The Destroyer Goddess (20 page)

Baran's teacher, the Olvara, was a wizened female who had been old even when Harlon, Baran's predecessor, had come here as a young man more than sixty years ago. Her pale blue skin was mottled like a lizard's, and it was as dark as indigo dye in the deepest wrinkles and crevices of her heavily lined face. Her tiny, almost-translucent fingers constantly wove in and out of a gentle flow of water which spilled down the rock face, flowing from Belitar's moat in a shimmering sheet that crossed the floor of the cave and then climbed the opposite wall, where—transported by Beyah-Olvari magic—it returned once again to Baran's moat. 

 The Olvara stroked and stirred the wall of flowing water that she faced, her gaze returning again and again to the questions and answers which she and she alone could read there. That was her special gift, the power by which a new leader among the Beyah-Olvari was recognized each time the old one died—which didn't happen often. The Beyah-Olvari, Baran had learned, lived far longer than the New Race did.

Now as the Beyah-Olvari chanted and wailed all around her, the Olvara told Mirabar, the first servant of fire in many centuries to venture into these subterranean caverns, about the riddles she saw in her enchanted water. 

"A child of water," the tiny old female said. "A child of fire."

Mirabar said something in reply, her glowing gaze fixed on the Olvara; but Baran couldn't hear her above the chanting of the Beyah-Olvari all around them. 

The Olvara took one dripping hand away from the water and placed it over Mirabar's belly. The Guardian's bright red curls hid her face from Baran's view as she looked down at the tiny blue hand. The two of them were very still for a while, then the Olvara returned her attention—and both of her hands—to the water  again. Baran saw Mirabar brushing absently at the small wet palm print left on her clothes.

Now the Olvara turned and, to Baran's surprise, left the chamber. Interested, Baran came forward and stood beside Mirabar.

"I've never seen her leave this cavern," he said. "Never. What did you say to her?"

Mirabar shook her head. "Nothing. I mean—she said that something has been waiting here for me, and she's gone to get it."

"Ah. What did I tell you?"

She turned a fiery glare upon him. "You didn't tell me
anything
. You let me wander aimlessly around your damp, gloomy ruins ever since I came here, without an—"

"And here I had hoped you were becoming fond of my home."

Mirabar studied him. "Did the Olvara make you so powerful?"

"No, I was powerful when I came here," he said. "She taught me how to direct my power. Focus it. Use it."

"Why?" 
      "Why not?" he countered.

"Because it takes only a few words with her to realize that she hates violence and killing."

"Ah, but she and her followers hate the thought of extinction even more."

Mirabar's eyes narrowed. "You threatened to destroy them?"

"No, I promised to protect them."

She understood immediately. "From the other waterlords."

"Yes."

"Who would kill them all... or enslave them all."

"One or the other," he agreed.

"So protection in exchange for teaching, knowledge, support... That was the agreement you made with them."

"Yes."

"And before you, Harlon?" she guessed. "And before him... every waterlord who ever lived at Belitar?"

"It's one of the reasons I don't encourage visitors," said Baran. "Well, not powerful ones."

She nodded. "Visitors like me. Like Kiloran."

"Or your friend Cheylan."

She looked startled, as if she'd forgotten about the existence of that other fire-eyed Guardian. "Cheylan," she repeatedly pensively.

He nodded. "People who might feel what I felt when I first came here. Who might guess that it's not
my
power they're sensing, but something else that lives here."

"So Kiloran's never been here?"

"Certainly not while it's been my home. He may have come here long ago, for all I know, when Harlon lived here—though I doubt Harlon encouraged visitors, either. But Kiloran has no idea what's here, I'm sure of that. If he was ever here and felt anything, then he mistook it—"

"—for Harlon's power."

"Undoubtedly."

"You said Marjan lived here." Mirabar blinked at the way the chanting around them immediately changed to wailing.

"The Beyah-Olvari don't tell fond tales of Marjan. He was, I gather, not very kind their ancestors." He smiled and added, "He was a Guardian, you know."

"Once upon a time," she said. "Before he gave it up..." Mirabar looked around, her face changing as she realized the weight of what Baran was revealing to her today. "For this."

"Yes. For this." Even now, so full of bitterness, so near to death, he felt the seduction of water magic all around him. Baran wouldn't have given up love, not even for this. But fire? Absolutely. From the moment Marjan had found
this
, Baran doubted there'd been any question in his mind about which magic to consecrate his life to. Not if he felt what Baran always felt here. Not if he had the gift.

"So he didn't learn water magic by himself," Mirabar mused aloud, "by studying the paintings that the Beyah-Olvari left all over Sileria."

Baran grinned. "Of course not. I'm a very skilled waterlord, my dear, and
I
can't begin to decipher those things."

"He found
them
here," she looked around at the Beyah-Olvari, "when everyone thought they were already extinct, and he made them his slaves."

"He did, indeed. Then he built Belitar around them, to protect his secret from others, and to imprison the Beyah-Olvari here."

"And it's never occurred to you to let them go?" she asked, with obvious distaste for his character flaws.

"That was all a long time ago, Mirabar. They don't want to leave now. They don't know what's out there—apart from almost certain death, that is."

Her face took on a strange, thoughtful expression. "They don't know..."

Baran wondered what she was thinking. "Mirabar?" When she didn't respond, he prodded, "
Mirabar."

She gathered her drifting thoughts. "What?"

"You're not to tell anyone about this." She didn't reply, so he prodded impatiently, "Do I have your word?"

"You forgot to threaten me," she pointed out.

He placed his hand over her belly, right where the Olvara had left a wet patch. "Do I need to?" Mirabar drew in a sharp breath, and he asked, "What did she tell you?"

