Excerpt of The White Dragon by Laura Resnick

Unexpected, Baran awaits Mirabar's arrival in Sister Velikar's Sanctuary.

Baran heard Mirabar's voice outside—warm and feminine, so different from that of Sister Velikar. Then Najdan's voice, deep, dark, a little rough, revealing all the sharp violence of the man. There was another man's voice, too— energetic, facetious, saying something about Josarian's almond wine at Dalishar.

It was this second man, the one Baran didn't know, who pushed open the door to the Sanctuary and called, "Sister Velikar? Oh, Velikarrrrrr?"

"She's not here," Baran informed him.

The man's head turned in startled surprise and he saw Baran. "Oh! Hello. We didn't reali... Uh... Ah! Hah!" His face contorted into a comical expression of fear as he recognized Baran. The man staggered backwards, speaking over his shoulder to someone else, "It's— It's—"

Mirabar's voice came faintly from outside, irritated now. "What? Oh, Pyron, just get out of the way, will you?"

"Sirana... wait!" Najdan's voice.

Baran saw the bright cloud of Mirabar's volcanic hair as she reached the open door, then she grunted as Najdan elbowed her aside and entered the Sanctuary.

Najdan saw Baran, made some kind of wordlessly vicious noise, drew his shir, and leapt forward.

"We're in Sanctuary," Baran protested mildly.

Najdan stopped as if he'd been frozen on the spot. He stared at Baran with a fierce, glowering expression. "What are you doing here?"

Mirabar saw Baran and gasped. He looked from Najdan to her. Those eerie Dar-blessed eyes were wide open in her sun-kissed face. She was, as he recalled, rather pretty in her Otherworldly way. A little small, perhaps, but then many shallaheen were; they usually didn't get much to eat as children, and she had probably gotten less than most.

"What a pleasure to see you again," Baran said politely. "Was your journey successful?"

"No," she answered absently, staring at him. Then she realized what she had said and blinked. "I mean—"

"Too late," he chided.

"What are you doing here?" Najdan repeated, still poised for attack.

"Tansen sent Sister Velikar to me as an emissary; but I thought to myself, really, why should we all speak through intermediaries?"

"Because we don't trust each other?" Mirabar suggested.

"And how can we foster trust if we don't speak face to face?" Baran countered.

"Where's Velikar?" Najdan growled. "What have you done with her?"

"I don't think I like your tone," Baran pouted. "Surely you're not suggesting that I would harm a Sister?"

"Where's Velikar?" Mirabar snapped.

"Out gathering... something or other," Baran replied. "We only arrived yesterday, so there's a great deal for her to catch up on."

"Velikar only got back... We?" Mirabar frowned. "She's been with you at Belitar all this time?"

"I'm every bit as capable of hospitality as the next murderous sorcerer, you know."

The one they called Pyron hesitantly approached the door again, armed with a Valdani sword now. From the far side of the threshold, he asked his companions, "Has he killed you? Has he killed Velikar? Is he alone? What should we do?"

Najdan snapped over his shoulder, "You could start by calming down."

"Good advice," Baran agreed.

"Shut up," Najdan said.

"I thought you wanted my friendship," Baran admonished.

Najdan's jaw worked, but he took a steadying breath and said, "Sirana?"

Mirabar took a deep breath, too. It delighted Baran to see how afraid of him they were.

"Yes," Mirabar said, composing herself, "we want to talk to you face to face, and we want your friendship. We're just a little... surprised to come upon you so suddenly, without warning."

"I'd have written," Baran said, "but you're all illiterate."

"And we'd be more polite," Pyron said, "but you're crazy."

"Wait outside," Mirabar ordered Pyron.

"I am outside."

Baran shook his head in wonder. "These are the forces that hope to defeat Kiloran?"

Najdan's glower got darker. "Sirana, if we kill him now—"

"This is Sanctuary!" she reminded the assassin.

Najdan looked ashamed, but Baran said, "There's a first time for everything."

"Not for this," Mirabar said.

She approached the assassin and placed a hand on his arm. Baran noticed how Najdan's shir, already trembling from Mirabar's presence, shook even harder when she got that close to it. Najdan, however, seemed quite accustomed to the phenomenon.

