The White Dragon (104 page)

As Tansen made his way down to the dark underground world of the Beyah-Olvari, so far beneath the streets of Shaljir that hardly anyone in the city even knew they were there, he remembered the first time he had ever come here. Ten years ago, with Armian.

His bloodfather had been as stunned as he to see the small, fragile, blue-skinned beings living so deep in the bowels of the earth. Like almost everyone in Sileria, Tansen had believed they were extinct—or perhaps that they had never existed at all. Perhaps they were just another Silerian legend.

However, as Tansen learned, the Beyah-Olvari were real, and so was their story, their sad tale of being driven to near-extinction by the New Race—Tansen's kind—the tall, strong, dark people from the little known lands south of the Middle Sea, their origins so far from Sirkara that no one knew who they had once been, eons ago, or where their original home was. The New Race were an aggressive, land-hungry people who brought war, violence, and fire magic to Sileria, and nothing had ever been the same since their arrival.

Strong emotion distressed the Beyah-Olvari, and violence terrified them. Armian, a violent man of strong emotions, stirred them to chattering fear and endless chanting in these dank, underground tunnels. So, at Elelar's insistence, the assassin had retreated to an isolated chamber far from the Beyah-Olvari until the young
torena
could arrange for his escape from Shaljir after his impetuous murder of a beggar in the city's streets. Armian was bored and restless, and he counted on Tansen to keep him company. Tansen, however, was intrigued by these strange, gentle creatures living in secret below the densely populated capital city, so he had frequently abandoned Armian, during their brief exile down here, to befriend the Beyah-Olvari.

The original practitioners of water magic in Sileria, the Beyah-Olvari used their power very differently than the waterlords did. Indeed, the very mention of waterlords distressed them, causing them to wail banishing prayers to dispel the evil that they believed threatened them just by hearing the name of a sorcerer like Kiloran, Harlon, or Verlon.

Using their gentle magic all those years ago, they had healed the coldly burning pain in Tansen's hand where he had grabbed Armian's
shir
to pry open the secret trap door to the underground tunnels. Then they had taught him about Sileria's past, including the dark conquering history of his own oft-vanquished people.

Tansen had fled Sileria only a few months after meeting the Beyah-Olvari, but they remembered him—and still treated him as a friend—when he returned from exile years later. Now he sought them again, venturing down into the earth's ancient passageways, down to the secret world of another people, down to the dark, dank, hidden existence of Sileria's oldest race.

And he brought a boy with him, just as Armian had. A lad who was grieving, just as Tansen had been grieving all those years ago. They weren't hiding or seeking escape this time, though. Tansen needed answers, and he thought Zarien needed a distraction. The boy's somber, heartbroken mourning was relieved only by sudden outbursts of fury against Dar and Sharifar. Tansen, who was distressed by the minor wounds Zarien had inflicted on himself in mourning, didn't know how to comfort him—not when his own bitterly burning question remained unanswered:
Why did You let Josarian die, Dar? Why did You let Kiloran kill the Firebringer?

"What made these tunnels?" Zarien now asked Tansen, who was pleased to hear the boy's voice energized by curiosity.

"Lava flows," Tansen replied. "From Mount Shaljir."

Zarien paused. "Um, there's
lava
in Mount Shaljir?"

"Not anymore. Very long ago."

"Oh." A moment later, Zarien asked, "What's all this glowing stuff?"

Tansen studied the phosphorescent life forms which dimly illuminated the tunnels. "Plants. Molds. Insects. Slugs." He shrugged. "Everything that lives down here with the Beyah-Olvari." He made sure he could see Zarien's face when he added, "It's what they eat."

He wasn't disappointed. Zarien's surprised disgust was comical. "They
eat
these things?"

"Yes," Tansen replied innocently. 
      
"You're lying," Zarien said with certainty.

Tansen grinned. "No, and they'll offer you a bite, too."

"Not really!"

"Yes. It's good manners to accept."

"Will
you
?" Zarien asked pointedly.

"I've done it before, so I'm excused. But Josarian had to, when I brought him here."

"I'm not going to—"

"Try the mushrooms," Tansen advised. "They're not nearly as revolting as the worms."

"Ugh."

"To be honest, I suspect the Olvar invites visitors to eat just because he finds it amusing."

"What's that noise?" Zarien asked now.

"That's them. They chant and pray and sing and wail almost all of the..." He paused, listening.
 

"What's wrong?" Zarien asked, bumping into him.

"I'm not sure. They sound..." Not upset. Not even scared.

"Excited?" Zarien ventured.

"Yes," Tansen agreed slowly. "Excited."

"They're awfully loud, aren't they? Or is it just the way the sound bounces off the walls down here?"

"We should have met with an escort by now," Tansen realized. Formality, courtesy, blessings, rituals... You could never enter the domain of the Beyah-Olvari without enduring all of these things, no matter how tiresome or inconvenient it was. Yet no one was greeting them or proclaiming Tansen's name and deeds as he approached the Chamber of the Sacred Pool, where the Olvar could always be found.

"Something's wrong," Tansen murmured. He didn't draw his swords. He didn't hear anything indicative of violence or mayhem. Besides, the Beyah-Olvari would probably keel over in a collective faint if he came upon them with his blades unsheathed.

"Wrong? Maybe not," Zarien opined. "It sounds like a celebration to me."

