The White Dragon (88 page)

Baran rested and tried to regain some strength here in the damp and cavernous ruins of Belitar, the eerie home he had claimed more than a dozen years ago. Sweating profusely in the aftermath of a painful episode in his increasingly dire illness, he eyed the disgusting tisane that Sister Velikar offered him. He sniffed it cautiously and said to her, "Perhaps not."

"Fine," the ugly old woman replied. "Don't drink it. What's it to me if your guts fester and rot a day sooner?"

"I think it's your charm that draws people to you," Baran opined.

"As a Sister," she retorted, "I am obliged to tend the sick and ease their suffering as best I can. But I am not obliged to force them to accept my help. Or to like them."

"If I drink it, will you kiss me?"

Velikar's lips curled. A strange grating sound emerged from her barrel-like chest. When she recovered from her amusement, she countered, "I'll kiss you if you don't."

"A wise man knows when he's defeated." Baran took a sip, grimaced, and then downed the entire thing as fast as he could. "Be honest," he said, gasping and trying not to vomit. "Tansen really sent you here to poison me."

"Who told you?"

He shot a sharp glance at her. Then he rolled his eyes when she started laughing again. "We're going to have to take turns at being crazy," said Baran. "It's too confusing when we're both doing it at once."

"Someone's coming," she said suddenly, turning toward the door.

He only heard the footsteps after she did, after being warned. It worried him. His senses were starting to diminish, he realized, overwhelmed by the struggle against this disease. He wasn't concerned about his safety yet. Belitar was virtually impregnable. No one could cross its encircling moat without his blessing, and his men would alert him to any attempts which he himself failed to perceive. But the clouding of his ordinary senses was another sign that his time was running out.

The moment an assassin entered the room, however, Baran threw off his weakness by force of will and rose to greet him. "Vinn."

The assassin crossed his fists over his chest and bowed his head respectfully. "
Siran
." Then he glanced with resignation at Velikar. "Sister."

"We've missed you," said Baran. "Haven't we, Velikar?"

"No," she said.

"I'm glad to be back," Vinn replied, ignoring Velikar. "And the news was as you expected,
siran
."

"Someone has started asking about me," Baran surmised. He'd instructed Vinn to have inquiries made at the three Sanctuaries that were within a day's journey of Belitar.

"Yes," Vinn replied. "Someone wants to know if you have been ill. Have you required medicine or treatment? What is your condition?"

"Who has been asking?" Baran prodded.

Vinn shook his head. "Not Searlon. He'd be too easy to recognize when described to us—that scar of his."

"An assassin, though?"

"The man asking wasn't dressed as an assassin, but the Sisters at one Sanctuary suspected he was one, and the Sisters at another weren't sure."

"And at the third?"

"No inquiries there yet."

"Ah."

"So we did as you ordered,
siran
."

He smiled. "Good. The Sisters cooperated?"

"Yes. For a generous donation, they agreed to tell Kiloran's spy, should he appear, that you were ill during the rains but are now almost completely recovered, getting stronger every day and regaining the weight you lost."

Vinn, as well as a few other trusted assassins, knew by now that he wasn't well. There was no way to hide it from them any longer. Only Velikar, however, knew just how sick he was. And he intended to make sure that Kiloran didn't find out the truth.

"Well done, Vinn."

"What now,
siran?
"

"I haven't made up my mind yet, but it's possible we may take a little trip."

"Absolutely not," Velikar said. "You mustn't."

Vinn frowned at her. "No one tells the
siran
what to do."

Velikar frowned back. "Well, if he wants to be a fool—"

"And no one," Vinn added with menace, "calls my master a fool, woman."

Velikar stepped forward. "And no assassin speaks to m—"

"Now, now," Baran admonished. "That's enough. Both of you."

 
Vinn turned to him. "Why is this pestilent woman still here,
siran?
Surely it's past time to send her back to Tansen?"

"If my presence offends you," Velikar said, "I will be happy to remove myself." She met Baran's eyes and added, "I need to gather more herbs today."

He nodded and watched her leave the room.
 

"If you need a Sister to tend you until you're better,
siran
," Vinn said as soon as she was gone, "at least let me find one who isn't so—"

"Try to be a little patient with her, Vinn," Baran said. "She may be with us for a while. I'm becoming quite fond of her."

After a stunned pause, the assassin laughed and relaxed. "Only you,
siran
. Only you."

"I strive," Baran assured him, "to keep you amused."

"And you succeed,
siran
. You always succeed."

"How heartening."

Returning to business, Vinn said, "Kiloran's spy asked about Wyldon at the Sanctuaries, too."

"And?"

"They confirmed everything at the Sanctuary where you met with him."

"Then Kiloran will know it's true," Baran murmured, feeling the effects of Velikar's disgusting tisane start to soothe him. "Wyldon sought my support against him."
 

"Will we give it?"

"Oh, probably not," said Baran.

"Because of the truce?" Vinn guessed.

"Because Wyldon is a weak and hot-headed fool who can't be useful to us, and who could easily become a burden." Baran smiled and added, "Besides, I can't stand his sculptures."

