The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  You had to love water to command it. You had to understand it as more than just a substance. It had life, music, character, a will which must be coaxed, harnessed, bullied, beguiled. Water had a scent which that fill you from far away, a sound which could flood your whole being long before others heard it. It offered sensation, demanded focus, required discipline, and responded—to one who could access its deep, hidden, secret heart—with power beyond most men's understanding.

  Kiloran knew now that his mother had suspected from his earliest childhood that he had the gift. But she had brought him to an Idalari waterlord for apprenticeship only after another waterlord's assassins killed her husband when she couldn't pay the ransom required after he'd been abducted during the long rains; like so many toreni, Kiloran's family had already been beggared by the Valdani. Typically Silerian, his mother wanted vengeance. Before she died, a few years later, Kiloran ensured that she had it. By then, of course, the rest of his family had disowned him for joining the Society. Few people now knew where he came from, though the legends about his origins were many.

  So many of the people who had influenced his life were gone now. His mother, who died soon after satisfied vengeance emptied her of the fury that was the source of her strength. The old Idalari waterlord who had taught him the mysteries of water magic. Harlon, so reckless in his opposition to the Empire, so exhilarated by the long and bloody conflict in which the Outlookers had destroyed him. Toren Gaborian, weak in body but with a heart full of visionary enthusiasm; they had never been friends—Kiloran didn't have friends—but they had broken centuries of tradition, a waterlord and a toren, by becoming allies. Armian, perhaps the most ambitious man Kiloran had ever known, defeated by the ordinary things in life—most notably, fatherhood...

  Yes, how Armian had struggled with that role, loving the boy but ignorant of how to manage him.

  "Siran, what do you do when your son disobeys you?" Armian had once asked him. Srijan had been only three years younger than Tansen.

  "I punish him."

  "What if he disobeys you because he thinks you are wrong?"

  "I teach him," said Kiloran.

  "What if he doesn't accept what you teach him?"

  "That has never happened."

  On another occasion, Armian had mused, "Sometimes the boy seems like a stranger."

  "He is a stranger. You've only known him a short time."

  "His family is gone. He looks to me for guidance."

  "Then give it to him," said Kiloran.

  "I try, but... I often feel he wants to see someone else when he looks at me."

  "His real father?"

  "No. A different man."

  "Different?" Kiloran repeated.

  "Different from me. Perhaps... perhaps the man he expected me to be."

  "Ah. Yes. Being a legend can be inconvenient."

  "Very inconvenient for a father, anyhow," Armian agreed.

  Armian had shown some talent for water magic, if not for fatherhood, during the brief time he'd spent with Kiloran. Armian's father, Harlon, would have been proud. Kiloran himself believed he had found his successor, since his own son was devoid of the gift and none of the other prospects appealed to Kiloran. Yes, Armian had flaws, but there had been much promise there... Not least of which was the possibility of Kiloran's complete and unopposed domination of Sileria if Armian's plan worked.

  Kiloran cooled the rage which boiled inside him even now, ten years later, at the memory of all Tansen had taken from him by killing Armian. He forced himself to recall what Armian's shade, floating in Mirabar's strange Guardian fire, had said the night the girl had tumbled through the waters of Lake Kandahar in time to prevent Kiloran from killing Tansen upon his return to Sileria after nine years in exile.

  "Now is the time. We were wrong. Now is the time."

  Ah, destiny was a strange thing. Would their plan really have failed ten years ago even if Armian had lived? And without Tansen's guidance, would Josarian's enthusiastic but unfocused bloodfeud against the Outlookers ever have grown into a national rebellion? There was no way of knowing.

  Unfortunately, the orphaned shallah boy had grown into a dangerous and powerful enemy. Kiloran thought it unlikely that Tansen could convince Sileria to abandon the habits of centuries and rebel against the waterlords—at least, not for long—but any opposition was intolerable and must be prevented.

