The White Dragon (80 page)

The old man shook off his grip and turned away, pushing through the crowd to confront the sweating, dirty, frightened aristocrats who had just made a messy and hazardous descent from their blazing rooftop.

Ronall kicked his reluctant gelding forward. "You don't need to kill them!"

The
toren
—Porsall—was having trouble standing. It looked like he had broken his leg coming off the high roof. The
torena
was clinging to him, shaking with sobs.

"Let them come with me!" Ronall shouted again. "You don't need to kill them. Not now!"

The
toren
looked up, noticing him now. "Who are you?"

In a stroke of genius, Ronall announced, "I am the husband of
Torena
Elelar shah Hasnari!"

The bloodthirsty crowd paused in surprise.

"The
torena
?"

"
Torena
Elelar?"

"Dar praise Elelar shah Hasnari!"

"The
torena
has a husband? But didn't she live with... Um..." The
shallah
who had spoken up now hesitated, then coughed.

Someone interjected, "They did say she was married."

"Yes, I heard she was married," someone else said. "To a Valdan."

"A Valdan?" The scarred old
shallah
eyed Ronall.

Ronall thought he would piss on himself as a perceptible wave of hostility swept across the crowd. A blessed instinct of self-preservation inspired him to say with amazing dryness, "I'm sure I would know if that were the case."

"Why would
Torena
Elelar's husband be trying to save Valdani?" the old
shallah
demanded.

Another lie sprang to his lips. "
Torena
Chasimar is my wife's cousin." His head spinning, he added, "You
do
know you're about to murder a half-Silerian woman, don't you?"

The rabble all around him began murmuring restlessly now. Killing a woman didn't sit well with Silerians, now that they paused to think about it. Killing a
Silerian
woman was even worse.
 

Ronall pressed his advantage, "When the massacres began in Shaljir, my wife was afraid something like this would happen. Elelar couldn't leave the city herself, so she sent me to protect her cousin." He met
Torena
Chasimar's bewildered, watery gaze and added, "I'm glad I arrived in time. Elelar would be very distressed if I couldn't bring you back with me."

"
Torena
Elelar's cousin..." The old
shallah
looked thoughtfully back and forth between Ronall and the woman. Ronall's clothing was more Valdani than Silerian (not to mention dirty and rumpled), but it was, above all, the rich clothing of a
toren
. Besides, Ronall doubted that a mountain peasant knew all that much about fashion. "I suppose," the old
shallah
said at last, "it's possible."

Ronall called on long-forgotten lessons in comportment as he looked down his nose at the old man and said with all the pomposity he could muster, "Are you questioning my word,
shallah
?"

"A woman," someone else murmured. "A Silerian wo—"

"
Half
Silerian," the old
shallah
snapped.

"And which half will you kill?" Ronall asked, wondering if any of them noticed how he was trembling. "Which half can you cut out to leave her as pure-blooded as you?"

"I don't want to kill a woman," another
shallah
announced.

"Nor do I," someone else declared.

"But you
do
want to kill an unarmed
toren?
" Ronall asked. "Just to clarify."

"No one is threatening you,
toren!
" The peasant who addressed him seemed aghast at the idea.

"I was referring to
him.
" Ronall indicated Porsall, who listened in sweat-drenched, wide-eyed silence.

"He must pay," the peasant replied. "Vengeance is our right."

"Vengeance for what?" Ronall demanded.

"He's a Valdan!"

"If you can't be more specific than that..." Ronall said.

The scarred old
shallah
came to a decision. "You can take the woman with you,
toren
. We will not harm
Torena
Elelar's cousin."

Another
shallah
argued, "What if he's lying?"

The old man replied, "What if he's not?"

"And Porsall?" Ronall asked, already knowing the answer.

"Take the woman and go," the old man instructed.

"Let me take her husband, too," Ronall urged. "He is Elelar's kin by marr—"

"Take the woman now,
toren,
or she will see us kill him."

Frightened and out of ideas, Ronall met Porsall's eyes.
 

Porsall looked at his wife. "Go," he said. "You must go."

The
torena
didn't touch or embrace him. Just stared blindly at him while sobs wracked her body.
 

"
Go,
" he repeated.

She turned and started stumbling towards Ronall. Her light brown hair was a dusty tangle, her pale sleeping linens streaked with soot and dirt, her face contorted by fear and grief. She hunched her shoulders as she passed through the crowd, flinching at any contact with her would-be killers.
 

When she reached Ronall, he leaned over and tried to pull her up onto the horse with him. She wasn't heavy, but he wasn't that strong. A life spent lifting mugs and throwing dice didn't build muscle. After he made two fumbled attempts, someone else assisted the
torena
. She gasped and sobbed at the contact, but Ronall was just glad she was finally on the horse.
 

