The White Dragon

by Laura Resnick

  If Tashinar could see me now...

  Mirabar felt tears welling up again. She held them back and, instead of crying yet again in vain, prayed to Dar for Tashinar's quick and merciful death. There was nothing better to hope for once someone became a prisoner in Kiloran's impregnable lair.

  Haydar, posing as Mirabar's maid, disliked horses—like most shallaheen—and walked at some distance from Mirabar. The men, including Najdan, looked rather bedraggled for a torena's escort; but these were hard times for everyone, after all, even toreni. Mirabar didn't know where Najdan intended to install Haydar once they reached their destination, and she was too numb with sorrow to feel any interest in the subject anyhow. She was growing used to the woman, however, and supposed she could accept the Haydar's regular company from now on if Najdan expected her to do so.

  The sun was hot overhead, riding high in the flawlessly blue sky, when Mirabar, swaying a little on her mount, heard the Beckoning.

  "Why?" she said instantly.

  "Why what?" Pyron asked, walking beside the horse.

  "Why," Mirabar continued, "did you let Kiloran take Tashinar?"

  "Sirana," Pyron replied uneasily. "You know that we—"

  "Not you," she snapped.

  Mirabar looked around for the Beckoner, hearing his silent song, and finally spotted him floating amidst the trees on the north side of the narrow road.

  She drew her horse to a halt and repeated, "Why?"

  "Sirana..." Najdan's voice. "Is it..." She heard him draw in a sharp breath, as if he'd suddenly touched something fiery-hot or watery-cold. "It's a vision, isn't it?"

  "He's here," she replied.

  "Kiloran?" Pyron bleated.

  "No," Mirabar said, her gaze moving distantly into the mysterious world of the Beckoner.

  "Najdan?" Haydar's nervous voice.

  "She sees him," Najdan said quietly. "The one who brings her visions. Stay back. Don't interfere."

  Pyron assured him, "I wasn't going to."

  "Why didn't you prevent Kiloran from capturing Tashinar?" Mirabar demanded of the Beckoner, whose glowing gold gaze now held hers so fiercely that it seemed to dominate even the brassy sunshine. "Why did you permit Geriden's assassins take her?"

  I prevent nothing. I permit nothing.

  "An answer." She started crying. "You finally answer a question... and your answer is so useless."

  Pyron muttered, "Should she be talking to him that way?"

  "Quiet," Najdan snapped.

  Mirabar pleaded, "Why didn't you warn me so I could go to her? Stop the assassins. Save her."

  You went to her, the silent voice replied. You tried to stop them. You tried to save her.

  "I was too late," she wept. "I failed."

  Then you were destined to fail, and she is destined to die in Kandahar.

  "Did you decide this destiny?" Mirabar asked hotly, her heart full of hatred.

  I decide nothing.

  "Nothing?" She sighed and repeated, "Nothing."

  It was true, Mirabar supposed. The Beckoner was her guide and her tormentor, pushing her hard toward destiny, but he had never claimed to create or craft the fate he revealed to her.

  Hot tears rolled down her cheeks. "Can't I save Tashinar?"

  You're not strong enough for Kandahar now.

  "Will I ever be?"

  Perhaps when the child is with you...

  "The child," she repeated wearily.

  To shield you.

  "But you've always told me to shield the child..."

  She will be part of you...

  "She?" Mirabar blurted.

  And you will shield each other...

  "Shield each..." A wave of mingled hot and cold shock washed across her. "Part of me?" she whispered. "Will I... Am I going to bear the—"

  Belitar.

  "What?"

  The truth is in Belitar.

  "I can't go there," she protested. "Not n—"

  A child of fire...

  "In Belitar?"

  A child of water...

  "Belitar?" Najdan repeated uneasily. "Sirana?"

  A child of sorrow....

  "A girl?" Mirabar asked desperately. "Am I looking for a girl?"

  You are looking for me.

  "What?"

  The girl is looking for you.

  "My girl?" she whispered in confusion.

  Welcome her, the Beckoner urged, drifting into the Otherworld. Welcome him. Welcome your fate.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Ride hard to meet death,

  lest someone take your place.

