The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  He pondered these and other depressing questions as he wandered south, idly taking whatever detours appealed to him, and stopping often. By night, he drank whatever was available, usually to such excess that he blacked out and awoke in uncomfortable (even embarrassing) situations with little or no memory of what had passed. He mostly kept away from women, not so much because of his recent disastrous experiences with Yenibar, but mostly because sex started to seem like too much effort for too little ease of his desperate longing, his gnawing loneliness—especially here, deep in the mountains, where the bloodthirsty shallaheen were so quick to punish any insult to their women.

  He had taken enough money from Elelar's house to supply his taste for Kintish dreamweed and Moorlander cloud syrup, but there was very little of these luxuries to be had in Sileria these days. There were plenty of beggars, though, and sometimes he even tossed them a coin or two, just because it was easy.

  There were also an extraordinary number of pilgrims on the crumbling roads and narrow mountain paths lately. More every day, it seemed. It was almost as if everyone who wasn't busy plotting, scheming, and fighting in Sileria's civil war (better known, in select shallah circles, as Tansen's bloodfeud against Kiloran) was rushing headlong to Mount Darshon to...

  To do what? Commune with Dar? Become a zanar? Die in the massive eruption that any sensible person could plainly see was a very real possibility? Suffocate in the clouds of gas—or whatever it was—swirling around Darshon's summit? Get swallowed by the lava which was starting to force its way out of cracks in the mountain's rocky skin, just as deadly vapors were doing?

  "Dar has Called me to dance on the blood of her heart, toren!" a proud young shallah proclaimed one to him one day on the road.

  "And that would mean what, in ordinary language?" he asked.

  Ronall was astonished to learn it meant lava-walking, or some such insanity. People who weren't even Guardians were racing headlong to Darshon to dance on the borning lava flows and thereby prove themselves beloved of Dar.

  "And the singing?" Ronall asked someone else one day. "All that singing and chanting and wailing..." Which was making his aching head want to split open under the blazing sunshine. "It couldn't wait until you get to Darshon and actually start dancing?"

  No one answered. They were too busy ululating.

  "Dar is Calling us to inhale the scents of her womb!" two wild-eyed Sisters told him early one evening as he entered their crowded Sanctuary and requested a place to sleep for the night.

  "That doesn't sound pleasant," he replied, desperate for some wine or ale in the absence of anything stronger.

  "To breathe in the fire-blessed perfume of her secret places!"

  "Are you sure you want to do that?" he asked skeptically.

  "All who survive will be beloved of Dar!" promised a painfully skinny zanar who was helping the Sisters pack up their meager belongings.

  "And all who don't survive will be smelly corpses on the mountain slope," Ronall pointed out. "I don't think inhaling those vapors is going to be a nice way to die."

  The zanar seized him by the shoulders, looked deep into his face with eyes which appeared less than perfectly sane, and cried, "Not all deaths can be the pleasure which Dar has proclaimed yours to be, toren!"

  Ronall wiped the zanar's flecks of spittle off his cheek. "Isn't that a shame?"

  "Each will serve Her in his own way! Each will rise or fall according to his merit in Dar's heart!" the zanar shouted.

  "Yes, yes, I know." It was the sort of thing the zanareen were always saying, and one of the reasons he was glad the Imperial Advisor had banned them from Shaljir years ago. "Is there anything to drink around here?"

  "If Dar has forsaken you, then that is your destiny!"

  "Indeed. You know, even just some volcano ale would be f—"

  "But Dar knows where you belong!"

  Ronall sighed. "Then I do wish She would tell me." He turned to one of the Sisters and tried to get her attention. "Look, I can pay for—"

  "Sanctuary and its blessings are free to all, toren," she replied, not even looking at him. "But we've run out of food and drink."

  "I'm not surprised," he muttered. There was already barely enough room to breathe in here, and he had little doubt that even more travelers would arrive before night descended. "Perhaps I'll press on."

  "May we go with you, toren?" the Sister asked, bothering to look at him now that she wanted something from him.

  "With me?"