"Yes, you are right,
siran
."

"I love those words."

"Do you think Kiloran really did attack him?"

"Hmm. I rather hope not."
 

"But if not Kiloran, then who?"

Baran smiled, thinking of Tansen. "Perhaps someone who wants to see Wyldon sowing dissent among the waterlords."

"Then Kiloran might be innocent?"

"My dear Vinn, Kiloran was not even innocent at birth. But, after seeing his reaction to the news while we were in Emeldar, I do think it possible he's not responsible for the attack on Wyldon." Baran sighed with pleasure. "Wouldn't it be wonderful if Kiloran will now pay for something he didn't do?"

"Will he pay,
siran?
"

"Of course. It has never occurred to
Wyldon
that Kiloran didn't order the attack. So he's beside himself with vengeful rage. I doubt I'm the only waterlord he has tried to get to side with him against Kiloran, and there will surely be others."

"Until Kiloran eliminates him," Vinn surmised.

"Yes, as Kiloran will have to do in the end."

"Can we benefit from their struggle?"

Baran replied, "That is what I'm pondering even as we speak, Vinn."

"Somehow,
siran
, I thought so."

"But these are very complicated times."

"We will prevail,
siran
. You are a complicated man. So surely these are your times."

And my time is running out.

"Hmmm." Baran turned his back on the assassin and said, "That will be all for now, Vinn."

"Shall I go home,
siran?
"

Baran thought it over for a moment. "No. Stay close."

"The trip you mentioned?"

"I'm thinking it over," Baran said.
 

"Then I shall be prepared to leave at a moment's notice."

"I know you will." Baran's assassins were used to their master's habits after all these years.

"
Siran
." Vinn bowed and took his leave.

Alone now, Baran took a long, deep breath, then let it out slowly, searching for pain. He found none. That was good. He was feeling stronger now. That was good, too. But he had already learned through bitter experience that it was temporary. He would only grow weaker. He was spiraling toward death. No one could change that. The time would come when he couldn't hide it.

Yes, according to Velikar, the time would come soon.

He didn't pray. Dar had not listened when it mattered most, and he had never spoken to Her since. Dar could burn in that volcano, bereft of the Firebringer, through all eternity for all Baran cared. Indeed, he hoped She did. Baran hoped She knew the heartache and loneliness he did.

He doubted it, though. She was the destroyer goddess, after all, and a female who used Her lovers ill. Once, long ago, in a time lost to most memory, Mount Shaljir had raged with the fires of Dar's consort. He had burned out eventually, consumed by Dar's needs, leaving only the hollow, looming mountain behind. It dominated the capital city to this day, a harmless shell of what it had once been, honeycombed with caves and tunnels where once lava had flowed. And before that, in an age distant beyond imagining, Dar's previous consort—perhaps Her very first—had blown up and crumbled into the sea, leaving behind only the rainbow chalk cliffs of Liron to show that he had ever ruled with the goddess who dwelled in Darshon.

Long ago, in another life, as another man, Baran had sailed past those cliffs more than once on trading expeditions to the Kintish Kingdoms. They were extraordinary, the cliffs of Liron—so extraordinary that people still called them sacred, thousands of years after the death of the god who had once dwelled there, the consort whom Dar had consumed in Her destructive hunger.

Poor Josarian. He never had a chance.

And what will I do now?

Baran didn't want to die without killing Kiloran. It was all he had lived for. All that mattered to him.

Every thought, every word, every deed must be consecrated to that goal now, lest he die with it unfulfilled.

But if he did die before Kiloran, if Dar could really be that cruel... Yes, of course She could. Baran knew that better than anyone. If he did die before destroying Kiloran, then he could think of only one possible way to exact revenge after his death, one sole chance to reach past mortality and vanquish his enemy. It wasn't a perfect plan, but he scented the acrid odor of destiny whenever he thought of it. He suspected it might even be his just fate. His and Kiloran's. And, frankly, he rather enjoyed the irony.

It was a huge step, though, as well as an audacious one. He wanted to be sure. As sure as he could be, anyhow.

So, now that he was alone, he descended into the moldy depths of Belitar's ruins, to the ancient foundations, to the stones placed here a thousand years ago during Sileria's last great era in the sun, before the clouds of betrayal, terror, and humiliation had swept across the land. He passed through deep cellars built before the Conquest, and then he sought the ancient, hidden
 
passageways—crumbling, damp, ruined beyond repair—which led even further down. Down to the mysterious origins of Belitar's oft-rebuilt ruins, thousands of years old at this depth.

Down, down, down to the murky netherworld of another time, another race, another domain entirely. Down to the secrets that had died with Harlon. The secrets which, indeed, had died many times over the centuries, only to be rediscovered again and again. Always by someone desperate, as Baran had been. Always by someone who made the discovery through senses belonging only to those with water in their veins and ice in their souls, to those who possessed a great talent, a terrible thirst, and a heart of stone.

Down here, in the belly of the world, hidden from the fiery sunshine where the New Race thrived, lived Baran's teacher. And Baran hoped she would have the wisdom to help him prevail even now, when time was against him and Kiloran had never been more powerful.