The White Dragon (82 page)

"I'm sorry."

I'm sorry he betrayed you. I'm sorry I had to kill him. I'm sorry.

A tear streamed down Josarian's face, glistening beneath the brilliant light of the full twin moons. "I know."

Tansen would not ask for forgiveness. "It had to be done."

"If only..." Josarian bowed his head and gulped for air. He scrubbed at his face and finally said, "We will meet again in the Otherworld. Mirabar says that our earthly concerns and quarrels will not matter there."

"Mirabar..."

"Mirabar," Tansen murmured, trying to tear himself away from memories of the night Josarian had died. That sad, subdued conversation beside the Zilar River was the last time he'd ever spoken with his brother.
 

After that, Josarian waded across the shallow, icily cold river, and Kiloran ambushed him with the White Dragon. Tansen was with Mirabar, insisting it was time to leave before more Outlookers came along.

A blood-chilling scream split the night wide open. It came from the riverbank. Tansen was already running towards the sound when he heard more voices—screaming, shouting, crying out. Above it all, there was a terrible roaring unlike anything he'd ever heard in his life, a sound that was so terrifying it made his hair stand on end and a clammy sweat break out on his skin.
 

His side was burning and his head was spinning by the time he reached the riverbank. What he saw there made him forget his pain, his exhaustion, his weakness. Made him forget everything but the horror confronting him.

"Tan?"

Tansen whirled around, ready for battle, startled into nearly attacking the intruder without conscious thought.
 

"Radyan." Tansen froze.

Radyan eyed the sword in his hand. "Something I said?" The joke sounded flat and tired.

Tansen glanced down at the engraved blade. He didn't even remember seizing it. "Years of training," he muttered absently.

"We're done here," Radyan said. "The last pyre is burning. Everyone is moving out now."

Tansen nodded and donned his filthy tunic again. He didn't know why he bothered, since it was completely ruined. "Let's go."

A hand on his arm stopped him. "Tansen."

He glanced at Radyan's strained face. He knew that look. "Who?" he asked, dreading the answer.

"Galian."

"Galian," he repeated, sadness washing over him.

"May Dar have mercy on his soul."

Tansen wanted to curse Dar, but he didn't. "We will miss him," was all he said.

They turned away from the river and began following their retreating companions, disappearing back into the mountains.

"What now?" Radyan asked.

"We'll announce the names of the dead in Zilar so their families can be notified. I'll send a runner to Lann at Dalishar to give him new instructions. You'll work with the Guardians. Now that we've freed the Shaljir River, they've got to try to prevent another waterlord from taking control of it."

"Where will you be?"

"Shaljir. But I'll be back as soon as I can. We've won Zilar. We must keep our presence there strong."

"And the boy?"

"Zarien? I'm taking him with me."

"Ah. The
stahra
. He goes where you go."

"He goes where I go," Tansen agreed.

"I must admit, I've been wondering: Why?"

Despite everything, Tansen smiled. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"And would I believe how that fresh wound became an old scar?" Radyan asked with a pointed glance at where Tansen's silvery
shir
scar lay beneath his shirt.

"Are people talking about it?"

"What do
you
think?"

Tansen sighed. "It's a long story, and one without an ending. The truth is, I don't know how it healed."
 

Radyan shrugged. "Have it your way." Then something caught his attention. "Look!"

Someone had used heavy hemp rope to make a simple
jashar
that now hung like a banner from a free-standing, fire-blackened arch which had once been the entrance to Liadon's house.
 

Tansen studied the knotted, woven cords. "'Free water for all.'"

Radyan's gaze remained fixed on it for a long moment. "I like it," he announced with a grin. "Free water for all." He glanced at Tansen and urged, "Let's make it come true."

"You might say," Tansen replied, "that it's been my life's work."

Chapter Thirty-One

He who has not carried your burden
 

does not know what it weighs.

      
      
      
      
      
      
—Silerian Proverb

The boy was dawdling near the enormous old fig tree in the Sanctuary garden, staring moodily at his motionless
stahra
, when Tansen first saw him.

Safe. Alive. Unharmed. Moderately obedient, it seemed, since he was, for once, right where he was supposed to be.

And taller?
Tansen thought incredulously. It had only been a few days, for the love of Dar!

"I trust that Sisters Shannibar and Norimar are feeding you well?" Tansen said dryly.

