The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  "Tansen!" Josarian screamed.

  "Josarian!" Tansen sat bolt upright, shouting his brother's name.

  "What? What! What?" Zarien howled, flinging himself around in the dark, his voice high with panic.

  Heart pounding, breath coming hard, Tansen quickly said, "Nothing. It's nothing. I'm sorry."

  "What!" Zarien repeated, his voice loud enough to wake shades of the dead. "What's happening?"

  Tansen heard the clatter of wood and guessed the boy was fumbling for his stahra in the dark chamber they shared here in Sister Shannibar's Sanctuary.

  "Nothing," Tansen repeated. "Nothing. It's all right."

  "It's not all right!" Zarien cried. "I... I'm..." There was a long, dark silence, punctuated only by the sound of their racing breath. "It was m..." Zarien gulped air. Tansen heard him sink to the floor. "It was more of those dreams of yours, wasn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "Don't you ever just... sleep? Like other people?"

  "Not lately," he muttered. "Not often."

  "Did you ever?" Zarien asked plaintively.

  "A long time ago. When I was..." He sighed gustily. "When I was your age."

  "A long time ago," Zarien agreed.

  "Sorry I woke you."

  "What do you dream about?"

  Mostly about the night I murdered my bloodfather.

  No, perhaps he wouldn't share that with the child. "Things."

  "That's it?" He heard outrage in the youthful voice. "That's all you're going to tell me, after scaring me half to d—"

  "Josarian," he snapped.

  "What?"

  He sighed again. "I was dreaming about Josarian. About the night he died."

  He heard Zarien draw a sharp breath. "The night Kiloran killed him."

  "Yes."

  "Tell me," said Zarien.

  "What?"

  "About the night Josarian died. About the White Dragon."

  "No," Tansen said firmly. "That's not a good story for the dark." No point in both of them having nightmares.

  "Then tell me about Josarian," Zarien persisted. "What was the Firebringer like?"

  Oh, this boy could pierce the heart with such accuracy.

  Tansen drew up his knees and rested his chin on them, grateful that the dark hid his expression. He made a fist with his hand, then opened it again. The shir wound there, gotten during the ambush he'd survived on the way to Dalishar, had started troubling him again after the attack on Abidan and Liadon. Sister Norimar had tended it for him this evening—weeping copiously the whole time over Galian's death. Tansen hadn't realized there'd been a spark between those two. Now they'd never know if there could have been flames.

  So much is lost with every death. So much.

  "Tell me about Josarian," Zarien repeated. "You knew the Firebringer better than anyone, they say."

  Josarian.

  Think about something besides the night he died. Think about something good.

  "He..." Tansen breathed away the tension, the horror of the nightmare, the pain of the memory. He closed his eyes and remembered the man whom he had taken as his brother. "He had the biggest, most generous heart of anyone I've ever known. He was... all that's good about Sileria, about the shallaheen. He was very brave and loyal, strong and practical, shrewd and honorable. But he was also compassionate and fair, which are not virtues taught to everyone in the mountains," Tansen admitted wryly. "Josarian treated everyone with respect, and anyone who met him responded with respect, from the poorest shallah to the loftiest toren. He..." Tansen hesitated, but then told the boy with honesty, "Perhaps he loved too much, when he loved. He couldn't get over his wife's death, and he probably never would have, if he had lived. He couldn't see the flaws in his cousin, Zimran, who betrayed him. Josarian was very wise in some ways, but terribly innocent in others."

  "How did you become bloodbrothers?"

  "It's late," Tansen pointed out.

  "My heart has jumped out of my chest and is even now halfway to sea," Zarien replied. "I'm not going back to sleep soon."

  Tansen smiled. "I'll light a candle."

  "And perhaps there's some food left?"

  Tansen laughed softly. "Yes, we can look."

  "Good!"

  So they brought light into the dark night, found something to keep Zarien from starving to death before morning, and talked. Tansen answered the boy's questions about how, after being arrested by Outlookers in Cavasar, he had first met Josarian by tracking down the mountain bandit on the pretense of killing him for the Valdani—but really, in fact, to join Josarian in harassing them.