  "Just until our paths separate." She paused and added, "You're not going to Darshon, are you?"

  "Of course not," Ronall said. "The way the volcano's been acting lately? Believe me, I'd be as far away as Cavasar right now, if I weren't even more afraid of Kiloran than I am of Dar."

  "But you can protect us until our ways must part," the Sister said decisively. She returned to her packing.

  Less than thrilled with this prospect, he suggested, "Don't you want to wait until morning to leave? It'll be dark in just another—"

  "The moons are full, and we know the paths around here very well."

  "But surely you can wait—"

  "No, toren. Dar has Called us, and we must go."

  "Fine," he said. "Whatever."

  They followed him until after dark, babbling with holy fervor the whole while. It was a relief to bid them and their mad zanar farewell under the glowing faces of Abayara and Ejara.

  "Things just keep getting stranger and stranger," he muttered, wandering the countryside until he found an abandoned Kintish shrine in which to spend the night.

  It stank of sheep.

  They finally found Kiloran's tented camp deep in the mountains. He was on the move, maintaining his power over his vast territory, administering punishments and rewards according to who angered him and who pleased him; who paid tribute and who did not; who rebelled and who obeyed.

  He was all that Tansen had ever heard he was, a man whom any sane person would fear. His power was immense, his strength unparalleled, and his soul as cold as the bitter chill of his sorcery.

  Although the location of his permanent home was a secret which he did not share even with Armian, he couldn't keep his movements a complete secret from the Outlookers. Instead of attacking him, they usually accepted bribes to leave him alone. Many of them even, Tansen soon realized, simply left Kiloran alone out of sheer fear.

  A master of subterfuge, Kiloran advised Armian to use a false name, even among his most trusted assassins. Apart from Tansen, Elelar, and her grandfather, Kiloran was the only person in Sileria who knew Armian's true identity, and the waterlord wanted it to remain that way for the time being. So Armian took the name of Tansen's original father, Dustan, and pretended to be a relative of Kiloran's who spent most of his time on the mainland.

  Kiloran treated Armian with affectionate courtesy and, in private, recalled many tales of Armian's father, Harlon. He admonished Tansen to listen and learn, to take pride in these tales of great power and terrible destruction.

  "As Armian's bloodson," Kiloran told Tansen, "this is your history, too."

  Tansen wanted to protest. His history lay among the ashes of the dead Gamalani. He said nothing, though, because it would be rude to argue. And because he quickly recognized that it was safer to let Kiloran see what he wanted to see.

  Kiloran treated Torena Elelar with the good manners due a young woman of her rank. Tansen could tell from their conversations, not all of which he understood, that Kiloran was an educated man, and that the rumors about his elevated birth were probably true.

  The old waterlord was not prone to reckless haste, and so he carefully considered Armian's proposal—the Moorlanders' plan for the overthrow of Valdani rule in Sileria—posing many questions and pondering numerous possibilities. He was concerned that the plan might fail and the Honored Society would bear the full weight of the Emperor's fury—a destructive force which had already weakened the waterlords in these hard times—while the Moorlanders abandoned them to face th
e consequences alone. He also agreed with Elelar, who spoke for her grandfather, Toren Gaborian, when she said that Sileria must, above all, be sure that the Moorlanders would indeed leave when the Valdani were driven out.

  Armian had the answers to most of their questions. He was empowered to speak for the chieftains of the Moorlands, for the hairy, demon-fearing, blood-drinkers who offered the hope of freedom to Sileria. He seemed to trust promises of the savage barbarians who had sheltered him during the long years when his people believed him dead, lost, or hidden somewhere in the Kintish Kingdoms.

  "A ship will come to a hidden cove on the Adalian coast," Armian explained to Kiloran. "I am to give them the Society's answer then."

  "When?" Elelar asked.

  "After the dry season," Armian replied. "When the rains come."

  "Oh, we'll have an answer for them by then," Kiloran said. A slight smile nearly warmed his cold, stern face as he assured Armian, "By then, I'm sure, you and I will be as close as father and son."

