; not even a little.

  The Firebringer was still Kiloran's victim. His conquered enemy. His dead and humiliated challenger.

  That had not changed.

  The old woman had been in terrible pain. She had been crazed with it. She was also strong and shrewd. Her final words could have been a deliberate ploy to disquiet Kiloran before she disintegrated into a useless pile of ashes.

  Nonetheless, her dying whisper hung in the air as he turned to leave the room and attend to other business. Was it a promise? A plea? A threat? Or a prayer?

  Fire.

  Tansen had not seen her since the night he had nearly killed her—the night he crept into her bedchamber in Chandar to confront her with her betrayal of Josarian.

  Since then, Elelar had accomplished precisely what he had sent her to Shaljir to accomplish: Kaynall had surrendered Sileria to native rule. Another man might think Tansen could execute Elelar with impunity now; certainly another woman thought so.

  Mira...

  No, he knew better than to think about one woman while preparing to face the other. He banished all thoughts of red hair and golden eyes, of fire and heat, of an earthy shallah girl blossoming into womanhood amidst war and bloodshed, amidst prophetic visions and flawed men.

  Well, at least he tried to banish all such thoughts.

  Zarien unwittingly helped by asking, as he gazed at the entrance to Elelar's palatial city dwelling, "You know a woman who lives here?"

  "I have a broad acquaintance," Tansen told him.

  The boy had not gawked, stumbled, and stammered in amazement and awe as Tansen had upon first entering Shaljir at a similar age. Of course, Zarien's thoughts were still partially fixed on the grisly heads decorating the Lion's Gate. Tansen also discovered, upon asking the boy a few questions, that Zarien had seen many more races and classes of people than Tansen had as a boy. The sea-bound never ventured ashore, but they mixed and mingled in the floating markets, transported passengers to and from the mainland, and anchored their boats in every bustling port of the nations of Sirkara.

  "But I've never spoken to a toren," Zarien said, casting a doubtful expression at Tansen. "Well, except for Cheylan, and he doesn't really count, being a Guardian and all."

  "Actually, I've never met this toren," Tansen said, regarding the grand entrance to the house and thinking briefly of Elelar's despised half-Valdani husband. "He may not even be here." Had Ronall abandoned Elelar, the rebel wife who had betrayed him, and gone to the mainland?

  "I've never spoken to a torena, either," Zarien elaborated.

  Tansen shrugged. "Just be polite."

  The boy that perched outside Elelar's house as sentry asked their names and, upon hearing Tansen's, didn't even bother going inside to ask for instructions. The young city-dweller's eyes grew wide with astonishment, then glowed with admiration. He took them inside to another servant who, showing similar deference, escorted them into a large, elegant reception room.

  Zarien looked at the departing servant, then studied their surroundings. "I guess," he concluded, "this woman likes you better than most others do."

  Tansen smiled. "Perhaps this one just doesn't know me well."

  "Oh, better than most, I think," came a familiar voice. It rippled through him like the aftershock of an earthquake as he whirled to face her.

  "Where did you come from?" Zarien blurted, staring at Elelar.

  Tansen was aware of his heart beating faster. "The torena's house has secret passages."

  "And hidden doorways," Elelar added, studying Tansen's young companion with curiosity.

  After an awkward pause, Tansen set an example for the boy by crossing his fists over his chest and bowing his head. "Torena," he murmured respectfully. "I hope I find you well."

  "Oh!" Zarien glanced at Tansen, caught his eye, then crossed his fists and bowed his head. "Um..."

  "Zarien, this is Torena Elelar shah Hasnari." When Zarien just stared mutely at the first torena of his acquaintance, Tansen looked at Elelar and said dryly, "He's honored."

  Smiling politely, Elelar said, "The honor is mine..."

  "Zarien," Tansen supplied.

  "Of the sea-bound Lascari," Zarien added, blinking a little.

  Elelar glanced back and forth between them. "Sea-bound?"

  Zarien flushed. Tansen sighed. "It's a long story."

  She lifted one dark brow. "Do you intend to tell it to me?"

  Zarien looked at him inquisitively.

  "Yes," Tansen admitted. "I think I'd better."

  She looked faintly surprised, as well she should. He'd always been stingy with his trust, and she had nonetheless found a way to betray his bloodbrother. However, if Tansen, of all people, was about to disappear into the sea, Elelar needed to know.

  Elelar's gaze dropped to where Tansen's torso was concealed by his threadbare tunic. "Your wound is healing?" she asked. The last time she had seen him, the shir wound in his side had been bleeding, and it soon thereafter came close to killing him.

  Tansen exchanged a glance with Zarien. "Yes, torena."

  "I'm pleased you are well," she said simply.

  The door through which he had entered the room opened again. Two servants came in, bearing trays of food and drink.

  "I'm sure you've had a long journey," Elelar said to Tansen, her polished manners failing to ease the palpable tension between them. "I hope you will honor my home, eat at my table, and sleep beneath my roof."