  "We became bloodbrothers the night before we attacked the Outlooker fortress at Britar, where we freed Josarian's imprisoned friends and relatives."

  "I've heard that story!"

  "Good, then I don't have to tell it now."

  "Yes, you must!" the boy insisted. "You were there."

  Tansen acquiesced and, in truth, didn't try very hard to shrug off the admiration shining in Zarien's eyes. The battle at Britar remained, to this day, one of his and Josarian's most famous feats. They had been two men against perhaps one hundred Outlookers. Knowing full well that one or both of them was likely to die, they swore a bloodpact together the night before they attacked, thus becoming brothers. Tansen also joined Josarian that night in swearing a bloodfeud against the Valdani.

  "That was the start of the rebellion," he told Zarien, watching Sanctuary shadows flicker in the candlelight. Sister Shannibar's clumsy dog stared soulfully at Zarien, her expression suggesting that she, too, might expire of hunger before morning if no one fed her. "Of course, we didn't know then, never dreamed that day, where it would eventually lead us. Lead all of Sileria."

  "Go away," Zarien told the dog. "That's the last piece you're getting."

  Since he had already said this three or four times—prior to giving in and feeding it some more scraps—the dog sensibly ignored the command and continued to gaze at him with an expression of mingled hope and deprivation.

  After Britar, the Outlookers had failed to count on Josarian's charisma, let alone his determination, and so his bloodfeud against the Valdani grew faster than they could suppress it—though they certainly tried, and their measures in the mountains were brutal beyond what Tansen was willing to describe to the sea-born boy.

  "When did Josarian come to Kiloran's attention?"

  Now they were into the awkward part of the story, Tansen realized. Josarian hadn't come to Kiloran's attention; Tansen had. However, Tansen had no intention of telling this lad that Kiloran sought him in vengeance, even after all those years, for murdering Armian.

  So he simply replied, "Well, Josarian became very famous, you know. Among the drylanders. It was inevitable that Kiloran would take an interest."

  "And Mirabar? When did she join you?"

  "When Kiloran did."

  "Who is the woman she wants you to kill?"

  The question came at him like an arrow out of the dark. It had been a long time since anyone had made him flinch in surprise.

  "It's a long story," he replied.

  "The sun is still far away." Zarien's dark eyes were watchful in his tattooed face.

  Tansen tried another tactic. "It's not my place to talk about it," he lied.

  "If not yours, then whose?"

  He regarded the boy uneasily. "Mirabar's, perhaps." And he thought she was unlikely to share the tale with Zarien.

  "Why did you not do it? Kill the woman, I mean."

  "Have you ever killed a woman?"

  Zarien recoiled. "No!"

  Tansen lifted his brows. "Neither have I. And I don't intend to start."

  "But Mirabar said—"

  "Never mind what Mirabar said." Time to take charge, he decided. "Tell me more about what Sharifar said."

  "What Sharifar said?" Zarien seemed startled by the question.

  "I am," Tansen said dryly, "a little more interested than I have indicated."

  "Then you won't change your mind? We're le
aving for Shaljir?"

  "The day after tomorrow," Tansen confirmed. "What are your plans?"

  "My plans?" the boy asked cautiously.

  Tansen studied his expression for a moment, wondering what he saw there. "Yes," he said at last. "What do you expect me to do?"

  "Oh!" Now Tansen was sure he saw relief in the boy's face. "I will arrange for a boat to take us to sea."

  "And?"

  Zarien shrugged, seemingly unconcerned. "That's all I know. I must bring you to sea."

  "How will..." Darfire, he didn't even know how to phrase it. He tried, "How will I meet Sharifar, if I am indeed—"

  "She will decide," Zarien said simply.

  "I see. That's all?"

  The boy blinked. "Yes. Should there be more?"

  "Damned if I know." Whatever he had to do, he hoped it would be easier than jumping into a volcano.

  Zarien shrugged and ate some more.

