The Destroyer Goddess Read online

  She continued, "There were things he said—"

  "It's a trap," he insisted. "Baran has promised Kiloran—"

  "To kill me," said Mirabar. "I know."

  "You know?"

  "He's told me everything."

  Tansen shook his head. "Baran is shrewd. He knew we'd eventually find out about the truce meeting, so he told you himself. To disarm you. To make you believe he was lying to Kiloran."

  "Oh, I don't think he was lying to Kiloran."

  Tansen frowned. "Then what—"

  "Not at the time, I mean," said Mirabar. "I think he changed his mind afterwards."

  "Then how do you know he's not going to change his mind about whatever he's promised you?" He was shouting again. He didn't care.

  "Because this is our destiny. His and mine," she said.

  "Your destiny? To marry a waterlord? To trust that madman?"

  Another voice came from behind him. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  "Baran." Tansen turned his back on Mirabar and, swords poised for attack, faced the waterlord.

  Baran frowned at Mirabar. "Did we invite him?"

  "Go away," Mirabar said to her intended.

  "You hot-headed shallaheen," Baran said disapprovingly to Tansen. "Always drawing your weapons on Sanctuary grounds."

  Through clenched teeth, Mirabar repeated, "Go away."

  Baran smiled at Tansen. A tall, big-boned man with unruly hair and famously wild eyes, Baran looked surprisingly older and thinner than when they had last met, but still formidable. Tansen retrained himself from glancing at the well in the center of the garden, knowing full well how easily Baran could wrap its waters around his neck and strangle him.

  "My condolences," Baran said to him, "on the death of your brother."

  "Don't even speak of Josarian to me," Tansen growled. "You don't deserve to."

  "On the contrary," Baran said, impervious to insult. "I know what it is to lose someone to Kiloran."

  "And I'm not going to find out what it is to lose someone to you," Tansen vowed. He ignored the stifled sound Mirabar made and kept his eyes on Baran.

  Baran's gaze sharpened with amused interest. What he said next, though, surprised Tansen as much as the gentle tone in which he said it. "I swear I won't ever hurt her." He shrugged and added more prosaically, "Well, no more than men and women usually hurt each other."

  "You're lying," Tansen said, wondering what would happen if he did violate Sanctuary and kill Baran right here and now.

  "No," Baran said with quiet certainty. "If I'm lying, may my power forever desert me, and may I burn like the Fires for all eternity."

  "I won't let her do this," Tansen warned him.

  "How do you intend to stop her?" Baran asked curiously. "She's the most powerful sorceress in Sileria, and last I heard, you were still just a man."

  Tansen drew in a sharp breath. "So that's why you want her." Maybe Baran really didn't intend murder, after all. Still, there was no way Tansen was letting this marriage take place.

  "She knows why I want her," Baran replied. "I'll let her explain it to you."

  "Thank you." Mirabar sounded exasperated.

  As he turned to go, Baran added, "Try not to take too long. I'm getting bored."

  Almost shaking with helpless anger, Tansen sheathed his swords and asked Mirabar, "So why does he want to marry you?"

  "Could your tone possibly be any less flattering?"

  "I wanted to marry you," he snapped. "So I'm in no mood—"

  "You?" Mirabar stared at him. "You..." She made a helpless gesture. "You never said..."

  "I didn't—I was going off to..."

  "To Shaljir."

  "To battle," he said defensively. "And then to—"

  "To Shaljir. To her."

  "No," he insisted. "To sea."

  "Elelar's still alive, isn't she?" Mirabar asked wearily.

  "And she's going to stay that way," he replied. An instant later, Tansen wanted to bite his tongue until it bled. He did not want to talk about Elelar right now, and he certainly didn't want to get stuck in the mire of defending her to Mirabar. He said with strained emphasis, "I was going off to sea to meet Zarien's sea goddess, and I knew—"

  She sighed. "Even if I had known..." Tears filled her eyes and she shook her head. "I don't know. I think... I think it really has to be this way, Tansen."

