The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

The old woman eyed him curiously. He didn't know how much she had heard, nor did he care. "Back to port?" she asked.

  "Yes." He didn't offer to row this time. He sat staring at nothing, scarcely aware of their movement through the water.

  He had realized, upon seeing the port so badly damaged, that his family might be hurt, even dead. He had known that—but he hadn't believed it. Not really.

  Sharifar had no right.

  She had asked everything of him. And now she had taken all that was left. She and Dar, together.

  Zarien would hate them forever. He would never serve them. Not now. Not ever.

  His gaze finally focused on something: the stahra lying at his feet. Sharifar's gift, which had led him around the dryland like a dog following its master, like a dragonfish following the scent of blood. He picked it up. He had never touched the stahra which his father had gotten for him and never had a chance to give him. That stahra, like the boat in which it was hidden, was now somewhere at the bottom of the Middle Sea, as lost to him as his family.

  And he would never again touch the stahra that Sharifar had given him. He rose to his feet and, holding the stahra like a harpoon, threw it into the sea. The old woman gasped and bleated questions. The boy tried to retrieve it.

  "No," Zarien said. "Take me back to port."

  He watched the stahra float away on the current, then he sat down again.

  Take it back, he told Sharifar in the grieving silence of his heart. Our bargain is broken. If you want the sea king, go find him yourself.

  He waited, wondering if she would bring fury to the sea to sink the boat and kill him before he reached shore. He hoped so, because he was more than willing to die if it meant he could try to gut the goddess like a fish before he drowned.

  Take me before we reach the shore, Sharifar, he urged. Because you will never have another chance.

  He would turn his back on the sea forever after this. He would never return.

  And you will never have Tansen, he swore to Sharifar. Never.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Never follow a beast to its lair.

  —Moorlander Proverb

  Cheylan hit the ground with a thud, his face scraping the rocky soil while icy tentacles, which had grabbed his ankles with lightning speed, dragged him on his belly toward a boiling torrent of hissing water that, only moments ago, had been a peaceful stream.

  He didn't waste time or energy in physical struggle. Instead, he reached for the stream with the force of his will and tried to seize it from Verlon's control. The frigid tentacles twining around his legs quivered, then jerked him fiercely and continued pulling him toward the churning water. He didn't panic, didn't lose focus, just struggled for mastery of the stream...

  Rocks scraped across his skin and thorns snatched at his clothing as he was dragged closer to the water, which was boiling so violently that dead fish, killed instantly, were bobbing belly-up on its surface.

  Feel the water. Smell it. Hear it. Know it better than you know your own blood, your own heartbeat, your own skin... Taste it in your mind, see it with your heart. Let it be you, so that it will let you be it.

  All Verlon had ever taught him, all he had ever taught himself, everything he knew about the liquid mystery of water magic swelled into one tidal wave of effort as he fought to keep Verlon from killing him.

  Let the water be in you, that you may be in the water. Answer when it whispers, so it will answer when you whisper.

  Cheylan whispered with all his might, praying that he had listened long and hard enough, through all the years of study and practice, to survive this confrontation with the great waterlord who had trained him—and who hated him enough to kill him.

  Let it seduce you, that it will be seduced by you, too.

  Guardians were the servants of fire, but a waterlord was the master of his element. If a waterlord's talent was great enough and his concentration good enough, all the listening eventually led to being heard. All the seduction led to love.

  Love the water, so that it can love you in return.

  This was where a waterlord gave his heart of stone. To this. To the crystal clear element that sought his love even more jealously than the destroyer goddess did. To the pure chill of power which rewarded his talent beyond anything Dar could ever offer. This great gift drank a man's heart like wine, and he never missed what lesser men thought of as love.

  Now, fighting for his life—for the life which held such promise of greatness yet to come—Cheylan reached for the water; coaxed it, whispered to it, seduced it. And felt it yield to his love.

  And when the water loves you, then you will own it and do with it as you will.

  He felt Verlon now, too, felt him the way a suitor felt his rival in his midst. They struggled against each other, their fierce wills clashing in watery silence, in chilly rage, in a desperate struggle which was, as it had always been, about so much more than the water itself.