  If Tansen had even one hundred men at his back—and Kiloran was sure he must—those were one hundred men whom one thousand others would watch with interest. If not crushed, they would gain new recruits. Perhaps not as rapidly as Josarian's rebellion had, since hatred of the Valdani was universal, whereas loyalty to the Society was an ingrained tradition throughout Sileria. But all opposition was dangerous, and none of it could ever be regarded with complacency.

  When one Silerian saw another rise up, refuse to obey, and get away with it—even thrive—then he was likely to try it himself.

  One hundred men could easily be defeated. But one thousand? Perhaps not. Ten thousand men? That was civil war. And all of Sileria? That might be the end of the Society. However, Kiloran knew it needn't come to that.

  The waterlords and their assassins were not Valdani, not roshaheen, not hated conquerors from the mainland. They were as Silerian as the mountains themselves. They were the weft in the tapestry of Sileria's culture, the pillars that supported its bleeding sky, the discipline which held its inherent chaos in check. The Society traced its origins back a thousand years. There would always be water magic in Sileria. Only a fool could think otherwise. And so there would always be waterlords.

  Silerians knew and accepted this. Those who had forgotten must be reminded. Those who opposed Kiloran must be destroyed.

  They knew his power, his inexorable will, his relentless strength. They were his children and would obey.

  What could Tansen offer them, in the end, to embolden them to challenge their masters? With Josarian gone, who was left for the nation to follow?

  This was Kiloran's destiny. His time had come. He would triumph. Truly, what could Tansen promise Silerians beyond chaos, drought, bloodshed, and sorrow?

  Nothing.

  Who was left for Sileria to follow?

  There is only me.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Keeps your friends close,

  but keep your enemies closer.

  —Silerian Proverb

  A child of fire...

  Mirabar reeled in the eddy of stars swimming around her...

  A child of water...

  In the divine liquid fire of history and destiny, of past, present, and future...

  A child of sorrow....

  In the bitter longing of a broken heart, in the vengeful dreams of a wasted life...

  "Where am I?" she asked the Beckoner.

  It was a dark place full of light, a bright place shadowed by darkness. A vast cavern, heavy yet airy, immense yet encroaching.

  "It seems like a big prison."

  Fire and water were all around her. The churning lava of the restless volcano extended its reach to this forgotten place, dripping into the water that flowed through strange tunnels illuminated by unfamiliar glowing shapes. Each time lava touched water, angry hissing filled the air and steam rose to obscure her vision.

  "Why do I feel imprisoned?" Mirabar asked.

  A child of fire...

  She thought the phosphorescent lumps on the walls and ceilings were plants, but now one moved.

  Mirabar uttered a choked shriek, inspired by a purely prosaic fear of strange crawling things.

  Now she noticed other glowing shapes moving, too. Some had long spindly legs, some had no legs at all... And some had what appeared to be a thousand tiny legs.

  "Blegh," she said with feeling.

  However, they all scurried away, as frightened as she was disgusted, so there was no threat from them.

  A child of water...

  "Are they one and the same?"

  It was not a ple
asing prospect, but she had learned to expect almost anything by now.

  Protect what you most long to destroy.

  "What?"

  The strange surroundings evaporated in hissing steam, then a breath of wind blew the vision away. Or so she thought, until she looked up at the night sky overhead and saw two golden, glowing eyes gazing down at her.

  "Daurion?" Mirabar crossed her fists and lowered her head. "Siran."

  He is coming.

  "How will I know him?"

  The eyes faded, and only the night remained.

  "All right," said Pyron, a shallah rebel who had lost his brothers in the mines of Alizar. His voice was startlingly loud behind her. "Did anyone else see that?"

  Mirabar glanced over her shoulder. Since there'd been two earthquakes so recently, no one at Dalishar slept inside the caves tonight. Everyone was outside, sleeping on open ground. Whatever noise Mirabar had made in the throes of her visions had evidently woken many of them in time to see what she had seen in the night sky.

  "Because," Pyron continued, "I really don't want to be the only one who saw that."

  "Welcome to my world," Mirabar said sourly.

  Yorin stood staring up at the sky with his sole eye, his stolen Outlooker sword drawn and ready for battle. "That was... That was... That was..."