He was right, Tansen realized. Now doubly eager to reach their destination, he picked up his pace, ignoring how the boy stumbled behind him in the poorly lighted passages. When they arrived at the Chamber of the Sacred Pool, which was easy to find due to all the noise the Beyah-Olvari were making, they stopped and stared.
 

"I've never seen so many of them all in one place," Tansen said to Zarien, raising his voice to be heard above the echoing cacophony of the wild singing and chanting.

Zarien stood gaping, his mouth hanging open, his dark eyes wide with wonder. "I've never seen..." He watched the small, delicate, blue-skinned creatures dancing, prancing, running about, embracing each other, singing, weeping and laughing all at once. "I've never seen anything like this."

"Let's find the Olvar."

"What's that language? It's not any Silerian dialect, is it?"

"No." Tansen took Zarien's arm and led him through the jubilant throng. Some individuals noticed them and tried to greet them, but the Followers of the Olvar seemed so overwhelmed with emotion that their usual abundant courtesy deserted them, and they could do little more than chatter at Tansen in their own language and steer him towards the Olvar.

"So you can't understand them?" Zarien asked, starting to look a little edgy as the crowd pressed in on them.

"The Olvar speaks archaic High Silerian."

"So?"

"It's close to
shallah
," Tansen explained. "We'll be able to understand him." A moment later he added, "There he is."

"That's the Olvar?" Zarien asked.

"Yes." Tansen glanced at the boy. "What's wrong?"

Zarien shrugged, looking at the small, slim, wizened old being bent over the Sacred Pool, the glowing waters of which he continually stirred with his small hands. "Nothing's wrong," the boy said. "I guess, after what you told me about him, I just thought he would be... grander."

Tansen smiled. "You'll see." He approached the Olvar, crossed his fists and bowed his head respectfully. "
Siran
." He searched the heavily lined blue face and was astonished to see tears in those ancient eyes. "What's happened here,
siran?
"

"Welcome, my friend," the Olvar said. His voice was thick with emotion, and it was hard for Tansen to hear him above the din of wildly excited Beyah-Olvari all around them. "All our blessings be upon you. We humbly beg your pardon for not having—"

"There's no need," Tansen assured him. "I can see that something... um..."

"Something tremendous," the Olvar assured him. "Something I never thought..." He blinked, his heavy lids moving slowly over his watery eyes, and then he looked at Zarien. "Who is this one?" His tone was strange, like his expression. Tansen couldn't tell if it indicated curiosity or fear—or both.

"This is Zarien of the sea-bound Lascari." Tansen glanced at the boy, who greeted the Olvar with respectful courtesy. Seeing that the Olvar was still staring strangely at Zarien, instead of blessing him, Tansen added, "He can be trusted,
siran
."
 

The Olvar looked directly at Zarien. "Can you?"

Zarien blinked. "Be trusted? Yes."

The Olvar stared at Zarien for such a long time that the boy started shifting restlessly under that intense gaze.

Tansen decided to intervene. "
Siran
, this boy—"

"Is very special," the Olvar said slowly.

"Yes," Tansen agreed. "And he—"

"He will be more than you imagine," said the Olvar, looking at Tansen now. "Perhaps more than you can accept."

The sea king?

As soon as the thought occurred to Tansen, he glanced sharply at Zarien. Had Sharifar sent Zarien ashore not to find the sea king, but rather to
become
him—to mature into the man she sought?

"I will accept whatever he becomes," Tansen said with certainty. "And y—"

"Will you?" the Olvar asked. "Or will you see the mirror of your sorrows when you gaze upon him?"

Aware of Zarien's barely suppressed irritation at these cryptically dark comments, Tansen replied, "I will always see a strong boy with a good heart."

"May his heart always be worthy of your esteem," the Olvar murmured. "Because he is indeed very strong."

Tansen wondered how Elelar had gotten anything as intelligible as a specific prophecy about her destiny from the Olvar, who was being just as vague and bewildering as Tansen had always found him. He wanted to ask about Elelar and Mirabar, but first he felt compelled to ensure smooth relations between Zarien, who looked ready to leave, and the Olvar—who still studied the boy with an unfathomable expression.

So Tansen said, "Zarien is trustworthy and won't tell anyone about the Beyah-Olvari,
siran
. I've explained to him how your safety depends on your existence remaining secret."

The Olvar shook his head. "No. That will change now."

"I'm not going to tell." Zarien sounded offended.

"We no longer wish to remain secret." 
      
"Fine. Then
you
tell people," Zarien snapped at the Olvar.

"Zarien," Tansen chided.

Zarien pressed his lips together and looked away.
 

Tansen asked the Olvar, "Why don't you want to remain secret anymore?"

The Olvar stirred the Sacred Pool with his hands, staring into its shimmering water. The glow lit his face with the cool fire of his water magic. "Because I have found another secret. Here in the water. Where it must have been for centuries. And now I know. Now we know what we never imagined."

Tansen studied the exultant glow on the Olvar's face, then looked around at the joyful Beyah-Olvari, making such a racket he could hardly hear his own voice as he asked, "What do you know?"

Tears streamed down the Olvar's face. "We are not alone."

"What?" Tansen asked sharply.

"Others have survived the long years. The eons of darkness and secrecy. Others have lived through the centuries of waiting to enter the sunlight again."

"Others?" Zarien said, looking from the Olvar to Tansen.

Now Tansen understood. "There are other Beyah-Olvari," he said slowly.

The Olvar nodded, still crying. "Others like us. Alive. Somewhere in Sileria."

And like the rest of his kind, he started singing with joy.