  Then all at once, Cheylan felt the stream yield to his will. The tentacles around his feet collapsed into a puddle. The stream stopped bubbling and hissing, subsiding into a weary stalemate as steam rose from its now calm surface.

  Cheylan didn't let go, and neither did Verlon.

  "It's the Idalar River all over again," Cheylan murmured dryly. This was why the most important waterway in Sileria looked uncannily peaceful; Baran and Kiloran were in a constant battle with each other for complete mastery of it, and water without a decisive master tended to look just like unensorcelled water—to everyone but another waterlord, that was.

  Cheylan knew what would happen next, so he waited. Sure enough, before long, a small party of men appeared on the crest of the hill that rose above the far side of the stream. Cheylan watched impassively as the old man, dressed in richly elegant clothes and using a cane that looked (ostentatiously, Cheylan thought) like a giant shir, began making his way down the hill, flanked by two assassins, their red jashareen brilliant against their black tunics.

  When the old man stood at the edge of the stream, Cheylan crossed his fists over his chest and bowed his head. "Grandfather," he asked, "what have I done to deserve such a violent welcome?"

  Verlon glared coldly at him. "You mean apart from plotting against me with the Lironi?"

  "Is that what you believe?"

  "Hmm, let me think," Verlon snarled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Yes."

  "And you think I came alone to your stronghold—"

  "You're still a few strides outside of my stronghold," Verlon pointed out testily. The stream warded his home.

  "—because I have a death wish. That would be your theory?"

  Verlon studied him suspiciously. "Are you here as an envoy? To speak on their behalf?"

  "No."

  The water on Verlon's side of the stream bubbled briefly. "Then what are you doing here?"

  "Were you really going to kill me?"

  "The rebellion's over. The war is between the Society and Josarian's loyalists now, and you've sided with them." Verlon nodded. "Of course I was going to kill you."

  "You can't," Cheylan replied.

  "You've continued practicing," Verlon noted sourly.

  "And you're old."

  "True," Verlon said, his face darkening. "But if you make me mad enough, I might even exert myself, sriliah."

  Cheylan had heard the shallah word for "traitor" from his grandfather too often to be angered by it, so he only replied, "We're not peasants, so why do you insist on talking like one?"

  "Because there isn't a word in common Silerian bad enough to describe you!"

  "It's so good to be home," Cheylan said dryly.

  "This isn't your home. This hasn't been your home for years."

  "As much as I enjoy these reunions, grandfather, I don't have much time, so perhaps we could stop exchanging barbs and—"

  "Come to the point? Please do," Verlon invited nastily.

  Cheylan made it simple: "I am with you, not them."

  Verlon was so startled
that Cheylan felt the old man's grip on the stream give way. Just a little. Then Verlon snorted with open disdain. "Why? Has something happened that I don't know about?"

  "Plenty," Cheylan assured him. "And don't you want to know? Doesn't it make sense that someone among us should know?"

  "Us?" Verlon repeated.

  "The waterlords."

  "You're not a—"

  "Aren't I?" Cheylan challenged. "No, I'm not in the Honored Society, and I have no territory or assassins. But how many waterlords in Sileria could battle you for control of your own moat," he said, gesturing to the stream between them, "and win?"

  "You haven't won!" Verlon hurled, infuriated. "It isn't yours yet, you—"

  "But it's not entirely yours anymore, either, is it?" Cheylan didn't like raising his voice, but he usually had to when trying to make the old man listen to him. That hadn't changed.

  Verlon's face darkened. "Give it back!" he ordered.

  "After you've calmed down," Cheylan promised. Seeing his grandfather on the verge of a tantrum, he added, "I don't want it. Not yet, anyhow. You can have it back as soon as I'm sure you're not going to attack me again."

  "I won't attack you again!" Verlon screamed.

  "That," Cheylan said, "wasn't entirely convincing, grandfather."