  "Very interesting." Lann's voice was unusually thin and high.

  Sister Rahilar, who sat hugging her knees, glanced at Mirabar. "Did you do that?"

  "I don't think so," she replied.

  "He is coming?" Lann ventured.

  Mirabar brightened. "You heard it, too?"

  "Well, no, I didn't hear anything. I just..." He shrugged. "I don't know. Those words just came into my head."

  "Yes." Pyron sat down suddenly. "He is coming."

  Mirabar looked at her protector, who lay at a respectful distance from her and ensured that everyone but Rahilar—the only other woman here—did the same. "Najdan?"

  "Yes, I saw." His voice was stony. He sat up slowly and repeated with concentrated calm, "I saw."

  She knew he didn't like contact with anything Otherworldly, but she was pleased. "This could be good."

  "Sure, that was my first reaction," Pyron said shakily. "This could be good."

  "I mean," Mirabar said, "it will be a lot easier to convince people of my visions if I'm not the only one who has seen them."

  "That was a vision?" Rahilar started rocking back and forth.

  "Well, just part of one."

  "Pyron," Lann said. "Where is that almond wine Josarian likes so mu..." He stumbled over the memory, paused, then tried again. "Where's the almond wine?"

  Pyron nodded and rose clumsily. "Um, there's a lot left. I'll get some."

  Rahilar followed him with her eyes and protested, "Are you sure you should go inside the—"

  "Yes, I'm sure," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into one of the caves.

  Yorin caught Mirabar's eye with his own and winked, a surprisingly frivolous gesture in that tough, scarred face. "Sleep," he said with a shrug. "Who needs it anyhow?"

  This was the second time Mirabar's visions had leaked through the night to ensnare others. The first was the night after Josarian died. Had it happened only here at Dalishar, in her presence? Or were others in Sileria now being alerted to the coming of the new Yahrdan?

  She would, she supposed, find out starting tomorrow, when she quit Dalishar and set out for Zilar, as Tansen had ordered.

  He was gone now, having departed at sunset with five other men. The bustle and excitement here should have made his absence scarcely noticeable, but Mirabar felt it sharply. He had not rested enough, and he was once again off courting death. There were things she might have said...

  Then again, there were things he should have done.

  Stop, she ordered herself. Mirabar's head reeled every time she reviewed their quarrel and the hopelessness of settling it to their mutual satisfaction.

  Overhead, Abayara was starting to wane, but Ejara remained full. The moons' alabaster faces had a faint reddish tinge now and the stars were obscured, thanks to the smoky rages of the volcano. Nut the night was still a bright one for mountain-born eyes. Mirabar looked in the direction of Darshon—and rose to her feet even as Lann muttered, "Look!"

  One by one, the rebels followed his gaze. Mirabar walked to the edge of the clearing, to the craggy cliff's edge, and stared into the distance, apprehensively staring at the snow-capped peak of the volcano wherein dwelled Dar, the destroyer goddess.

  Lightning flashed violently above Darshon, again and again, illuminating the mountaintop as columns of colored smoke rose from the caldera. Pink, red, orange, yellow, and ghostly white, the spirals of smoke and steam coiled upwards into the tumultuous storm, then swayed and shifted, as if shying away from the restless lightning which broke open the sky, over and over.

  Mirabar didn't realize she was holding her breath until she heard Najdan, now standing close to her, release his.

  "Have..." She felt her lower lip tremble and bit down on it for a moment. "Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

  "No." His voice was scarcely recognizable. "Not even as a child in the Year of Red Moons."

  Colored clouds rose and spread around Darshon's icy summit, swaying this way and that, sometimes snatching their heads back like snakes in response to the high winds and the angry bursts of lightning. Shifting and galloping light turned colors in the night and danced wildly all around the sacred home of Dar.

  "My father..." Lann said hoarsely. "He once said you could see the dead dance, in the right light..."

  "That isn't the dead," Mirabar said with certainty.

