The White Dragon (32 page)

"I went to prison for you," Ronall growled at Elelar, shaking her as he spoke.
 

"And you sobered up there, according to Kaynall," she said breathlessly. "Why couldn't you have stayed that way?"

He didn't know. Dar help him, Three have mercy... He didn't know why. He had intended to try. But his good intentions had dissolved as soon as he was released from prison.

"
Torena?
" That idiot Derlen still hadn't gone away, and Faradar's soft chatter urging him to do so was getting on Ronall's nerves.

Elelar's shoulders were firm under the fine silk of her tunic. Her black hair gleamed in the firelight. A flush of anger showed on her soft skin, which was darker than that of a Valdani woman but exquisitely fair by Silerian standards. She smelled sweetly of whatever scent she'd used in her bathing water upstairs. She was his
wife
... and he felt his body quickening in response to the knowledge, to the hunger that had assaulted him a thousand times in her presence and which would rule him until the day he died.

Her breasts swelled luxuriantly against the thin silk of her tunic with every panting breath she took as she stared up at him with those wine-dark eyes. He thought of their marriage bed, now cold and empty for so long. He remembered the warmth of her breath on his naked skin, the feel of their bare bellies pressed together, the damp friction of her thighs... His head swam with urgent passion.

"This..." Her voice failed her and she tried again. "This is usually the part of the evening where you rape me, isn't it?" Her tone was rich with loathing.
 

It had the intended effect. His desire shriveled like parchment going up in flames, until nothing was left but ashes.
 

He released her and turned away, swallowing the familiar potion of shame, hurt, and humiliation which Elelar knew so well how to brew for him.

He saw Derlen gaping at him from the doorway, his jaw hanging open. Faradar, who had been with Elelar since before their marriage, was more accustomed to such scenes; she just looked steadily at the floor.
 

Ronall was pretty sure he felt embarrassed, but a little more wine would wash that away, so he didn't dwell on it. However, he was done amusing the servants.

"Go away," he ordered.

Derlen didn't move. Ronall decided it was a good enough reason to hit him again, and so he did.

Derlen cried out and fell back against Faradar, who recommenced trying to drag him away. Ronall noted with pleasure that the Guardian's nose started bleeding again. On the other hand, now his hand hurt.
 

More wine
, he decided.

Ronall slammed the door and went back to the decanter. It was only after he had drained an entire cup that he realized Elelar was still in the room with him.

"Why are you still here?" he asked.

"I believe that's what
I've
been saying."

"You shouldn't have married me." He said it to blame her for their predicament. But he reflected on the statement and realized what a profound truth he had just uttered. "You shouldn't have married me."

"Probably not, but as long as I'm stuck with you..."

The room was reeling. The wine was working. He felt better—which was to say, he felt less. And feeling less had been his primary interest for as long as he could remember.
 

"Are you listening?" Elelar asked.

He realized she had been talking. He'd heard none of it. "Hmmm?"

"I want you to do something for me."

That struck him as wildly amusing. He burst out laughing. The long-suffering patience on his wife's face was so uncharacteristic that it made him laugh even harder. He tumbled sloppily into another chair, spilling wine all over himself, clutching his side when it started to ache.

Ache.
That was bad. It meant he could still feel something.

"Wine," he muttered.

"You've had enough."

"Wine," he insisted.

"In a moment. In fact..." Elelar picked up the decanter and waved it enticingly just beyond his reach. When he made a clumsy grab for it, she backed away. "I'll give you all you want, and even get the servants to go find more at this Darforsaken hour, if..."

More
, he thought,
more.

"If?" he prompted.

"If you'll go to Santorell Palace tomorrow," she said.
 
"There's an assassin there named Searlon whom I must speak with in private, without Kaynall knowing about it."

Ronall didn't understand, but it didn't matter. "So?"

"I know you don't care who rules Sileria," she said. "But you probably don't want to see Shaljir destroyed."

"No," he agreed, "I don't."

"All the taverns," she said. "All the brothels, the gambling halls, the—"

"How can an assassin save all that?" Ronall asked, longing for the decanter.

"He's going to help me convince Kaynall to give it all up," she said. "No matter what I have to do."

Ronall heard those words and discovered he could still get angry. "Not in my house, Elelar."

"This is my house," she reminded him.

"Don't bed him here." He feared he would beg, and he didn't want to. "Don't bed him in my... in this house."

She looked surprised. "Searlon?"

"Or Kaynall."

He saw her lush lips curve in a slight smile. "I promise I won't." She shook her head and added, "That is not the bait which will lure either of them. Not these men."

"Then what?"

"That's my problem, not yours."

"My problem is to find this assassin in Santorell Palace?" When she nodded, Ronall asked, "How?"