"Najdan," she murmured, "I'd like to speak alone with him."

Baran said apologetically to Mirabar, "I'm making him agitated, aren't I? I seem to have that affect on some people."

"You have that affect on everyone," Najdan said, his tone very unflattering.

Baran shrugged. "I can't understand it, myself."

Mirabar ignored him and repeated, "Najdan, please."

"No," the assassin replied.

"It's Sanctuary," she reminded him again. "What can he do?"

"I don't know," Najdan said, "but I know him."

Baran objected, "I hardly think that killing nearly twenty of my men over the years qualifies as a social acquaintance."

Mirabar said to Najdan, "I'm not helpless, and he knows it."

Baran added, "In fact, I find it your most enchanting quality, sirana."

Najdan stepped forward, raised his shaking shir, and touched the fine fabric of Baran's clothing with it. Baran clenched his teeth but gave no outward sign of how powerfully, bitterly cold he found the shir which Kiloran had made so long ago for the assassin whom he would one day lose to Mirabar.

Najdan's voice was low and deadly as he ordered, "You will show the sirana respect."

"Always," Baran assured him innocently.

"And if you even insult her, never mind hurt her—"

"Yes, yes," Baran said, steeling himself to show no pain when he placed a hand on Najdan's wavy-edged blade and pushed it casually aside. Damn, that would hurt for days; but it was worth it. Najdan looked surprised and Mirabar looked impressed. "I understand the terms. Now, can I be left alone with the sirana? I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with her."

He watched Najdan and Mirabar exchange a glance, and he recognized what he suspected Kiloran would never realize because Kiloran could never accept it: There was great devotion between those two. An assassin and a Guardian.

When the door closed behind Najdan, Mirabar turned to face Baran, her glowing eyes wary and watchful. He didn't know her well, but he had met with her often enough to know she was a direct woman, impatient with implication and inference, so he got right to the point.

"To oppose Kiloran is unhealthy," he said.

"Yet you've survived this long."

"Longer than Josarian, certainly, who was even betrayed by his own."

She flinched. "You mean Zimran?"

His interest sharpened. "Who else might I mean, sirana?"

He smiled, very interested now. "Ah. So Zimran wasn't the only one of Josarian's people plotting against him."

"Did you come here just to discuss Josarian's death?" But her face darkened, and he knew he was right.

"Let me guess: the Alliance?" He watched her sink slowly onto a bench, staring at him as if he were the demonic one. Seeing that he was right, but also that she wouldn't supply the specifics, he shook his head. "Well, what did you expect? Toreni, wealthy merchants—people with something to lose. People who had dealt with Kiloran for years before Josarian came along to steal everyone's thunder." He considered this and mused aloud, "And who in the Alliance had the most influence over Zimran? Could it be the torena who was sharing his bed?" He grinned when Mirabar's expression revealed he'd guessed the truth. "Ahhhh... She is a very interesting woman, isn't she, sirana?"

* * * * *

Tansen and Elelar meet in Shaljir.

Now that they were finally alone, Elelar turned to face Tansen. "So," she said, getting right to the point, "Mirabar wants you to kill me?"

"That can hardly come as a surprise to you, torena."

"No," she admitted, "it doesn't." She came closer. Close enough for him to smell the aromatic oils she rubbed into her skin. Closer still, until he could swear he scented her skin itself. "Where are your swords?" she whispered.

"I'm not going to do it, Elelar," he said tersely, "and you know I'm not, so let's just—"

"That's good," she murmured, turning away from him. She walked to the empty fireplace and stared pensively at its charred stones. "I didn't think you would, but that's good, all the same."

He didn't understand her preoccupied manner. "Good?"

"Yes." She seemed to come to a sudden decision. "I need a favor."

He almost laughed. "You of all people shouldn't—"

"No, you'll like this one."

He folded his arms across his chest. "What?"

"About Mirabar..."

"Yes?"

He saw the fire in her eyes now. It wasn't what he was used to from her, wasn't what he expected. Her face was alight with it, too, as she said, "It's something the Olvar told me."