  Watching him, Tansen tried again. "Have you told me everything Sharifar said to you?"

  Zarien paused, keeping his eyes on his food. "I've told you everything you need to know."

  Far from it, Tansen reflected with some exasperation; but something in the boy's choice of words distracted him. "Everything I need to know?"

  "Yes."

  "But not," he guessed slowly, "everything that was said?"

  Zarien became preoccupied with the dog. "Everything that was said about you."

  "What else was said?"

  "Sea-born matters," Zarien said evasively. "It doesn't concern you."

  Tansen tried not to smile. "Ah, but if I'm the sea king—"

  "Private matters," Zarien amended, his tone defensive now. "Nothing that you need to know about."

  "Whatever she said," Tansen noted, "it bothered you."

  A sulky shrug was his only reply.

  A chilly foreboding crept across Tansen. Those scars of Zarien's evinced a terrible dragonfish attack, one which should have killed him; one which had killed him, in fact, if his tale was accurate. A sea-born boy who'd never be searched for, because he was believed to be dead... Just how long a life had the goddess offered him in exchange for hunting down her consort?

  "Zarien."

  The boy heard the sudden, dark seriousness in his tone and looked up from his food.

  "Did she tell you..." Tansen hesitated. "What happens to you when Sharifar finds her consort?"

  Zarien looked puzzled. "To me?"

  "Did Sharifar say that would be the end of your life?" He couldn't go to sea, not ever, if it might mean this boy's death.

  Zarien's eyes flew wide. "You mean, will she give me back to the dragonfish then?" Tansen nodded. A look of outrage washed across the tattooed young face. "She had better not!"

  Tansen sat back. Whatever was on Zarien's mind, this was clearly a brand new idea to him. And it seemed to inspire indignation rather than fear.

  "She had no right to send me ashore in disgrace if she meant me to die anyhow," Zarien said. "There was no reason for her to tell me that I..." His complexion darkened as he stumbled to an awkward halt.

  "Tell you what?" Tansen prodded.

  "Um..."

  "Let's try another question," Tansen said suddenly, a new suspicion dawning on him. "Will I die when I meet Sharifar?"

  Zarien's looked surprised. "How could you die? The sea king is supposed to unite the sea-born folk. How could a dead man do that?" He regarded Tansen with an expression suggesting the shatai was considerably less intelligent than he had previously thought. "Landfolk," he muttered, rising to his feet.

  "Where are you going?" Tansen asked.

  "Back to sleep. I'm full now."

  "Full," Tansen murmured, regarding the Sisters' decimated supply of bread and cheese. "And you've only consumed the weight of six adult sheep. Imagine."

  "I do not eat sheep," Zarien reminded him.

  "Just their excretions."

  "Ugh!" Zarien stomped away. "Landfolk."

  "Goodnight, son."

  "Goodnight, Tansen."

  Tansen sat up for a while longer, absently petting the wakeful dog and thinking about the conversation.

  He wished he knew more about boys, but he had stopped being one so long ago—and so abruptly. He was convinced there was something Zarien wasn't telling him. He thought he'd covered the most significant possibilities, and he felt certain that if embracing Sharifar was going to kill either him or Zarien, then the boy didn't know about it.

  Whatever Zarien was keeping from him, Tansen just hoped it wasn't important.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  No one wins wars; some merely

  lose less than others do.

  —Kintish Proverb

  The screams coming from the depths of Kiloran's watery palace were giving him a headache. This shifting mansion of water and air, of flickering light and silvery dark, reverberated loudly with the anguish of the young Guardian being interrogated at some distance from the hall where Kiloran was trying to concentrate on other business.

  It had taken tremendous will and skill to shape this palace out of the deep waters of Lake Kandahar long ago. Maintaining it was a drain on Kiloran's strength, but one he was accustomed to, having done it for so long. Besides, his power had grown so much greater over the years that holding up these fluidly quivering walls of water was a minor demand by now, rather than the effort it had been once upon a time.

