The White Dragon (89 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

A powerful friend becomes a powerful enemy.

      
      
      
      
      
      
—Silerian Proverb

The old female Guardian was tough. Kiloran respected a strong opponent and could acknowledge his admiration for this one. He always gave his enemies their due. After all, the weak, the foolish, and the embittered might be briefly annoying from time to time, but they had no real chance of becoming genuine
enemies
of a strong man, let alone of a powerful waterlord. If a man's greatness could indeed be judged by his foes, then he lost nothing by acknowledging, even admiring, their strength.

As Kiloran expected, the old woman had tried to immolate herself as soon as she realized she was his prisoner. Dyshon couldn't have stopped her, but Kiloran could. However, the interrogation had not proved fruitful thereafter, since the struggle left the Guardian so exhausted. After learning too little from her to hold his attention yesterday, Kiloran had instructed Dyshon to sedate her again.

Now she was awake again, and the interrogation would begin anew. It was a tedious business, but it must never be forgotten that persistence was an inherit quality of victory.

The woman was small, white-haired, and frail. A severe cough indicated to Kiloran that death might have come soon for her, anyhow, even if he had not intervened and altered her destiny. This wasn't the first time she had endured interrogation, either. Three fingers were missing from one of her hands.

Valdani torture. Long ago, he guessed, studying the old scars of the small hand he now took in his.
 

The prisoner was shackled, held immobile by coils of water that should be making her very uncomfortable. She was soaking wet and shivering, her skin so bloodless now she looked almost as pale as a Valdan.

"They left me for dead," the old woman said, her voice weary and cracked. She met Kiloran's gaze, then looked down at the mutilated hand he held so gently. He heard liquid in her breath when she paused before speaking again. Yes, she was very sick. "I told them nothing, as I will tell you nothing. Kill me or release me. You're wasting your time."

"At the risk of repeating myself," Kiloran replied, dropping her hand, "I can end your suffering quickly if you cooperate. And if you don't, you'll be here for a long time."

She shrugged and closed her sunken eyes again. "Perhaps I'll learn to like it here."

Yes, she was tough. And her power was undeniable—every
shir
in Kandahar was shaking now that she was awake again. But she was nonetheless terrified. Kiloran had seen the horror in her eyes yesterday when she'd first realized whose prisoner she was. As a Guardian, she'd have lived her whole life in fear of the Society, of the waterlords—of him. And with good reason.

If she knew anything worth knowing, soon Kiloran would know it, too. If she could explain the unprecedented activity at Mount Darshon or reveal whatever the Guardians might know about Mirabar's visions, then Kiloran would make sure she did so before she died.

He watched her shiver and listened to her cough. He willed the watery shackles to tighten around her limbs, to grow even colder; and he heard her gasp in response.

"I am not a Valdan," Kiloran whispered softly.
 

Her dark eyes watered with mingled pain and fear. "I know. You are something much worse."

"And you know that what they did to you is nothing compared to what I will do."

Her mouth trembled, but she said only, "Let's get on with it."

Kiloran paused for a moment in appreciation. No Valdan would ever show such courage, least of all a Valdani woman. It was so fitting that the Valdani had surrendered Sileria at last, finally leaving Silerians to settle their differences without interference. No outsider could understand the feelings which bound Kiloran and this woman together. No
roshah
could share the intimate history that united the waterlord and the Guardian in their mutually satisfying enmity. No Valdan could truly appreciate the depth of hatred between them as the woman screamed in pain and Kiloran focused on the demanding task of breaking her.

"Father..."

Armian froze like a statue when he saw Tansen standing above him on that windswept cliff, swinging his
yahr
with deadly intent.

If he lived for all eternity, he would never forget the sound of Armian's voice as he said
, "Tansen?"

His trusted child, his beloved son, his murderer...

"Tansen?" That voice, torn by shock and disbelief.

"Father."

"Tansen?" Wounded by betrayal and treachery.

"Father!"

"Tansen? Wake up."

He reached for his sword harness even before he was fully awake. Breathing hard, he looked around him in confusion.

"We're in Sanctuary," Zarien said, backing away cautiously. "You don't need that."

Sanctuary? Yes. They had stopped here for the night on their journey to Shaljir. Just the two of them. Traveling quietly and being discreet.

"What?" Tansen demanded. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know."

Zarien turned and gestured to the door of the bedchamber. Now Tansen saw a Sister standing there, holding a sputtering candle.

"Assassins," she said simply. "Four of them."

Zarien gasped.

"Where?" Tansen unsheathed his swords.