  Verlon exploded in an inarticulate vent of rage, making noises not unlike the cries of a mountain cat in rut. He threw his cane on the ground, then shouted at one of his assassins to pick it up.

  Tired of wasting time, Cheylan continued, "You ambushed me—"

  "You should have been expecting it!"

  "I admit, I wasn't anticipating a warm welcome. Not in our family—"

  "You have some nerve talking to me about—"

  "And I can't claim to be entirely surprised that you—"

  "I have every right!" Verlon shouted. "I should have killed you years ago!"

  "Have you forgotten," Cheylan asked with a touch of irritation, "that you rescinded the bloodvow you swore against me?"

  "I've changed my mind!"

  Cheylan sighed.

  Verlon stomped around, waving his cane, hurling insults and abuse—and trying, without any success, to pull his stream away from Cheylan's will. After the old man had worn himself out a little, Cheylan tried to reason with him again.

  "They think I am with them because that's what I want them to think," he told the waterlord.

  "Yes, you're good at that," Verlon said bitterly.

  "But the Guardians are doomed, as are Josarian's followers. Tansen is locked in a quarrel with Kiloran which he can never win. And how long can Mirabar survive with every waterlord and assassin in Sileria looking for her?"

  He was pleased to see that Verlon was listening to him now, albeit with a suspicious expression on his weathered face.

  "I want to come home, grandfather," said Cheylan.

  "I don't want you to come home," Verlon replied baldly.

  "Can you stand alone against the Lironi and Kiloran?"

  Verlon's head jerked with surprise. "How do you know about—" Then he stopped himself.

  "About Kiloran?"

  Verlon nodded.

  "He's making a move on your territory."

  Verlon stepped forward. "How do you know?"

  "I know because Tansen knows."

  Actually, Cheylan knew that Verlon had been duped. Kiman shah Moynari had described the whole plan to him, as explained to him by Tansen in Zilar's gold-tiled temple. The Moynari had recently helped the Lironi slaughter eleven of Verlon's assassins, leaving no survivors to tell who had done it—and leaving behind one of Kiloran's shir to cast blame on the waterlord and promote feuding within the Society.

  It was a good plan, and it served Cheylan's purposes, too. He didn't want any of the waterlords too strong, and he certainly didn't want them united.

  Verlon fumed, "Kiloran already has Cavasar, the mines of Alizar, the Idalar River—"

  "Well, not the Idalar—not entirely, that is."

  "Oh. True. There are moments in which I could almost love that madman Baran." Verlon was briefly amused, but then he scowled again. "Kiloran won't be satisfied until he rules all of Sileria! And he knows I'm powerful enough to oppose him. That fat, snake-eyed old lizard wants it all, and—"

  "And we must deny it to him."

  "We?" Verlon said scathingly.

  "This is the east, and the east has always been ours, grandfather."

  "Ours?"

  "You have been the supreme waterlord here for thirty years. Your territory is a birthright passed down to you from your teacher. Now that the Valdani are finally gone, now that the Firebringer is safely dead, now that the Society's destiny is at hand and the waterlords will finally rule Sileria... Now is your time, grandfather. Who in all of Sileria deserves to rule the east as much as you do?"

  "And why are you being so generous?"

  "I'm being practical," Cheylan corrected.

  "So you've already decided what's in it for you," Verlon translated.

  Cheylan nodded. "Who deserves more than I to inherit your legacy? To take your place after you're gone?"

  "I know you," Verlon growled. "You won't wait until I'm gone."

  "So you'd rather see Kiloran take it?"

  Verlon glared at him, his face contorting as he considered and dismissed various responses to this.

  "Even if you chose someone else," Cheylan continued, "would they have a chance of standing against him, as I would?" Upon receiving no reply, he added ruthlessly, "Would they have a chance of standing against me when I decided to take back what should have been mine in the first place?"

  "You flatter yourself," Verlon snapped.

  "Do I, grandfather?" He didn't even glance at the stream. He didn't need to. He knew Verlon could feel his firm grasp on all its fluid potential. "How many waterlords in all of Sileria could do this to you? Two? Three? Five? No more than that, surely."