  He controlled the walls, floors, and ceilings of his unique home as easily as a man controlled the fingers of his hand. This was what made Kandahar impregnable, the most envied stronghold in the entire Society—and one which would die with him, if he couldn't find a suitable heir. The ensorcelled palace could not survive on its own, so closely entwined was it with its owner's will. At a whim, Kiloran could create or destroy whole rooms, trap and drown prisoners, admit guests from the lake's surface high overhead, and change the size and shape of the palace.

  Not that he did it often. It was a luxurious, well-furnished home, and he didn't like destroying his cherished possessions. His water-born stronghold was filled with treasures from all over Sileria and from all over the nations of Sirkara. Kiloran loved beautiful things, fine craftsmanship, and rare possessions of exquisite loveliness. The palace was also filled with symbols of who he was and reminders of all that he had achieved and endured in his long life: enemies destroyed, territory conquered, loved ones lost, mistakes made, lessons learned... Yes, much of his life was represented in the keepsakes housed here.

  Enemies destroyed... Kiloran kept two glittering diamonds from Alizar here, a symbol of the mines that he had helped take from the vanquished Valdani and which he now possessed, though he had yet to free them of his sorcery and access their endless wealth. There was also a bronze broach, a single flame in a circle of fire, taken from the first Guardian he had ever killed.

  Territory conquered... Kiloran liked to receive visitors in the main hall, where he sat on a throne of gold-encrusted shells. A gaudy but impressive reminder of the waterlord from whom he had taken Lake Kandahar itself, many years ago.

  One entire wall in the main hall was covered with shir. Some had been taken from formidable enemies slain over the years. Others were treasured remembrances of dead comrades.

  Loved ones lost... Srijan's shir was among the daggers on that wall. Josarian had not taken it upon killing him, and so Kiloran had ordered its retrieval.

  Mistakes made, lessons learned... Armian's shir was among them, too, its magnificent workmanship standing out even in this unparalleled collection. Though young at the time, Kiloran had done fine work on the weapon he made for Harlon's son so long ago.

  Mistakes made...

  Kiloran's gaze strayed, for the first time in longer than he could remember, to the bracelet that lay alone on a shimmering protrusion of crystallized water emerging from another wall.

  Kintish silver with jade inlays.

  He hadn't been surprised to see Baran wearing the matching necklace. Baran always wore it.

&n
bsp; Lessons learned...

  The bracelet lived here as a reminder to Kiloran of something he had once forgotten and never intended to forget again: Impetuous acts and ungoverned passions always cost too much and should never be indulged.

  No, he never intended to forget again.

  Indeed, Kiloran thought his own recent conduct at Emeldar proved just how thoroughly he had banished impetuosity and now governed his passions. He was convinced the greatest self-control he'd ever exerted in his life was that day in Josarian's abandoned village when Baran tried everything but physical violence to goad him into an attack.

  The temptation to kill that mad, embittered agitator became even greater when Kiloran realized that Baran's surprisingly changed appearance was the result of illness. A serious one, Kiloran suspected. Baran, a big and agile man, was physically weakened now. Meriten, who was rather small and certainly no warrior, had managed to choke him half to death before Baran's assassin came to his rescue. How soon before Baran's sorcery weakened, too? Perhaps it already had. What a temptation it had been to try to find out right then and there.

  Baran ill... Perhaps even dying? It was such a pleasing prospect, it almost made Kiloran feel young again.

  If Baran was weak, vulnerable, and vanquishable at long last...

  To ambush Baran. To take back the Idalar River at last. To destroy and humiliate him. To pull the moat at Belitar right up over the ancient ruins there and drown Baran in his own bed one night... Oh, yes, these were immensely pleasing thoughts.

  However, when the rage Kiloran had felt in Emeldar cooled into clear-headed reason, he realized that, after all these years, the problem of Baran might soon simply solve itself. Kiloran was a practical man, and he much preferred the possibility of Baran dying quietly of a wasting disease to the cumbersome reality of expending even more of his own energy trying to destroy the mad waterlord after their new truce ended—as it unquestionably would once their enemies were defeated and dead.