The White Dragon (67 page)

Then the night fell silent. Blissfully, mercifully silent.

The lava dissolved and faded from view. The thick steam peeled away from the darkness even as Mirabar peered through it in search of the child. The heat dissipated and died away.

Nothing was left but the night and its ordinary sounds. And her own panting breath.

Mirabar came back to her normal senses. She felt the cool air on her skin. She inhaled the heady scents of the mountains at night, heard her heart pounding in response to the terrifying vision, and tasted the aftermath of fear in her mouth.

The Sister was regarding her with wide-eyed horror. Najdan looked bemused. Pyron looked as if he thought Mirabar needed a sharp slap to calm her down. The other men were shifting restlessly, waiting for some assurance that, despite her behavior, there was really nothing to fear.

"There's really nothing to fear." Mirabar's voice sounded hoarse.

"Well, that's good to know," Pyron said sourly. "Because, you know, for a moment there, I thought there was room for doubt."

"If you must be a fool," Najdan said to him, "you could at least be a silent one."

"There's no need to be insulting," Pyron protested.

"Do you need anything,
sirana?
" Najdan asked.

"No. No, it was just a..." She looked around and asked plaintively, "No one else saw that?"

"Saw what?" Pyron sounded plaintive, too.

"A... There was..." Mirabar sighed. "Never mind."

"Fine," Pyron said. "Would anyone besides me like to get some more sleep before dawn?"

"You're sure we're safe?" the Sister asked Mirabar, her eyes still round and distressed.

"Quite safe. Go back to bed."

"And you,
sirana?"

"Oh, I think I'll stay up." Mirabar brushed her hair away from her face with a shaky hand.

Najdan announced, "Then I will stay w—"

"No," she said. "You need to be alert when we leave here. Go back to sleep."

He hesitated, then nodded his agreement. Mirabar wasn't sure, though, that any of them would be able to sleep after the way she had just frightened them.

Keeping watch alone in the dark safety of Sanctuary grounds for the rest of the night, Mirabar hugged her knees to her chest and tried to understand what the terrifying vision meant.

Ronall rode south, following the Idalar River, going deep into the heart of Sileria. He stopped frequently to ease his sorrows with whatever was available in the war-torn villages and valleys through which he passed. But the war had depleted Sileria. Kintish dreamweed was hard to find, and Moorlander cloud syrup had become so expensive that Ronall couldn't buy any with what little money he was carrying now.

Mercifully, he had found the town of Illan the same day he'd awakened lost and bewildered in the lemon grove. He'd been able to sell his ring there for a decent price, though certainly less than it was worth. Although the air was already thick with talk of civil war, many merchants and traders were eager to do business. They viewed the immediate future with mercenary optimism now that the Valdani had surrendered.
 

"Whatever happens next in Sileria, and even if the Society requires heavy tribute to keep the water flowing during the coming dry season," the trader who bought Ronall's ring had said,
 
"at least we can resume trade with the rest of Sirkara now that the war is over. And from now on," the man added, "half our profits won't go to the damned Valdani."

The damned Valdani, Ronall knew, had taxed native Silerians at a much higher rate than the Valdani themselves paid. It was one of Elelar's many grievances against them. Indeed, all the laws in Valdani-occupied Sileria favored the conquerors at the expense of the natives. Luckily for Ronall, the privileges of his Valdani blood had always protected him from the burdens of his Silerian blood; that, too, had been the law here under imperial rule.

Now his Valdani blood was a death sentence.
 

However, the friendly trader who bought his ring had no idea he was dealing with one of the "damned Valdani." If he even noticed that Ronall's clothes owed more to Valdani fashion than Silerian, he evidently thought nothing of it. After all, Ronall was a
toren,
and they did as they pleased.
 

Ronall had tensed with fear when Guardians in Illan, at the urging of the town's citizens, set fire to a Shrine of the Three. Yes, he meant to die... but not while he was so appallingly sober. However, no one in Illan paid any attention to him, beyond extending the deferential courtesy that people usually showed a
toren
. It was the same everywhere he had gone since then.

Although Valdan had been the official language of Sileria for two hundred years, Ronall's mother and all his family's servants were Silerian, so he'd grown up speaking common Silerian. His coloring was more Silerian than Valdani. In fact, as long as he didn't reveal his name, there was nothing to identify him to any of the people he now encountered as a... What did the
shallaheen
say—a
roshah?
A foreigner. Not nearly as foreign as he would be on the mainland, of course. Elelar had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't a true Silerian; but more than a few Valdani visiting Sileria, over the years, had made it clear that he wasn't really a Valdan, either.

He hadn't bathed since leaving Shaljir, and the days were growing hotter, so he supposed he was pretty rank by now. Not that the woman he had paid for last night had complained. Unlike his wife, women who charged money for his pleasure never complained to him about anything. That was their greatest charm. But their accommodating ways had never eased the ache of loneliness, even while eliminating a more prosaic ache, and last night had been no different.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

Ronall's misery curled its claws more sharply into his heart every time he remembered Elelar.

