The White Dragon (51 page)

She froze in the shadows, then shifted slightly, as if turning to him.

"Are you lost?" he asked. "I'll help you." She started moving towards him. He continued, "My name is Zarien, and there's—" His words ended in an appalled gasp when she was close enough for him to see her better.
 

"Yaggghhh!" He backed away as fast as his feet would move, his horrified gaze fixed on her...
it
... this inhuman thing coming at him from out of the dark!
 

He stumbled and tripped, falling down hard on his rump. The thing came closer, moving with strange fluidity, pale as moonlight, translucent and lifeless. It was without color or expression, without eyes or—

"Gah!" He gave a choked cry of protest as it reached down and seized his arm. Its touch was chilling, its grasp painfully strong. It drew him to his feet and pulled him closer. "No!"

He felt something hard force its way into his hand.

The
stahra
, he realized dimly amidst the chaotic whirl of his fear. What was he supposed to do with it?

The creature seized his throat and started to strangle him. Choking and eyes watering, Zarien punched it in the belly with the handle of his
stahra
.

It responded in total silence, with physical reflexes hideously similar to a person's, flinching backward and doubling over. Its texture rippled fluidly, like sloshing water in the bottom of an oarboat. Zarien stumbled away from its chilly touch, took a firm grip on his weapon, and hit the creature in the head as hard as he could with the broad side of the paddle.
 

The translucent monster spun away from him. Terrified into aggressive action, Zarien pursued it, whacking it twice more. When it fell to the ground, he brought the edge of the paddle down on it, hard, again and again. He stopped when he thought it was dead, but then it moved menacingly again, trying to rise and renew its assault on him.

The winds take me!

He starting beating the thing again, trying not to see how much like a shapely, defenseless woman it looked as it attempted to shield itself from his blows. He thought he was going to be sick, but he knew he couldn't stop attacking it long enough to indulge in his nausea.

When he heard someone—something?—else coming through the forest, nearly upon him, he wanted to cry. He couldn't fight
two
of these grotesque things!

"Zarien!" The familiar voice was urgent.

"Tansen!" he exclaimed with relief, afraid to look away from his opponent for even a moment. He clobbered it again with the
stahra.
"What is it? What do I do?"

"Get away from it!"

"What is it? What do I do?" he repeated, indulging his panic now that help was at hand.

The warrior's strong hands pushed him aside. Then Tansen attacked the thing, tumbling to the ground and rolling over and over as he fought it.

Someone else arrived on the scene. "What
is
that?" Galian demanded, breathing hard as he grabbed Zarien's shoulder.

Zarien's gaze was riveted on the struggle. "I don't know! It came from out of nowhere!"

Tansen raised his
shir
, which glittered with deadly sorcery, and tried to stab the monster. It resisted, seizing his arm in both hands and fighting for control of the wavy blade.

"I'll hit it again," Zarien announced, raising his
stahra
.

"No, you might hit Tansen!" Galian's arm—thick with mud—blocked him.

"It'll stab him!" Zarien protested.

"That's Tansen's
shir
," Galian argued. "It can't hurt him."

"How is that possible?"

"Could we discuss water magic some other time?" Galian snapped.

In a sudden flurry of movement, Tansen grabbed the
shir
with his free hand and plunged it into the creature's face. He made a violent motion, like he was ripping its head open. The strange monster's whole body convulsed, sagged, then lay quiescent. Tansen tried to rise, but the thing's hands were still clinging to his arm. With a strange noise and an expression of profound disgust, he pried its fingers off his flesh.

Then he looked at Zarien and demanded, "Why didn't the
stahra
protect you, for the love of—"

"It did, sort of. I mean, it jumped into my hand." He shrugged and added, "My father told me you can never count on the gods—"

"Are you all right?" Galian asked Tansen in a dazed voice.

Zarien glanced at him—and finally noticed that he was covered in mud, every bit of him, head to toe. "What in the Fires happened to you?"

Galian grimaced, cracking some of the mud caked on his face. "Don't ask."

"Fires of Dar!" said a voice behind Zarien.

Zarien turned and saw someone—Radyan, he realized an instant later—coming up behind him. Radyan was as filthy as Galian. Zarien asked, "How did you get so—"

"I don't want to talk about it," Radyan answered. "What happened here?"

"We're not entirely sure," Galian said as the rest of the men—all covered in mud—joined them and began asking questions about the bizarre scene.

Tansen retrieved the
shir
he'd used to kill the monster, then rose to his feet. He was muddy, too, and also soaking wet.
 

Zarien asked him, "Why are you all—"

"Let's not dwell on it now," Tansen said.

Zarien stepped forward and gingerly nudged the dead creature with his
stahra
. The motionless form began diminishing, slowly turning into... a puddle of water. "What
is
it?"

"Water magic," Tansen replied.

"Is this a White Dragon?" Zarien asked in awe.