The Sister gurgled in alarm. Zarien quickly stepped between Tansen and the Sister, who took a few steps back while she babbled, "They're waiting outside. They've requested shelter for the night."

"It's very late," Tansen said suspiciously.

The Sister shrugged and, realizing he didn't mean to gut her, said more calmly, "I think they're in danger."

"From what?" he asked.
 

"Who knows?"

"Do they know we're here?"

"They know I have other guests," she replied. "They don't know who." When Tansen didn't respond, she prodded, "This is Sanctuary. I can't turn them away."

"They're assassins!" Zarien objected.

"Sanctuary is for everyone," the Sister pointed out. "And no one can harm anyone else here."

Tansen thought it over. "Damn." He sighed, then said, "Let them in, but don't tell them anything."

"Let them in?" Zarien exclaimed as the Sister nodded and scurried away. "Have you lost your—"

"If she turns them away, they'll wonder why. They might even
 
wait for us just beyond Sanctuary grounds," Tansen explained, "and ambush us as soon as we leave tomorrow."

"You think they'd guess who's here?"

Tansen shrugged. "I doubt it. It's more likely they'd suspect we're
toreni
ripe for a profitable abduction."

"But if they find out who you are, then—"

"Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer," Tansen quoted. "At least this way we'll know where they are, and we can avoid nasty surprises when we leave."

Tansen pulled his humble homespun tunic over his head and laced up the neck to ensure that no one could see even a hint of the notorious brand on his chest.
 

"What are you doing?" Zarien kept his voice to a whisper now that they could hear the assassins entering the main room of the Sanctuary.

"I'm going to find out whatever I can."

"Maybe we should just stay in here," the boy suggested.

"
You
should stay in here," Tansen said pointedly, keeping his voice low, too.
 

"But... Oh." Zarien sighed. "They'll wonder, like everyone else, what I'm doing so far inland."

"They may even have heard of the sea-born boy who's been seen with me, and if so—"

"Seeing me, they might guess who you are." Zarien sat down suddenly. "Maybe we should just sneak out through the window?"

"Don't worry," Tansen murmured. "There are only four. I can handle them."

"Only four," Zarien repeated faintly.

Tansen grinned wryly at the distinct lack of confidence he heard in the boy's voice, then stuck his head out the door and peered into the main room. Despite the late hour, the four assassins were talking noisily and accepting food and drink from the Sister. None of them noticed Tansen, which gave him time to get a good look at them in the dim light without being studied in return. He didn't recognize any of them. It was, of course, nonetheless possible that they might recognize him, since he was by now more famous than any assassin; but he decided to risk it. They wouldn't attack him here, and he could handle them in the morning as long as he knew where they were. Meanwhile, if they didn't recognize him, perhaps he could learn something from them.

Two of them rose to their feet the moment they noticed Tansen enter the main room. He shuffled forward slowly, in a submissive posture.

"Who are you?" one of them demanded rudely.

Tansen crossed his fists over his chest, lowered his head, and murmured, "
Sirani
." Without raising his eyes, he said, "Forgive me for intruding."

They saw what they wanted to see, a humble
shallah
, an ordinary mountain peasant, a common man who held the Honored Society in awe. He submissively answered their terse questions about his presence here, telling them he was returning from Shaljir, after working there for some years, taking his city-born wife home to meet his family now that the Valdani had surrendered the city and Silerians could finally come and go in freedom.

No one asked why his wife remained hidden in her bedchamber; apart from a Sister, any respectable woman would avoid such men in the middle of the night, and city-dwellers were particularly afraid of assassins.

Tansen fawned enough to please them, and he pretended to be honored when one of them suggested he take a seat and join them at the simple wooden table where they were eating and drinking. As Tansen sat, he got a good look at one of their
shir
. He recognized the workmanship, having seen it before. He kept his face impassive, wondering what Wyldon's men were doing here, so far from their own territory.

As soon as the assassins drained their cups, Tansen refilled them. When the wineskin was finally empty, he fetched another—the Sister had gone to bed by now—and kept their cups full thereafter. He encouraged the assassins to tell bloody tales of the men they'd killed and the
toreni
they'd abducted. He admired their
shir
and made them laugh by gasping in pain when he accepted their mocking invitation to touch one of the wavy-bladed daggers.
 

When he judged the moment ripe, Tansen decided to get them gossiping. "Is it true," he asked, "what they say about how Josarian died?" A tense silence followed his question. He leaned forward and whispered, "Kiloran. The White Dragon. Is it true?"