  —Moorlander Proverb

  The city of Shaljir was in chaos. When Tansen arrived at the Lion's Gate with Zarien, he scarcely recognized it, even though he had passed through it several times in the past.

  "May the winds have mercy..." Zarien murmured, his tattooed face stricken with horror as he stared at the severed heads grotesquely decorating the gate. "Those... Those are..."

  "Valdani heads," Tansen confirmed, his mind blank with shock as he stared. "There were... There were Silerian heads..." But that was before the Valdani surrendered. Now Silerians in Shaljir were slaughtering Valdani men... and women and children. The way that the conquerors had slaughtered unarmed Silerians. And, also in the same way, displaying their severed heads at the city gates.

  Tansen felt strange. He had personally killed more Valdani than he could count. He couldn't even guess at the figure, though he supposed it was several hundred. He was aware of the weight of his slaughtering swords, discreetly wrapped and bundled today with the satchel he carried, so that he wouldn't attract attention.

  And now he, who had slain so many Valdani, was sickened by what he saw as he reached the city of Shaljir. Maybe he felt this way because there were women and children among the Valdani dead; and because he knew, without being told, that these people had died as the victims of mindless mobs rather than in battle.

  Or, he thought darkly, maybe he felt sick because if Silerians could do this, then they were no better than the Valdani.

  "The landfolk... The landfolk..."

  Tansen's attention was diverted to the boy. Zarien looked as if he was going to vomit. Tansen put a steadying hand on the back of his neck. Zarien drew in a deep breath. Unfortunately, he did it just as a breeze stirred the air. And since they were standing downwind of the grisly display on the gate... Zarien let out a horrible moan and threw up all over his new boots.

  Tansen dragged him away from the chaotic crowd bustling through the gate, then held his head as vigorous heaves consumed the boy's body. It hurt, Darfire it hurt to see him losing his innocence day by day.

  When Zarien was done, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, then he leaned against Tansen, who supported him with one arm while wiping hesitantly at his face with his free hand.

  Zarien drew a few cautious breaths and blinked away tears, looking dizzy and ill. "The landfolk... love killing, don't they?"

  "I don't know," Tansen murmured, at a loss.

  "Is this Dar's will?" Zarien whispered, searching his face.

  "I don't know Dar's will."

  "Couldn't we just... let them go? Let them return to Valdania?"

  "I don't kn—"

  "If you don't know, who does?" Zarien pleaded. "You have to know!"

  "I'm sorry," Tansen said, feeling the weight of being less than this boy expected of him. "I'm sorry."

  "All the killing..." Zarien's legs seemed to sag under him. "Must it always be this way here?"

  "I've wondered that... since I was your age." He met the boy's dazed, sorrowful gaze. "Come, let's get away from this."

  Zarien pulled away from him. "You mean... go through the gate?"

  "Don't look," he advised.

  Zarien sighed, squared his shoulders, and rubbed a hand through his short hair. "And don't breathe," he said wearily.

  "Somewhere on the other side of this," Tansen promised him, "is the port."

  "The port." The idea revived Zarien sli
ghtly. "We're going straight there?"

  "No."

  "But—"

  "We have to see the torena first."

  "What torena?" Zarien asked suspiciously.

  "Torena Elelar shah Hasnari." He made sure he kept the irony out of his voice as he said, "A great heroine of the rebellion."

  "Oh." Zarien studied him with a frown for a moment. "Is she the one the sirana wants you to kill?"

  He'd have flinched if he hadn't been expecting it. "Why do you ask?"

  Zarien shrugged. "You don't seem to know all that many women. I just wondered."

  "I know plenty of women," he countered, trying to shift the focus of the conversation.

  "And this one—"

  "Will feed you well," Tansen promised.

  But Zarien would not be distracted this time. "You're not going to kill her, are you?"

  "No."

  Zarien squinted up at the gate, where a woman's head was swarming with flies and being consumed by maggots. "Good," was all he said.