Tansen actually snorted. "Not even close." The warrior retrieved his swords and his satchel from their hiding place and announced, "Those assassins are right behind us, and Wyldon's bound to attempt some more tricks like this if we don't make tracks. Let's go."

"Where are we going?" Zarien asked.

"North, to Zilar."

He'd learned a few things by now, so he asked anxiously, "Isn't Kiloran's territory north of here?"

Tansen took his arm to hurry him along. "Exactly. Wyldon's men will track us as far as Kiloran's territory, and then confirm to him that we are indeed Kiloran's assass—"

"But we
aren't
, so is it wise to risk running into Kilor—"

"Kiloran's in Cavasar," said Tansen. "Can't you move any faster? We
are
still in deadly peril, you know."

Zarien picked up his pace and tried not to resent the way Tansen dragged him through the dark forest while the other men pulled ahead of them. "Even so, won't Kiloran attack us if w—"

"We'll be out of his territory again before he knows we were here."

"I thought it was a big territory?"

"It is."

"How long will it take to cross—"

"A lot longer than it needs to if you keep wasting your breath talking."
 

Zarien scowled at him in the dark and ventured one more question. "How did the attack go?"

"Oh," Tansen said, "let's not dwell on it."

Chapter Twenty

War is the business of one kind of man,

 
and peace the business of another.

      
      
      
      
      
—
Toren
Varian

Elelar had spent many long hours in Santorell Palace before today. As Imperial Advisor Borell's mistress, she had even acted as hostess here on several occasions. Now, a few days after Searlon had come to her bedchamber, she hoped and prayed that this afternoon's visit to Santorell Palace would result in the end of Valdani rule in Sileria. She and Searlon had used the time between that late-night discussion and this moment to prepare the elements needed for their hastily concocted plan.

Other members of the Alliance had hoped to participate in this historic moment, and it might be better if they were here. Men like
Toren
Varian probably had more influence with Advisor Kaynall than Elelar did. But Varian was at home in Adalian and possibly even still unaware—like the other signatories to the secret treaty—of Josarian's recent death. That, however, was a detail which neither she nor Searlon had any intention of revealing to the Valdani. As for the other leaders of the Alliance who were currently here in Shaljir... In truth, Elelar didn't want them to learn today that she had helped destroy the Firebringer.

Now, as she entered the council hall of Santorell Palace, following the formal announcement of her arrival, she found Advisor Kaynall and Commander Cyrill awaiting her. Kaynall, an older man of elegant if unremarkable appearance, was sitting at the massive table that dominated the richly-furnished hall. Cyrill was standing by the tall glass doors which led out onto the balcony overlooking Santorell Square. While not revealing himself to the crowd that had massed below, he was watching them intently with a dark scowl.

Elelar had just fought her way through that crowd, when coming here, and she knew how restless and eager they were. Indeed, she and Searlon had ensured they would be so—by spreading the rumor that Advisor Kaynall would announce Valdania's surrender today.

Even here, one story above the crowd and shielded by these thick Valdani walls, she could hear voices from the crowd wafting through the windows along with the spring breeze.

"Free Sileria!"

"
Roshaheen
go home!"

"Native rule in Sileria!"

"Surrender to Josarian!"

"Free Sileria
now!"

Elelar acknowledged Advisor Kaynall's greeting and replied courteously to his insincere questions about her journey to Shaljir and her health. Evidently even this foreign goat-molester appreciated that a
torena
was due a certain measure of respect.

Cyrill's greeting, however, was abrupt. He inclined his head so slightly that it barely moved, and muttered, "
Torena
."

She smiled and asked after his family.

"I have sent my wife to the mainland." His tone was brusque.

"Very wise," she replied gravely. "To stay with your parents?"
 

Cyrill gave her a look of burning hatred. "No. My mother is still in mourning. Her brother—my uncle—died this past year. As you know,
torena.
" And he obviously blamed Elelar for his uncle's death.
 

She frowned with feigned sympathy and murmured, "Suicide, I understand."

"Yes," Cyrill snapped.

"Such a pity." Elelar sighed. "Suicide is anathema in Sileria, of course." She arched a brow.
 
"But you're probably no more familiar with our customs and values than your uncle was."

Cyrill lost his precarious hold on his temper. "May the Three curse you, woman!"

"Dar will shield me from your petty Valdani gods," she replied, enjoying the way his face colored with anger. Really, it was a pity they'd never gotten to know each other better; she had always appreciated men who were this easy to manipulate.

Kaynall raised a hand as Cyrill took a reflexive step toward Elelar. "That's enough," he admonished.

Elelar nodded and changed the subject. "I don't feel I can commence this discussion—"

"What discussion?" Cyrill demanded.

"—without Searlon. Could I prevail upon you, Eminence," she asked Kaynall, "to request his presence?"

Although Kaynall's face could hardly be called an expressive one, Elelar saw his surprise. He studied her with curiosity and veiled suspicion as he said, "Of course." He nodded to Cyrill, who went to the door, opened it, and ordered one of the guards in the corridor to summon the assassin.