  Verlon shrugged.

  Cheylan waved his hand and set the surface of the stream on fire. Verlon didn't move, but Cheylan was pleased at the way the assassins edged away from the flaming water, their shir twitching so wildly that he could see it from here.

  "And I," Cheylan added, "am so much more than a waterlord."

  "Show some respect, boy," Verlon growled.

  Cheylan glanced over his shoulder, looking up at the clouds, up to where Darshon's sacred snow-capped peak, still violent with mysterious tumult, dominated the sky. "What other water wizard in all of Sileria enjoys Her favor? Of all of us, who but me can make peace with Her?"

  "Peace..." Verlon frowned in puzzlement.

  "You know there must be peace, at last, between fire and water in Sileria."

  "No," Verlon said. "It must be us or them. We can never exist together."

  Cheylan shrugged. "I didn't say we wouldn't have to kill a lot of them. But eliminate the Guardians of the Otherworld?" He shook his head. "There will be no need, with me at your side."

  "And with your dagger in my back."

  "You're very old, grandfather," Cheylan pointed out. "And I have learned patience."

  "A great deal more than patience," Verlon replied cynically —but Cheylan could see him giving in.

  "If you reject me now, grandfather," he said, looking across the burning water, "you will be alone against Kiloran and the Lironi. Alone, and with no one strong enough to honor your legacy after you die. But if you welcome me home, we can defeat them all, make peace with the destroyer goddess, protect what is ours... and someday claim what is also theirs. Then, grandfather, even after you're gone, your blood will run through the veins of the most powerful ruler Sileria has ever known."

  "You've become very ambitious," Verlon noted.

  "I've always been ambitious," he replied. "I just never knew what to do about it before."

  "Apart from trying to kill me, you mean."

  "As Kiloran says," Cheylan replied philosophically, "mistakes are so easily made."

  Verlon snorted, then began pa
cing back and forth, leaning on his cane, his face intent and serious as he considered his grandson's words. "These are extraordinary times," he said at last. "Josarian changed everything. This is no longer the world to which either you or I were born." He nodded and kept pacing. "New answers must be sought, because all of the questions are new." He lifted his face and looked up to where Darshon loomed above them, swimming in the churning colors of Dar's choosing. "The waterlord who rules the east must heed Dar's warnings and learn to exist with Her," he acknowledged. "Not like those fools in the west who can dismiss Her so easily in their dank ruins and underwater lairs, so far from Her wrath, so far from the smoke and fire of Her fury."

  Cheylan waited.

  Verlon turned to face him across the enchanted flames and ensorcelled water. "You can protect my legacy. I believe that." Cheylan knew is was a huge admission from the old man. "And you can build from it to create a great one of your own." He nodded. "There has never been another man like you. Not in Sileria. At least not that I know of. No one with the range of your talents." He paused for a moment. "I have no intention of losing everything I have achieved, everything I hold through power and will. Not to Kiloran. Not to the Lironi." His eyes were hard as he added, "Not to you."

  Cheylan said nothing.

  "Your strength combined with mine would ensure my place until I die," Verlon continued. "And I would indeed like my heir to rule all of Sileria." He looked down, staring moodily at the fiery stream for a moment, then met Cheylan's eyes again. "But how can I trust you? How can I possibly trust you?"

  Now Cheylan spoke. "Tell me what it will take to win your trust again."

  "I don't know."

  "I do."

  Verlon looked both interested and suspicious. "What?"

  "Do you know the greatest threat to you? To all of us?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's not the Lironi, or Tansen, or Kiloran, or even Mirabar. It's Dar's chosen one."

  "Mirabar's vision of a new Yahrdan."

  "You've heard, then?"

  "The same rumors everyone else has heard."

  Cheylan sprang the trap: "I know who it is."

  "What?"

  Oh, he had the old man; yes, he had him now. And he would get what he wanted. "There's still time to stop him, to get rid of him. Only it must be done soon. He'll be more powerful than the Firebringer, harder to kill, impossible to control, if he's allowed to reach manhood."