  Kiloran curled icy, razor-sharp tentacles of water into the old Guardian woman's guts, toying with her innards. Only the ensorcelled chill of water magic kept her from bleeding to death. The dreaded Valdani methods of slow torture were nothing compared to this; their victims usually died within hours, and never lasted more than two days. Only a waterlord could torture his victims this brutally for this long without killing them. And only Kiloran could break a sorceress of this woman's strength.

  She was truly a worthy foe.

  He felt the heat she conjured, even in her exhausted, pain-ridden, fear-weakened condition. He felt the fire she drew from the mysterious spiritual source understood only by Guardians, the hot wave of opposition she brought against him even now. She Called fire into her body, into the dark hidden crevices and cavities, into her organs and veins. She Called silently, trying to warm herself, perhaps even to defeat the frozen agony Kiloran created and to free herself with a very bloody death—because enough warmth now might well make her lacerated, coldly tormented insides bleed until she was dead.

  Yes, she tried—but he was stronger. So much stronger. Whatever heat she Called, Kiloran met with the cold waves of his will and the bitter ice of his power. The struggle exhilarated him and further drained her.

  There were no external flames, though. Not any more. She had given up such attempts more than a day ago. But Kiloran didn't underestimate her. She would seize the first opportunity he gave her, so he gave her none. He kept her drenched. Drenched, cold, exhausted, and in pain.

  "Tell me about the one Mirabar awaits," he said.

  She didn't answer, but he saw the flicker in her eyes, just as he had upon broaching this subject several other times, and now he was sure of his earlier suspicion: She was relieved.

  Whenever Kiloran asked about the size, strength, and location of various Guardian circles, her tension was palpable; she was afraid she'd break and tell him. When he asked about the colored lights and shifting clouds around Darshon, she was worried, though perhaps less so. But she seemed, yes, relieved—he was sure of it now—whenever he broached the subject of Mirabar's visions.

  Which meant she knew nothing about the visions. Nothing significant, anyhow.

  He dropped the subject again—permanently, this time. He also released his grip on her vitals and withdrew the snake of torment from her belly. The twisting, seeking water was stained with her blood as it emerged from her body. The old woman's eyes remained squeezed shut. Then, just as she took a steadying breath, Kiloran molded a mask of water over her face. He heard the coughing and choking, saw it wrack her whole body, watched impassively as she struggled. She was growing physically weaker again, he noticed. He'd have to stop soon, since he couldn't risk killing her. Not yet.

  Yes, several more questions, and then he'd let her rest for a few hours, he decided. Let her regain just enough strength to stay alive for more questioning. He was close to breaking her. He could tell. He had been doing this for nearly forty years, and he knew the signs. Tonight perhaps, or maybe tomorrow morning. Yes, very soon now, he would know what she knew, and then she could die.

  She wheezed and sputtered violently when he willed the liquid mask to peel away from her face and free her to breathe again. Kiloran watched her, pleased he had timed it well; another moment or two, and she'd have passed out. Now, however, she was merely terrified and filled with the natural panic of imminent suffocation.

  "What is Dar doing?" he asked her.

  He saw the glow of flame begin to ripple across her skin. Yes, as he suspected—another attempt to immolate herself. With less effort than it took him to smile, Kiloran opened the ceiling over her head and brought a bitterly cold shower of water crashing down on her. She was too weak by now to scream, so her agony came out as a choked whimper.

  "Is She preparing for something?" he asked.

  The old woman rolled her head sideways against the crystal- smooth wall to which he kept her shackled with coils of water. She seemed to be listening to something.

  He prodded, "If you answer me—"

  "Shhh," she replied.

  It amused him. After a moment of silence, during which her glassy gaze became a bit more focused, she murmured, "He's here."

  Surprised, Kiloran listened to the waters of Kandahar, felt the lake's mysteries flow through him, and smelled its peaceful translucence.

  No new arrivals. No disturbances. Nothing unusual.

  Yet the old woman said with convincing certainty, "Yes... He is here."

  A delusion? A Guardian vision? Or just a trick?

  He was curious enough to ask, "Who?"

  Tears rolled down her cheeks. "The Firebringer."