Startled, Zarien whirled around, letting the oar fall to the ground. "You're alive!"

"I'm alive," Tansen agreed, smiling at the mingled relief and astonishment in the boy's expression.

"You're—I thought... I mean...
Waterlords
."

Tansen gathered from this garbled statement that Zarien hadn't expected him to survive his audacious plan. "Without water," he advised the boy, "they are only men."
 
      

"But they
had
water. They had... They were... " Zarien started taking air in big gulps. "Even when the Shaljir River melted and flowed again yesterday, I... I thought you might not be... um..."

Tansen surprised himself by putting his arms around Zarien and hugging him, much the way Josarian used hug
him
. Then, lest the boy's sense of manly fortitude be compromised, he slapped him on the back and said, "Is there any food left for me, or have you eaten it all?"

"Sanctuary? But I don't want to go to Sanctuary!"
Torena
Chasimar protested.

Ronall's head was pounding. His tongue tasted so vile he half-wished someone would cut it out. Sitting in the public room of the inn, he squinted against the sunlight which poured through a window—along with the fresh air that flooded his nostrils and made him want to vomit again. He had drunk himself unconscious, as planned, and was now feeling the effects of too little sleep gotten in an awkward position at the same table where he still sat—now facing the two women he had reluctantly rescued in the night.

With any luck at all, things will look better after a generous quantity of ale,
he decided.

He ignored the scandalized scowls of the elderly innkeeper and his wife, to whom he hadn't bothered to explain why he now kept
two
women in his bedchamber. He had never explained his actions to servants or peasants, and he didn't intend to start now.

With enormous effort, Ronall focused his gaze on the two women who were now, for better or worse, his responsibility. He deeply regretted ever bedding the maid—Yenibar, as she'd informed him—and getting into this whole mess. Why hadn't he just let the wench steal his money and dreamweed? Or, having impetuously pursued her, why didn't he turn around and run away when he saw
shallaheen
killing Valdani? It seemed incredible that he, of all people, had come to Chasimar's rescue—and outrageously unfair that, refreshed by sleep and invigorated by the light of day, she didn't seem very appreciative of what was surely the sole heroic act of his life.
 

"We can't stay here," he explained through gritted teeth. "I don't know who your husband's murderers were, but they were obviously local people. You can't seriously believe that
she
," he indicated the innkeeper's wife, "won't spread gossip about me to every ear in this area by sundown. Which means that everyone will also know that
you're
here. And it's just possible they'll reconsider letting you live."

"So we have to leave here,"
Torena
Chasimar conceded. "But I don't see why I have to go into Sanctuary."

Ronall sighed. "Where do you want to go?"

She gazed helplessly at him.
 

"Do you have a family?" he prodded. "Someone who'll take you in?"

"In Cavasar."

"Now that's just lovely," he replied.

"You won't take me there?"

"Certainly not. Haven't you heard? Kiloran is in charge of the whole city now. If anyone hates Valdani even more than the
shallaheen
do, it's the Society."

"My mother's people are there," Chasimar explained. "Full-blooded Silerians."

"Just how safe do you think Silerian
toreni
will be in a district now controlled by Kiloran?" he demanded.

"You think they're dead?" she gasped.

"No, he won't kill them. He'll just make them pay whatever he asks." Ronall paused, then added, "And if they refuse,
then
he'll kill them. I don't want to go anywhere near a district where—"

"Are you saying I can never see them again?" Tears welled up in her eyes.

"No. I'm saying that if you want to stay in Sileria—"

"I do! Where else can I go? I've never been to the mainland. I know no one there! And I have nothing—no money, no clothes, no relati—"

"Then you'd better pray for Tansen," he advised.

"Josarian's brother," she murmured with a distressed frown.

That startled him. "They were brothers?"

"Bloodbrothers," she elaborated.

Which, Ronall knew, meant as much to a
shallah
as a birth relationship. "Are you sure?" he asked curiously.

"Of course I'm sure," she replied impatiently. "I knew Zim..." She stopped herself, shrugged, and said faintly, "Everyone knows." Her heightened color and shifting eyes stirred some vague unease in him.
 

"
I
didn't know," he pointed out a little irritably.

"
Torena
Elelar knows. She knows them both." She paused and, evidently remembering that Josarian was dead, amended, "Knew."