"The Olvar?" Tansen remembered the gentle, wizened leader of the Beyah-Olvari living in the secret maze of tunnels and caves beneath Shaljir. "What did he tell you?"

It wasn't the cold light of shrewd calculation, nor even the hot light of her fanaticism, both of which had been so dangerous and deadly on many occasions in the past. This was different, the glow in those dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, the fervent warmth in that lovely face... Different but somehow familiar, as if he'd seen this look elsewhere...

"He told me," Elelar said, her voice rich with tension, "that Mirabar's going to kill me."

"She wants to, it's true," he said, years of practice helping him keep his voice steady and reassuring, "but I won't—"

"Yes!" she said, her face brilliant with intensity. "That's the favor I want!"

"Of course," he promised, realizing how Mirabar's fiery power could frighten a woman of merely human gifts. "I'll stop her if sh—"

"No!" she said. "Don't stop her! Promise me you won't try to stop her."

His first thought was that Elelar was planning a trap for Mirabar. His second thought was that the one thing that could make him kill Elelar would be if she hurt Mirabar.

"Elelar..." he began slowly. But he didn't even need to ask. Now he understood what he saw in her eyes, in her face. No cunning plan, no double meaning, no concealed motive. He knew this expression, so strange and unfamiliar on Elelar's face, because he'd seen it elsewhere, on other beloved faces.

It was the look of believers. The look of people who could not be dissuaded or intimidated or stopped, because they had been touched by something so much greater than themselves that they were beyond the fears and reasoning of an ordinary man like him.

"What's happened to you?" he asked suspiciously, taking her by the shoulders.

"The Olvar told me..."

He was astonished to see tears well up in her eyes. Her smile told him these were tears of joy. Of relief.

"What?" Tansen demanded, shaking her slightly. "What did he tell you?"

"I must surrender."

He let her go. "Surrender?"

"When the one with eyes of fire comes for me, I must not resist."

He backed away, completely taken aback. He didn't want to kill her. He knew she should die, but he didn't want to let someone else kill her, either. And he didn't want Mirabar to have the blood of vengeance on her hands. Mirabar had no idea what that was like, and he never wanted her to find out.

"Tansen..."

He shook his head. He couldn't think of anything to say except, "No."

"The fate of Sileria depends on this."

"On Mirabar killing you? No." He shook his head. "I want to speak to the Olvar."

She came closer again. Pressed her palm to his arm. Then raised her hand to touch his cheek. A soft palm. Silken fingers. The skin so fair by Silerian standards. So different from the work-hardened, burn-scarred, sun-kissed hand of the woman who wanted her dead. The woman whom Elelar now claimed was destined to kill her.

"Don't you see," Elelar whispered. "Surely you, of all people, can understand?"

"No," he repeated, knowing what she would say next.

"It's my redemption."

He didn't want to lose her. That was the ugly truth.

Forgive me, Josarian. I can't let go. Not even now. Forgive me.

He was ashamed and humiliated. And afraid.

"My death, for Sileria," Elelar said. "I'm ready."

"I'm not."

"My guilt expunged. My shame healed. My soul purified for the Otherworld." She leaned closer, so close their breath mingled. "Let her do it. Let her kill me. Promise me."

"No."

"Let me be redeemed," she urged, seducing him with her desire to be sacrificed.

He took her face between his hands. Her lovely, treacherous, yearning face. "Not like this." He tried to make her understand. "Not Mirabar."

She placed her hands over his, stroking his fingers, his wrists. "Don't you see? It must be her destiny, as it is mine."

"I don't care. I won't let it happen."

"Sileria's destiny—"

"No."

"Let her cleanse me with her vengeance," she whispered, kissing his neck, pressing her lush breasts against his chest.

He shivered, then pushed her roughly away.

"And who will cleanse Mirabar for murdering you in vengeance?" he snarled.

"She's a shallah. She won't need—"

"Oh, yes, she will," he interrupted. "And I will not let your death become her burden. I'm a shallah, too, and I can tell you the weight never grows lighter. Not ever."

Angry now that she was failing to win him over, she said, "She will not be killing her own father."

He'd been expecting that, but it made him hotly angry even so. "Darfire, maybe I should just kill you and get it over with!"