  "No, it doesn't," he argued fiercely, feeling her slipping away from him.

  The fire-fringed gold of her eyes revealed all the strength of her fervent belief in Dar, in destiny, in her decision. "This is what I must do."

  "No."

  Tansen seized her shoulders and drew her to him, desperate, scared, angry, bitterly jealous. Her lips were soft and warm. She was startled at first, and she struggled. But he wouldn't let go. Couldn't.

  "No," he repeated against her mouth, willing her to understand him, accept him. To want what he wanted. To give him what he tried to give her, to take from him as he took from her when he kissed her again.

  For a moment her body answered him, and her will succumbed to his. For a moment, she was all living flame in his arms, all warm breath and soft skin and soul-deep longing. For a moment, they kissed as they were meant to, as they had always been meant to, and the wasted time and lost nights didn't matter anymore.

  He felt heat, fire, the rich stream of lava-soaked desire which flowed between a man and a woman and made them forget everything but each other. He drowned in the hunger that led to delight, and the delight which led to more hunger. The craving which was pleasurable, the pleasure that hurt like pain. This was what only they could give each other, this and so much more. All the things he needed from her, all the things he longed to lay at her feet, welled up in him as his arms tightened around her and sought to keep her from another man.

  For a moment, everything he wanted for them, together, seemed real and within reach. The fire and the warmth mingled in his blood, in his heart, in the breath they shared, in the frantic embrace they inflicted on each other, in the hot union of their mouths... But only for a moment.

  She was strong for her size, and so he stumbled when she pushed him away and staggered backward. Driven by furious needs, he reached for her—but froze when he saw her scarred palm warding him off, begging him to stay away from her.

  Blue-flecked flames danced across her skin for a moment, a glorious display he'd never seen on her flesh before. He smelled something burning and looked down. He absently patted the smoking sleeve of his tunic, noticing that it was singed now.

  The hazards of making love to a Guardian, he supposed. Or at least to an inexperienced one.

  "Mira... Don't do it." Tansen heard the pleading in his voice and didn't care.

  Tears trickled down her face. Darfire, it hurt to see her cry. It hurt even more to be the one causing it. "I have to." Her voice was brokenhearted.

  "Why?" He couldn't understand. "What in all the world could Baran—"

  "A child of water. A child of fire."

  Tansen stared at her, stunned beyond words.

  A child of water, a child of fire, a child of sorrow...

  She saw by his expression that he remembered what she had told him about the Beckoner. "I don't know exactly what the Beckoner wants, but I've had more visions since the last time I saw you. I know that I have to go to Belitar. And that I have to bear Baran's child there."

  "And this child," he said slowly, sure that he was about to be sick. "Is this the one..."

  "I don't know," she admitted, increasingly distressed. "I don't know! I don't think so, but—"

  He pounced, "Unless you're sure, why—"

  "Because this child has to be born, whether or not it's the one I've been looking for. This is the child the gods want me to have, that Dar wants me to have. A child born of fire and water, of a Guardian and a waterlord, of—"

  "Of the woman I love and some insane murderer who—"

  "Please," she begged, crying harder now. "Please don't make this
even harder. Fires of Dar, do you think I want to marry him?"

  Tansen hated Dar. By all the gods above and below, he hated Her. She had let the Valdani slaughter his family, let Kiloran kill Josarian, let the sea make a shunned orphan of Zarien, and now She was doing this to Mirabar. As he watched the woman he loved weep, Tansen felt like all his blood was draining out of him.

  Now he remembered what else Mirabar had previously told him. "A child of sorrow," he muttered. That much would be true.

  "We need Baran." Mirabar started wiping tears away. "Sileria needs him. If he won't help us..."

  Tansen looked for some place to sit down, suddenly bereft of all strength. He damned himself for having urged Mirabar to do whatever she had to. He should have known that Baran, of all people, would demand what they had never foreseen.

  "We'll find another way," he told her, already hearing how weak and hollow the promise sounded.

  "We don't have time. And even if we did..."