  Zarien was already perking up at the sight of food, his nausea at the Lion's Gate forgotten for the moment. Tansen was grateful for the boy's presence, realizing that having a third party present—someone innocent of everything that had ever happened between him and Elelar—made this first meeting since Chandar easier than it would otherwise have been. It was still far from easy, though.

  The las
t time he had seen her, he had held a sword to that delicate throat. He had craved the death of his own shame nearly as much as he lusted for vengeance. Now her long-lashed, sloe-eyed stare told him that she remembered those moments well; remembered everything they had said to each other in the shadowy light of that rage-filled night in her bedchamber at Chandar.

  "We thank you for your generosity," Tansen said, nodding briefly to Zarien—who began a bold attack on the food tray. "But we'll stay elsewhere."

  She nodded. "Santorell Palace, perhaps?"

  Zarien laughed in surprise. Tansen blinked.

  Elelar glided gracefully over to a chair and sat down, her elegant silk tunic molding itself to her body. "Things have changed a great deal since you were last in Shaljir," she pointed out.

  He accepted a glass of water, flavored with a touch of lemon and honey, from a servant and then took a chair opposite Elelar. The servant left the room as Elelar told Tansen about changes in the city since the Valdani surrender.

  "The Alliance is establishing a temporary government in Santorell Palace. Toren Varian of Adalian is now in residence there. So are a number of other important members of the Alliance from other districts." Elelar smiled slightly. "You're no longer an outlaw or rebel who must hide his identity in the capital city. You're a great hero, and people will want to know you've come to Shaljir."

  He sighed, wishing—would he ever stop wishing?—that Josarian were here. "I don't want to put myself on display—"

  "It doesn't matter what you want," she said gently. "And you know that." As if the silence which followed this statement wasn't already awkward enough, she added, "You've always known that."

  Tansen glanced at Zarien, who was busy shoving all the shining baby onions to one remote corner of the food platter, and said, "I haven't got much time."

  She looked at the boy, too. Zarien, chewing enthusiastically, stared back at both of them, his eyes wide and ingenuous in his dark, tattooed face.

  Elelar ignored Tansen's assertion about time and said, "There are additional matters you must attend to."

  "Such as?"

  "The Alliance is... in dispute about the eventual distribution of power—"

  "You mean they're squabbling like dogs over the scraps the Valdani have left behind."

  He heard Zarien choke on surprised laughter at his rudeness, but he didn't take his gaze from Elelar's. Her expression, of course, gave nothing away.

  "There are disagreements," she said tactfully. "Peculiar tales are floating freely into the city now."

  "If those peculiar tales come from the mountains, then they're probably true," Tansen replied.

  "Stories about you, Mirabar, Josarian's followers, and a bloodfeud against the Society proclaimed at Zilar."

  "All true." He sipped his drink.

  "Fighting in the mountains," she said. "Guardians against waterlords."

  "Keep going."

  "Visions at Dalishar. Pilgrims at Darshon."

  "You're very well informed," Tansen observed. Unable to resist, he added, "As always."

  "Some things never change," she said. "Others can never be mended."

  "That is also true," he agreed, awash in his shame, in his neglected vengeance, with every breath that Elelar took.

  "And you and I both know," she said, her voice dropping to a murmur, "what it is to live with regret. With deeds we can never erase."

  "I know what it is to live with regret," he said. "You know what it is to get away with murder."

  Elelar snapped, "I didn't murder—"

  "His blood is—"

  Zarien gasped. "She is the one!"

  Tansen ground his teeth together, furious at himself for not thinking before he spoke. For forgetting the boy's presence for even a moment. He glanced at Elelar, whose sudden pallor belied her rigidly controlled expression, then said to Zarien, "Are you done eating?"

  The answer was plainly no, but the boy took the hint. Staring at them both with open curiosity, he rose to his feet and said, "Uh, maybe I should go down to the port now?"

  "No, not alone," Tansen said absently.

  Elelar added, "The port is really a mess right now. These earthquakes we've been having..."

  "Please," Zarien said to Tansen. "I can smell the sea from here."

  "Later."

  Zarien sounded exasperated as he insisted, "I won't get lost."

  "Not alone," Tansen repeated.

  Elelar rose to her feet, catching Tansen off guard. He rose politely, but she was already halfway across the room. "A servant can take him," she said, her voice distantly gracious. She opened the door, called for a servant, and instructed Teyaban, the young man who entered the room, to take Zarien to the port and later escort him back here.

  "Satisfied?" Zarien asked Tansen.

  "Don't leave Teyaban's side," Tansen instructed Zarien.

  "Don't worry. Even if I get separated from him, I'll find you again." Zarien picked his oar up off the floor. "I've got this, after all."