  "No," Cheylan agreed. Mirabar had forgotten about him. She had forgotten everything for a few moments. She tore her gaze away from Darshon now and met his eyes. Like her, he had seen shades of the dead. So he knew, too, that this was something else.

  "What is that?" Pyron asked, carrying a large wineskin as he joined them and stared wide-eyed at Darshon.

  "We don't know," Mirabar replied.

  "Well, you're supposed to know!" There was a shadow of panic in his voice. "This is your—your sort of... you know."

  "Give me that wine," Mirabar said.

  "Wine all around, I think," Lann added.

  "Good idea," said Pyron. "There's plenty more where this came from, blessed be Josarian's memory."

  "Josarian!" Yorin exclaimed. Everyone else looked at him. "Don't you see? Dar is angry that the Firebringer is dead."

  Everyone looked at Mirabar for confirmation.

  All she could say was, "Possibly." She looked back at the swimming, colored mists and the lights whirling around Darshon with increasing urgency. "But since we didn't kill him, we have nothing to fear."

  "I like that theory," Pyron said. "I respectfully accept the sirana's interpretation of—"

  "And if Dar is angry," Mirabar continued, "then She shouldn't have let him die."

  A crack of volcanic thunder roared in the distance as a column of flame, visible even at this distance, shot straight up into the tumultuous sky over the caldera. Mirabar fell back a step, while many of the shallaheen ran halfway to the dubious safety of the caves before collecting their wits.

  "Disrespectful comments—" Najdan began.

  "I don't care," Mirabar snapped. "Whatever gods rule us, they have used me, tormented me, and led me around at their will." Her eyes were misty with frustrated rage. "If Dar wants my continued service, then She had damn well better be worthy of it."

  "Mirabar..." Najdan said, surprising her with his almost unprecedented use of her name.

  She looked at him now and saw his confusion, his uncertainty. She saw his age, his scars, and the hard life he had led. She saw him wandering the unknown territory into which he had ventured, following her with such stern devotion.

  And she realized that she must be stronger than this. For him, and for the others.

  With the Firebringer dead, they counted on her
to understand Dar for them. To reassure them. To soothe their fears of the destroyer goddess and convince them of Her continuing love.

  Mirabar didn't feel strong, she wasn't at all sure there was nothing to fear from Darshon, and she had no idea if Dar still loved them. But she knew—because she had known Josarian, and knew Tansen—that her private fears were irrelevant and mustn't dictate her actions. Especially not in front of others.

  "I'm sorry," she said quietly to Najdan. Then she turned and announced to everyone else, "We have nothing to fear. We were the Firebringer's friends. We tried to save him. We will avenge him. And Darshon... is very far away tonight."

  These statements, and a few additional ones, had the desired effect—as did the almond wine which Josarian had favored so much that his men ensured there was always a good supply of it here at Dalishar.

  Only Cheylan did not join in the determined drinking and nervous conversation with which Josarian's friends now tried to comfort themselves. He remained at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on Darshon's distant drama.

  Mirabar eventually joined him. "What do you think?" she asked.

  "I'm not sure." His dark hair absorbed the light of the sacred fires of Dalishar and the torches that the rebels had used to further illuminate this strange night. His golden eyes glowed as he gazed across Sileria. "But I find it... interesting."

  "I'm afraid for you," she said. "Going east again tomorrow."

  Cheylan smiled as he looked at her. "I'll be fine. I'm from the east, after all." He shrugged. "This display is new, but we in the east are accustomed to living with Dar's moods and tantrums."

  "Please be careful." Her voice almost broke. She had said goodbye to friends too often lately. "Please don't..." She made a little sound and concluded, "Don't fail to return."

  He placed his palm against her cheek. The unscarred palm of a toren. "I will return to you. Nothing will stop me."

  His wasn't the touch which made her blood run hot like lava and her heart swell like gossamer leaves soaking up the rain. But he understood what it was like to be her. Tonight, maybe because she felt lost, afraid, and lonely, Mirabar felt a tremendous kinship with Cheylan. Even if another man had stolen her heart, this one would always have her trust.