  "Oh." Nothing very interesting, after all.

  "He's here," she repeated.

  "In a way." Guardians talked to the dead, after all, so perhaps it wasn't surprising that the old woman could hear the Firebringer's silent screams.

  "Ohhhh..." More tears. A sob. "His agony is terrible."

  "And never ending," Kiloran said, bored. "Whereas yours can end as soon as you—"

  "No," the old woman said, showing an unexpected return of energy. "My pain is like Hers."

  "Whose?"

  "Dar's," she whispered. "We weep fire for Sileria."

  "How sad."

  "And it can never end. Not while lava runs through the veins of the land."

  "Tell me about Mount Darshon," he prodded.

  "You'll find out soon enough," she promised.

  Kiloran sighed. "I only do this because you force me."

  Calling on his will, he drew dagger-sharp needles from the lake and used them to pierce the old woman's already-maimed limbs again. She didn't scream, but her face contorted so horribly that, for a moment, she almost didn't look human.

  Kiloran ordered, "Tell me about the lights flickering around Darshon. The colored, dancing clouds."

  The old woman's gaze focused in the distance. "She awaits him. She wants him."

  "Who? The one Mirabar awaits?"

  "She's not done with him."

  "She—Dar or Mirabar?"

  The old woman laughed suddenly, and Kiloran, though interested in her statements, began to suspect that she was either delirious or pretending to be.

  "He is here," she whispered, her eyes closing, her face taking on a strange expression—almost like ecstasy.

  "Yes, we've established that."

  "And he is waiting."

  His interest sharpened. "Josarian?"

  "The Firebringer is waiting..."

  "The Firebringer is dead," he said.

  "No, I can hear him." Her voice was getting stronger.

  "So can I, but the White Dragon has destroyed—"

  "The flesh. I know. The flesh is forever dead."

  For the first time in many years, Kiloran felt a sudden chill. "Will Josarian's spirit take a new form?"

  She smiled. "You're afraid."

  Which was probably the old woman's intention. "What form?"
/>
  "If he succeeds, it will be because you fail."

  He plunged an icy spear of writhing water back into her tormented body and wrapped it around her damaged organs. "What form?" he repeated, feeling the unwelcome heat of emotion creep into his soul as he squeezed her ruined innards. The pain made her gasp and writhe, yet it didn't weaken her as it had before.

  Her face almost seemed to glow. He suddenly thought she must have been a lovely young woman, long ago. An incongruous thought, under the circumstances. But as soon as he banished it, he already knew it was too late. His momentary distraction, her desperate heat, perhaps even the intrusive spirit of the Firebringer—he couldn't know for sure how it happened... But something was burgeoning inside her now.

  "What form?" he demanded, knowing it was too already too late.

  "Fire," she whispered, her voice hot and husky like a woman in the throes of passion.

  "Siran!" The stunned voices of the forgotten assassins behind him. "What's happening?"

  "She's burning, siran!"

  Heat. Burning heat. The fierce power of a Guardian. Fire. The intense flame of the Otherworld. Kiloran had fought it all his life. The anarchic force of his enemies, the wild danger and destructive glory of their sorcery. They weren't immune to their own fire magic, and neither was he.

  Kiloran grunted in pain as the old woman's power, reinforced by something Kiloran could barely even sense beyond his pain, overcame him. His grip on her vitals melted like wax. Flames licked the part of his senses trapped inside of her. Fire singed the icy will which kept shackles around her hands and feet.

  "No." But he had lost. He knew he had lost.

  A glow like lava covered her skin. Heat like a volcanic vent emanated from her.

  Kiloran backed away, deliberately collapsing the walls and the ceiling as he stumbled across the floor. As water hit her, steam rose from the old woman's fiery flesh, filling the room with thick mist.

  "Siran!"

  He heard a shir clatter to the floor, then keep clattering as it shook frantically against the hard surface. One of his men leaped forward to attack the Guardian, then felt back as more heat assaulted him.

  "Stay back," Kiloran said. "It's too late." He doubted his men heard his voice above the hissing of the steam and the chaos of their own shouts.