  Tansen felt cold as he watched his father offer a son's embrace to the old wizard with a heart of stone.

  Tansen worried about Zarien's lack of complaint as he led the boy up a steep and rocky footpath on the ancient slopes of Mount Shaljir. He knew it was a hard climb for the sea-born boy. He had grown to expect—yes, perhaps even enjoy—the boy's breathless and caustic comments about treks which few shallaheen even considered demanding. Zarien's sarcastic but good-natured commentary usually made Tansen smile.

  The boy was still grieving hard. Too hard to object, as he otherwise would have, to being coaxed, urged, prodded, and dragged up Mount Shaljir on a hot, dry day like this. Tansen felt helpless to ease his pain. The loss of his family was a terrible wound in Zarien's heart. The betrayal of a goddess was perhaps even worse. Tansen had experienced both things, too, and knew that the pain of each cut was so great that it was impossible to measure.

  To sacrifice so much, to believe so profoundly, and then to lose everything, even his faith...

  Tansen knew he couldn't make the pain go away. Like all pain, it would fade in its own time; and like all wounds, it would leave a scar. Healing was a slow thing, and Tansen knew he must be patient. He and Zarien talked often. They also often kept each other company in silence. It felt like too little to do for the boy, yet he knew that there was no more to be done.

  No more... except perhaps what he meant to do today.

  He kept climbing, following his instincts, looking for the right place to stop. The pace was too slow for him, too fast for Zarien—precisely the way they had become used to traveling together.

  Going higher, they came across ancient Guardian altars, long-forgotten sites consecrated to Dar. Though forbidden to Guardians by the Valdani for two hundred years, Mount Shaljir was a holy place. Once, so long ago that Dar had stopped mourning centuries before the Conquest, Her consort had dwelled here, a fiery lover spewing lava in response to Her longings and rages. Whether he had been a mortal blessed with godhood, or a god cursed with mortal flaws, no one knew; but one day he had burned himself out and faded away, leaving only the mountain behind him, honeycombed with tunnels and caves created by ancient lava flows and forgotten eruptions. And some of these places bore the paintings left thousands of years ago by the Beyah-Olvari.

  Tansen suppressed a surge of frustration as he thought of the Olvar again. He had learned nothing useful from the wizened old wizard. The Olvar didn't even acknowledge his questions about Elelar—or anything else. Oh, well. It was understandable.

  "Others like us. Alive. Somewhere in Sileria."

  It was an extraordinary announcement, even in these extraordinary times. Unfortunately, the Olvar knew no more than that, at least not yet, and the euphoria produced by this discovery... vision... prophecy.... whatever it was—well, it made the Olvar incoherent with joy, effectively eliminating all further discussion.

  Zarien didn't mind. He said the Sacred Pool smelled funny and made him feel strange. Tansen suspected it was more likely the dankness of the tunnels which the sea-born boy smelled, and the feeling of being enclosed in those narrow, low-ceilinged caverns that he didn't like. Tansen didn't particularly like it, either. Anyhow, Zarien was more than ready to leave, and Tansen saw no reason not to humor him.

  The rest of their stay in Shaljir had been extremely busy for Tansen and hard on Zarien—who could smell the sea every waking and sleeping moment that they remained in the city. They shared a large bedchamber in Santorell Palace where once, Tansen soon learned, Imperial Advisor Borell had regularly entertained his mistress—Torena Elelar. So Tansen didn't like their quarters any better than the restless sea-born boy did. Tansen spent long days, starting early and stretching well into the night, meeting with high-ranking members of the Alliance to discuss governing the newly independent nation, addressing vast crowds of city-dwellers about the past and the future (and the massacres), and working closely with people from all walks of life—particularly Guardians—to prepare for Kiloran's assault on the city's water supply.

  It was all important work. It was also exhausting and frequently frustrating. He loathed cooperating with the same people who had sacrificed Josarian's life in the secret peace treaty with the Valdani. He distrusted them all—including Elelar, whose public manner toward him revealed none of the private tumult the two of them had always known. He missed Josarian most of all when he had to appear before vast, cheering crowds whose adulation embarrassed him as much as it impressed Zarien. He found the threatening dispatches from Valda as alarming as they were insulting, and he was furious when someone left a Valdani corpse where Zarien, of all people, was the first to come upon it.