He looked at Porsall again, and he wanted to cry. "I'm sorry."

"Go," Porsall said. "Take her where no one knows. Take her... Find someplace for her. For people like us."

Ronall nodded, turned his horse's head, and gave it a gentle kick.
For people like us
. Did Porsall know? Did he somehow recognize that Ronall was Valdani, too? Or did he just mean himself and his wife when he said "us"? Ronall supposed he would never know.

Torena
Chasimar's sobs became louder as they rode away. Ronall's spine stiffened when he heard a howl of pain behind him, followed by raucous cries of triumph. The
torena
gave a muffled scream against his back and clutched him tighter.

"Oh, Dar," she wept. "Dar have mercy. Where will I go? I am Silerian! Where can I go? Dar help me. Where can my child go?"

Ronall flinched, making the gelding prance nervously again. "Your child?"

"I'm pregnant," she wept. "Where can this child live? Where can we go? Oh, Dar have mercy on us!"

Ronall slumped, feeling the tension leave him on a wave of despair. "Dar won't have mercy," he said bleakly. "She is the destroyer goddess."

Mirabar was shaking so hard, it was difficult to maintain control of her fire. Some of her attackers came within moments of killing her before being slaughtered by her defenders. They died so close to her that their blood splattered her. And the power needed to build and maintain this enormous ring of fire was so great that she couldn't defend herself if her companions failed her. She had no strength to spare.

"Did you hear that? They've called for retreat!" Pyron cried, his face streaked with blood. He was breathing hard, his eyes glowing with exultation in the golden light of Mirabar's fire. "Dar be praised, the assassins are retreating!"

"So Najdan's plan worked," someone said.

"He knows how they think," Pyron said, evidently forgetting that he had questioned the plan.

Mirabar didn't comment. If she faltered now, the assassins might realize it and turn back to finish their grim job. She kept plodding through the dark forest, arms spread, coaxing the wall of fire which she dragged with her at enormous cost to her strength.

It became harder with every step. The mountaintop battleground was already three-quarters encircled by fire. If any Guardians were still alive out there in the dark, they were too disoriented or too badly injured to realize what she was doing and help her. The farther Mirabar got from the spot where she had first blown this fire into life, the harder it became to control it without letting it sizzle out, and to feed it without letting it become an inferno that would destroy the forest.

Her breath came harder and thinner as she continued chanting, singing her magic in archaic High Silerian, a tongue that hadn't been used in common speech for centuries but which gave voice to most Guardian rituals.

She faltered weakly in the dark, stumbled and fell.

"
Sirana!
"

Pyron hauled her to her feet, his blood-slick hands slipping on her bare forearms.

"Look out!"

A black-clad assassin melted out of the dark night and came for her, his
shir
glittering with the cold sorcery of his master. Mirabar watched in fearful exhaustion as the shining wavy-edged dagger descended toward her in a deadly arc.

He ducked as something struck at his face.

Pyron's
yahr
, Mirabar realized. It missed.

The assassin knocked Pyron aside and lunged for Mirabar. She fell back, scrambling to get away. She tried to ward him off with fire, but nothing came to her palms, and her breath was soft and empty. He was a big, strong man, and his grip on her was firm.

"Get him!" Pyron shouted.

"Watch out! Another one behind—"

"No!"

The
shir
flashed at Mirabar again. Terrified and weak, she did the only thing she could think of, and dived straight into the raging wall of fire she had made, taking the assassin with her.

He screamed in agony, and his
shir
cut her in passing as his arms waved. He let go of her, but now she grabbed him. He struggled to get away. Burning. His long hair blazing. His clothes on fire. His flesh burning, melting,
cooking
.
 

Heat flooded Mirabar. Surrounded her, engulfed her, filled her. The raging inferno of Dar-blessed fire. The gift of the Guardians, the gift of the destroyer goddess.
 

It would kill her, too, if she lost focus, if she stopped concentrating, if she became too weak. She was flesh and blood just like the horribly screaming assassin dying even now, dying so hideously at her hands. Dying because she was killing him, trapping him here in the fire with her.
 

"Dar have mercy, what's happening?" someone cried.

"Mirabar! Mirabar!"

She ignored them, ignored everything but the grip she must maintain on the burning, writhing arm, and the fire she must shield herself from.

Lava poured through her veins. The rich blood of the volcano flowed along her senses. Flames toyed with her hair before melting into her shoulders and her back. Her skin glowed like live coals beneath her clothing.

The assassin stopped struggling and became a dead weight.
 

Dead.

She let go. She didn't know what happened to the body now in the consuming fire, she knew only that it was no longer alive.

Darfire. I've killed a man.

The fire scorched her, hurting her. She tumbled out of the flames, rolling across the ground, escaping the fire before her distraction led to her own death.