  As Elelar gave the boy a puzzled look, Tansen said, "Be back before dark. The streets are—"

  "Unsafe at night," Zarien said on a sigh. "Yes, yes, you've mentioned that. A few times." He glanced doubtfully at the torena, then back at Tansen. "So... I'll make arrangements, yes?"

  "Yes," Tansen agreed.

  Zarien came very close to him, hesitated, and then stood on his toes to whisper into Tansen's ear, "And you won't... do anything, will you?"

  "Do anything?" Tansen repeated, not bothering to whisper, too.

  "You know," Zarien whispered again.

  "No," Tansen replied irritably, "I don't know."

  Exasperated, Zarien gave up whispering. "What the sirana wants."

  "What the sir—" Tansen was surprised into a rude snort. "No. Now will you just go? Quietly. Immediately. Without another word."

  Zarien shrugged, as if disclaiming all responsibility for Tansen, and headed toward the door. It was nearly shut behind him when he opened it again, almost hitting Elelar with it in the process, to say, "It was, um, a great honor to meet you, torena."

  "Yes, I can tell," she said dryly. "I'm sure we'll have the pleasure again."

  Zarien gazed at her for a moment, as if contemplating a reply to this remark, then gave up and left.

  Now that they were alone, Elelar turned to face Tansen. "So," she said, getting right to the point, "Mirabar wants you to kill me?"

  Dar curse that boy.

  "That can hardly come as a surprise to you, torena."

  "No," she admitted, "it doesn't." She came closer. Close enough for him to smell her scented skin. "Where are your swords?"

  "I'm not going to do it, Elelar," he said tersely. "And you know I'm not. So let's just—"

  "That's good," she murmured, turning away from him. She walked to the empty fireplace and stared pensively at its charred stones. "I didn't think you would, but that's good, all the same."

  He didn't understand her preoccupied manner. "Good?"

  "Yes." She seemed to come to a sudden decision. "I need a favor."

  He almost laughed. "You of all people shouldn't—"

  "No, you'll like this one."

  He folded his arms across his chest. "What?"

  "About Mirabar..."

  "Yes?"

  He saw the fire in her eyes now. It wasn't what he was used to from her, wasn't what he expected. Her face was alight with it as she said, "It's something the Olvar told me."

  "The Olvar?" He recalled the gentle, wizened leader of the Beyah-Olvari living in the secret maze of tunnels and caves beneath Shaljir. "What did he tell you?"

  It wasn't the cold light of shrewd calculation, nor even the hot light of her fanaticism, both of which had been so dangerous and deadly on many occasions in the past. This was different, the glow in those dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, the fervent warmth in that lovely face... Different but somehow familiar, as if he'd seen this look elsewhere...

  "The Olvar told me," Elelar said, her voice rich with tension,
"that Mirabar's going to kill me."

  "She wants to, it's true," Tansen said, years of practice helping him keep his voice calm. "But I won't—"

  Her face was brilliant with intensity. "That's the favor I want."

  "Of course," he promised, realizing how Mirabar's fiery power could frighten a woman of merely human gifts. "I'll stop her if sh—"

  "No!" she said. "Don't stop her. Promise me you won't try to stop her."

  His first thought was that Elelar was planning a trap for Mirabar. His second thought was that the one thing that could make him kill Elelar would be if she hurt Mirabar.

  "Elelar..." he began slowly. But then he realized he didn't need to warn her.

  Now he understood what he saw in her face. No cunning plan, no double meaning, no concealed motive. He knew this expression, so strange and unfamiliar on Elelar's face, because he'd seen it elsewhere, on other loved faces: Josarian, Mirabar, Zarien. And on the scarcely-tolerated face of Jalan the zanar, too.

  It was the look of believers. The look of people who could not be dissuaded or intimidated or stopped, because they had been touched by something so much greater than themselves that they were beyond the fears and reasoning of an ordinary man like him.

  "What's happened to you?" he asked suspiciously, taking her by the shoulders.

  "The Olvar told me..."

  He was astonished to see tears well up in her eyes. Her smile told him these were tears of joy. Of relief.

  "What?" Tansen demanded, shaking her slightly. "What did he tell you?"

  "I must surrender."

  He let her go. "Surrender?"

  "When the one with eyes of fire comes for me, I must not resist."

  Tansen was completely taken aback. He didn't want to kill her. He knew she should die, but he didn't want to let someone else kill her, either. And he didn't want Mirabar to have the blood of vengeance on her hands. Mirabar had no idea what that was like, and he never wanted her to find out.

  "Tansen..."

  He shook his head. He couldn't think of anything to say except, "No."

  "The fate of Sileria depends on this."

  "On Mirabar killing you? No." He shook his head. "I want to speak to the Olvar."

  She came closer again. Pressed her palm against his arm. Then raised her hand to touch his cheek. A soft palm. Silken fingers. The skin so fair by Silerian standards. So different from the work-hardened, burn-scarred, sun-kissed hand of the woman who wanted her dead. The woman whom Elelar now claimed was destined to kill her.