"We're going to have a daughter," she said bluntly.

"But you just told me you're not—"

"I'm not. But we're going to have a daughter. And please," she added, "don't tell me you were praying for a son."

"I don't pray," he said. "Not anymore. Besides, no, I'm delighted. I much prefer girls. Boys are violent little war-mongering monsters."

"Are you quoting your own mother?" she asked dryly.

"Believe it or not, my mother doted on me." Baran paused, then asked, "Our daughter—is she this ruler you're supposed to find?"

Mirabar shook her head. "No. But he will need her. She will be born to shield him, as I was supposed to shield Josarian." She looked down, troubled and sad.

He toyed with the lava-rich curls that fell across her shoulder. "Josarian did what he was meant to do. You helped him achieve his destiny."

Her expression was bemused. "Baran, are you... trying to
comfort
me?"

He snorted, then realized that was indeed the case. "Old habits surface when you least expect them." He sighed. "I was, once upon a time, a good husband."

He glanced away from her uncertain expression when the chanting around them grew louder. The Olvara was returning to the cavern. She was dragging something behind her. It was a long, slim, and narrow object wrapped up in a darkly moldy cloth, and it was heavy enough to cause her to struggle.

 Baran moved toward her, making a gesture to help her, but the Olvara stopped him. "No. You may not touch this. It is not for you. It has never been for you."

He blinked, then smiled wryly. Even in his illness, he was more powerful than the Olvara; but she was still his respected teacher, and he had done extraordinary things—such as marrying Mirabar—based on her guidance. So he shrugged and made no attempt to touch the object as she dragged it past him.

The Olvara was panting with exertion, her breath as fast as an excited puppy's, by the time she reached Mirabar's side with her mysterious burden.

"I have waited all my life," the Olvara told the Guardian, "for you to come and claim this. And before me, others guarded it. It has been here a long time, waiting for you."

Baran grinned when he saw Mirabar steel her expression as she accepted the moldily-wrapped offering.

"What is it?" his wife asked, looking as if even she found it a bit heavy.

"You'll understand when you unwrap it. No," the Olvara added, when Mirabar started to fiddle with the wrapping. "Not now."

"When?"

"Only you can know when."

Baran sighed, well accustomed to his teacher's vague and portentous comments. "How about giving us a hint,
sirana?
"

"When you are ready," the Olvara said to Mirabar.

Baran prodded, "A slightly more specific hint?"

The Olvara gazed up into Mirabar's face and said, "You will be ready to appreciate this gift when you are ready to protect what you most long to destroy."

Baran guessed from the way Mirabar flinched that this pronouncement meant something to her.

"
Sirana
," Mirabar said hesitantly. "Do you know who the Beckoner is?"

The Olvara only repeated, "A child of water, a child of fire."

"What about..." Mirabar looked down at the long, slender bundle in her arms. "A child of sorrow?"

"Yes!" The Olvara seemed exultant. "All of these things. They are the future, because they are the past."

"She's always this cryptic," Baran said apologetically to Mirabar. "I honestly wasn't sure if I was supposed to marry you or become a
zanar
."

Mirabar favored him with an irritable glance before saying, "
Sirana
, how will I—"

"When you are ready to protect what you most long to destroy," the Olvara repeated, "your path will unfold."

Chapter Eight

Do not laugh at the fallen;

there may be slippery places ahead.

                                          —Moorlander Proverb

"Wyldon is dead," Dyshon reported to Kiloran. "It is done,
siran
."

"Good work," Kiloran said, staring out over the city of Cavasar from the tower window where he stood.

"His territory is now ours,
siran
."

"Yes, of course." Kiloran frowned, thinking.

"
Siran
?"

"Hmm?"

"I have carried out our plan and lost no men." When Kiloran didn't reply, Dyshon prodded, "You don't seem pleased,
siran
."

Kiloran finally gave his full attention to the green-eyed assassin who was still covered with dust from the road, having come straight to Kiloran upon returning to Cavasar. "You've done very well," Kiloran assured him, "and I am pleased. But disturbing news has preceded you." Kiloran turned away again and informed him, "Ferolen is dead. Tansen attacked a few nights ago, destroyed his stronghold, killed everyone, torched everything..." He shrugged and added, "Well, one assumes it was the Guardians who did the actual the torching. Ordinary fire could never have overcome Ferolen's power."

"That is..." Dyshon shuffled his feet. "Yes. That is distressing news,
siran
."

"And Baran has indeed betrayed us," Kiloran added.

"The Idalar River?"

"I can't get control of it. Not completely. So I can't get control of Shaljir."

"Baran must die."

"Yes," Kiloran agreed. "Baran must die." 

It was very disappointing. Kiloran had cherished high hopes when he sent that letter to Baran. Playing on Baran's wild emotionalism had worked occasionally in the past. Then again, Baran had always been, above all, unpredictable. 

"Do you have new orders for me,
siran?
" Dyshon asked.

"Yes. In view of—"

Kiloran was interrupted by a knock at the door. An assassin came in, carrying a folded, sealed parchment. He was even dustier than Dyshon, and he looked even more tired and disheveled.

"A letter from Searlon,
siran
," he said.

"Ah." Kiloran took it from him, hoping for encouraging news.

The first few lines of the letter explained why Searlon had been out of touch longer than anticipated. The sea-bound Lascari had suffered severe losses to their numbers and were not easy to track down. Moreover, like so many sea-born folk these days, they were now bound for the waters off Sileria's eastern coast, right where the summit of Darshon was most visible from the sea, due east of the deserted
shallah
village of Gamalan. Like the rest of the east-bound sea-born folk, they couldn't say why they were going, they only knew they must go—and go so fast that Searlon had had trouble catching up with them.