He didn't want to think about her. He wanted a drink.
 

The Idalar River flowed steadily through the mountains, and he kept following it upriver. It was bigger than the Shaljir River, which lay west of here, and a far more important water source. The waterlords who controlled the Shaljir River cooperated with Kiloran, keeping the capital city under the Society's heel, but this was the river the city relied upon for the majority of its water. The Idalar was the chief source of Kiloran's wealth. He demanded heavy tribute from Shaljir for its water. Ronall had only a vague notion of what waterlords used their money for, though he supposed that assassins were expensive. Most assassins were said to live well, eat well, and wear fine clothes, which suggested that the waterlords paid them well. As the most powerful waterlord, Kiloran would presumably have the most men and, therefore, the biggest expenses.

The Idalar River looked placid and innocent as Ronall rode Elelar's calm gelding along its west bank. It looked like... just a river. The kind of ordinary sorcery-free water he'd heard they had on the mainland. It was hard to believe this gently flowing river was a fierce battleground between Kiloran and Baran. He wondered if they were fighting for it even now, or if they were resting, gathering their strength to battle Josarian's people for ultimate control of Sileria.

The waterlords hated the Valdani as much as Elelar did. Ronall supposed they had every reason to, considering that the Valdani had tried to destroy them.

So things would be grim for Ronall's kind—the Valdani who couldn't go home because
this
was home—no matter who emerged victorious in the current struggle to rule the island nation.

Several days out from Shaljir, Ronall found a reasonably pleasant village on the banks of the Idalar. He hadn't had a drink since morning and it was past midday now. So he might as well stop here. He was in no hurry, after all. He had no destination. No one awaited him, and no one would miss him.

He tethered his horse near the village tavern and went inside. There were perhaps twenty men in there, mostly
shallaheen.
They stared at him, the stranger among them. The outsider, the
roshah
. He asked for the strongest drink available.

The tavern host, a scarred and elderly
shallah,
studied his dirty but expensive clothing. "I've got some silver wine,
toren
. From Valdania." Ronall wondered if the man had guessed he was part-Valdan, but the old
shallah
added, "It's expensive. Not much call for it here, as you can imagine."

"Why keep it, then?"

"Used to have some Valdani customers." The man shrugged. "Couldn't keep them out. That was the law."

"They're all gone now?"

"Most of them. Abandoned their estates around here."

"I don't like silver wine," Ronall said.
 

"Don't blame you. Bitter stuff."

"Yes."

"Got some good volcano brew."

"That'll do." A little rough going down, but he suddenly felt like drinking something Silerian. "Plenty of it." As the old man poured him a mug, Ronall asked, "The Valdani who abandoned their estates... Will any of them be back?"

"For what? Everyone around here is already fighting over their lands. The
toreni
families they took the estates from want them back. The
shallaheen
and lowlanders who fought for freedom want to enjoy prosperity and are demanding a share of the lands. In fact, some of them have already taken them."

"What about the waterlords?"

The
shallah
shook his head. "They don't seem interested. I guess they're not farmers or landlords by nature."

The brew went down like burning lava. Ronall cleared his throat. "Well, they're sorcerers, after all."

The old man nodded. "The waterlords will have power over whoever winds up owning the land. That's all they care about."

A young
shallah
, emboldened by the host's easy chat with Ronall, approached them. "Who do you favor now,
toren?"
he asked. "Kiloran or Tansen?"

Ronall eyed the
shallah
and considered rebuking him for his impertinence, just so he wouldn't have to think up an answer. "I favor... As I always favor..."

"Yes?"

"A good drink, a soft bed, and a warm woman," Ronall said.

A few men grinned or laughed in response, but the young
shallah
persisted, "People say the
toreni
will favor Tansen because the waterlords have drained them of their wealth for centuries."

"It would be hard," Ronall admitted, "to side with those who make a regular practice of abducting us for ransom." He drained his mug. "More," he said, handing the mug to his host.

"Are you just passing through,
toren
?" the old man asked.

"I'm... looking for something," he replied at last, feeling sad. The brew went down a little easier this time.

The young
shallah
asked, "What are you looking for?"

Ronall smiled wryly. "A solution to my problems."

"A
toren
's problems." The young
shallah
looked at the other men and said, his voice now tinged with sarcasm, "Which new boots to wear with your new clothes? Which of your estates to spend the dry season at? Which horse to ride on the hunt?"

"Precisely," Ronall said, feeling better now that he'd quenched his thirst. Now he remembered what he had come here for. Now he felt the courage to make it happen. He swallowed more fiery brew and then looked right into the young man's eyes. "Which
shallah
to have punished for waking me too early after I've spent the night drinking. Which serving maid to force my attentions on. Which tenants to squeeze so that I can pay my gambling debts. Which—"

"
Toren,"
the host interrupted, "please pay no attention to this young fool's comments." A sensible businessman, the elderly
shallah
prodded the younger one, "Apologize to my guest, you clod, if you expect to be welcome here any longer."