  Tansen was eager to return to the mountains, where the fighting was getting fiercer every day according to the latest news Elelar had received. The dry season, which was settling into the land now, would be a huge challenge to his bloodfeud against the Society. It was also making Shaljir an increasingly unpleasant place. Even Tansen, an eastern-born shallah, knew that most of the wealthy citizens of Shaljir habitually abandoned it at this time of year for their country homes, only returning to the city after the long rains began. Yes, he would be glad to leave the city soon—and rather pleased to leave behind Elelar, Toren Varian, and their kind roasting in the hot, airless, stench-filled city. They had little chance of enjoying their usual rural leisure this year, with so much work demanding their attention in Shaljir while civil war raged across the mountains and the lowlands.

  However, although he and Zarien wouldn't be in Shaljir for much longer, Tansen had every intention of visiting the Olvar again, in the hopes of finding him calmer and getting some answers.

  Maybe I'll leave Zarien behind next time, though.

  The Olvar's vague comments bothered Zarien, who hadn't liked him. Tansen decided not to share his private musings about the possibility that Zarien himself was the sea king. It could perhaps explain how the boy had healed his shir wound, if that was indeed what had happened. But that was a discussion which could wait until Zarien was done mourning and his anger at Sharifar had finally dimmed a bit. Meanwhile, Tansen was at least pleased that a visit to the mythical (or so Zarien had thought) Beyah-Olvari, however disappointing, had lifted the boy's sorrow-laden spirits for a few hours. That alone had made the trip worthwhile.

  Hearing no tortured scrambling behind him now on Mount Shaljir's steep slope, Tansen realized he had absent-mindedly increased his speed and left Zarien far behind. He paused and waited for the boy to catch up.

  Overall, Zarien seemed grateful that Tansen didn't insist on going to sea. Zarien was still convinced Tansen was the sea king, but now he was fiercely determined to deny him to Sharifar. For his part, Tansen was almost guiltily relieved. He didn't want to be beloved of a goddess, as Josarian had been. There was a woman in the mountains whom Tansen wanted to claim, and he couldn't have her if he was Sharifar's consort. Mirabar had made it very clear that sharing was not in her nature, and he rather doubted that Sharifar would like such an arran
gement, either. Dar, after all, had been very jealous of Josarian's love for his dead wife, forbidding him to mourn Calidar any longer. So Tansen didn't think a sea goddess would be more inclined to tolerate his love for another woman—one who was not only alive, but fiercely powerful in her own right.

  Now that he was going back to her soon, he hoped the decision about their future together would be as clear to Mirabar as it had become to him ever since Zarien announced that Tansen would not, after all, embrace Sharifar.

  Of course, Mirabar—like Elelar—was a creature of duty. She might insist Tansen try approaching Sharifar anyhow, with or without Zarien's help. However, being close to the sea left Tansen as indifferent to Sharifar's desire as he had been in the mountains. He still believed that whomever she sought, it wasn't him. And the more he thought about it, the more he believed Zarien was the most likely possibility. Now if only Tansen could convince Mirabar that he wasn't the sea king, perhaps he could convince her, too, of his sincerity about forsaking all others—all others—for her, if she would accept him.

  He didn't want to think about Elelar's conviction that Mirabar was destined to kill her; that the fate of Sileria rested upon it. He tried not to remember how much Mirabar wanted the torena dead. He...

  He sighed and admitted that he still had a lot of problems with women to worry about, even if Sharifar was no longer his concern—or at least not his concern until Zarien had traveled far enough from his grief to think about the goddess without such harsh feelings.

  And who knew when that would be? Not Tansen, who doubted he would ever forgive Dar for letting Josarian die.

  He heard weary footsteps and panting breath behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Zarien, drenched in sweat and—he was glad to see—glowering at him with uncomplicated bad temper. "Where," Zarien demanded, "are we going?"