"Ask to speak to Advisor Kaynall," Elelar said. "Tell him I've returned home. Tell him that, based on something you overheard me say, you think there may be an assassin lurking in Santorell Palace."

"Searlon."

"No. Say only what I've just told you. You don't know the assassin's name," she said. "You only know that it's your duty as a Valdan—"

"But I—"

"—to warn the Imperial Advisor that his life may be in danger."

"That's all?" Ronall asked blearily.

"That's all."

"How will that secure a meeting with this... Searlon?"

"He's there, somewhere in the Palace, close to Kaynall," she said. "He'll hear about it."

"And?"

"And he'll want to know how I knew he was there, and what I'm planning. Searlon is very clever. He may even suspect it's a message from me." Elelar shrugged. "But I doubt Kaynall will."

"And then?"

"Searlon will come," she said. "He'll find me."

Ronall frowned in foggy bewilderment. "Why?"

"Because, like his master, Searlon lives according to the old proverb."

"Which is?"
 

"Keep your friends close, but keep your enemies closer."

"Oh. Then I was right," he said with bitter satisfaction. "Nothing ever really changes here."

Elelar sighed. "Will you remember any of this in the morning?"

"Probably not."

"We'll go over it again tomorrow." 
      
"Fine. Can I have the decanter now?"

"You promise you'll do it?" she prodded. "You'll go to Kaynall?"

"I promise," he said wearily. "You married me for my Valdani blood, so I suppose you can't help trying to use it yet again."

"Yes," Elelar said quietly. "That's why I married you."

"And also because you thought I'd always be too drunk to notice your activities." He remembered their conversation when he visited her in prison—the first honest conversation of their marriage.

"And you were."

"So let me be once again the man you married," he said. "Give me the damned decanter, Elelar."

She came closer and handed it to him. He didn't even bother fumbling for his cup, just raised the bottle to his lips and drank deeply.
 

Soon his senses spun away from his sorrows, and his blood felt that longed-for flow of comfort. Soon the world reeled around him, enchanted instead of bleak, gentle instead of harsh, forgiving instead of condemning. His thoughts flowed more calmly as the jasmine-tinged liquid warmed his belly, and his heart stopped aching as the wine cooled his grievances.

He didn't know when Elelar had left the room, he only knew she was gone now. But he had the wine and so he didn't miss her.

So Elelar thought she and some assassin could convince Kaynall to surrender Shaljir without a fight? So Josarian was dead, slaughtered by his own kind? So Elelar would never let Ronall touch her again? So he wouldn't belong to native-ruled Sileria any more than he had belonged to Valdani-occupied Sileria...

So what?
 

More wine
, he thought.
 

Dar had raged wildly the other night and shaken the ground from Liron to Cavasar, but Shaljir's walls were still standing, awaiting violent assault and massive bloodshed. The Valdani fled this land by the thousands, and Ronall couldn't go with them. Silerians celebrated every new victory for the rebels, every Valdan they killed, and he couldn't celebrate with them.

More.

His wife despised him. The Outlookers who'd guarded his cell had despised him. His father was disappointed in him, and his mother made excuses for him.

Ronall felt tears of futile shame slide down his cheeks, and he poured wine down his throat, wishing for something stronger, longing for oblivion.

He was wrong. So wrong. Sileria
was
changing. Everything was changing. Unprecedented days of glory and of horror washed across the only land he could ever call home, yet he hid here in his wife's house, confused, afraid, and useless.

How would his life end?

Had it ever even begun?

More...

Chapter Twelve

In the embrace of memory,
 

the heart always bleeds anew.

      
      
      
      
      
      
      
      
—Kintish Proverb

"Father!"

Armian didn't respond. The wind was high, carrying away Tansen's voice, and the assassin's attention was fixed on the coast below them.

They were on the cliffs east of Adalian, walking rather than riding, since it was a dark-moon night and the landscape was too treacherous for horses. The long rains had finally come, the season of heavy storms when the sun-baked land renewed itself. A fierce coastal wind swept the downpour sideways, drenching Tansen and his companions. Elelar was lagging behind. The young
torena
was tired, unused to such hardship and exertion.

Tansen knew he should do it now.
 

"Father," he said again.

Armian still didn't hear him, and now he knew it was just as well. He couldn't look into his father's eyes and do this terrible thing. And he certainly couldn't succeed if Armian saw it coming.

He must do it now, before Elelar caught up to them, to where Armian stood boldly at the cliff's edge searching the cove below for some sign of the Moorlanders he awaited. Tansen must do it before Elelar came closer, because a woman shouldn't see such a thing.

His heart sick with anguish, his stomach churning with mingled guilt and terror, Tansen fingered the new
yahr
his bloodfather had recently given him. Armian had gotten it from Kiloran while they were the waterlord's guests. Something special for his son, he had said, something to honor such a fine young man. Made of petrified Kintish wood, it would do the job.