  "You and your visions," he said bitterly, unable to stop himself from lashing out at her.

  Mirabar didn't fight back, which made him feel even worse.

  After a long silence, during which Mirabar tried to compose herself, Tansen finally said, "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

  "Yes."

  It felt like being stabbed, but only after already having received a mortal wound. The pain was almost a relief from the earlier pain. The loss of hope somehow eased his urgent desperation, the agonizing need to find a solution, to change her mind, to stop her.

  He remained silent, all out of ideas, all out of things to say. After what seemed like a long time, she said, "They're waiting for me."

  He nodded, but didn't move otherwise.

  "Are you... coming?"

  "I can't." Tansen shook his head. "I can't watch this."

  "I wish..." Mirabar didn't say any more.

  He listened to her footsteps as she left the garden.

  After a while, it occurred to him that he didn't want to see anyone, least of all the bride and groom, so he should leave before the ceremony was over and people started rambling around the Sanctuary's grounds.

  Moving slowly, his mind blank while his heart bled, he set his foot on the path leading back the way he had come. So full of hope then, so empty of it now. So full of worry then... and, no, not free of it now.

  If she's wrong, if I'm wrong... If Baran hurts her... If he kills her...

  He tried to stop thinking, since it was futile right now. This wound wouldn't kill him, but precious few had ever hurt so much, and he couldn't think while this pain raged hot and fresh inside of him. Couldn't even consider the hundred other urgent things that would demand his attention the moment he reached the camp at the sacred caves of Dalishar.

  "Tansen!"

  He looked up, surprised to see Zarien approaching him. He'd been so absorbed in his sorrow that he hadn't even heard the boy's boots grinding into the rocky soil just ahead of him.

  Zarien said, "You didn't need to come look for me. I—"

  "We're leaving," Tansen said.

  "Already?"

  "Yes."

  Zarien frowned, studying him. His eyes widened slowly. "Is she dead?"

  "No."

  "Then what's wrong?" Zarien asked, falling into step beside him.

  At least he had a son now. At least there was that.

  "Tansen?" Zarien prodded, concerned, watching him closely.

  Tansen stopped, looked at him, and said, "You know, you could..."

  "What?"

  "You could call me father." Tansen shrugged and added as casually as possible, "If you wanted to."

  Zarien's frown cleared. He nodded. "Or... papa?" He almost laughed, then shook his head. "Um, no. Father is probably better."

  Tansen slapped him on the back and said, "Come on." He continued making his way along the path.

  "Wait! Tan—Father." Zarien put a hand on his arm. "What's wrong? What did she say to you?"

  "I'll explain as we walk." He would also omit all but the essential facts of the matter.

  "What happened to your sleeve?" Zarien touched the singed spot. "Did you get too close to a fire?"

  "Yes," he admitted on a sigh. "We should probably get up to the caves now."

  Zarien groaned and looked up the steep, merciless slopes of Mount Dalishar. "I just knew you were going to say that."

  Chapter Two

  Neither love nor madness knows a cure.

  —Silerian Proverb

  The fresh cut on Baran's right palm was stinging fiercely. He suspected that Mirabar had cut particularly deep on purpose with the marriage knife. If he had known how vindictive his bride could be, he wouldn't have agreed to marry her in shallah tradition.

  Now, as they faced each other, alone in Sister Velikar's Sanctuary, Mirabar stared warily at him with those glowing eyes. Looking at her, he could almost believe some of the superstitions about her fire-colored kind...

  Baran wondered if immolation in the marriage bed was grounds for divorce. Silerians were so strict about marriage that it actually might not be. He smiled, enjoying his thoughts as he shrugged out of his tunic—now grown loose on him—and tossed it aside.

  The only place Baran and Mirabar could be safe from the Honored Society, whose waterlords and assassins he would completely alienate with this marriage, was Sanctuary or Belitar. Belitar was days away, and even the nearest Sanctuary was almost a full day's journey from here. So he and Mirabar had agreed to spend their wedding night in Sister Velikar's humble stone dwelling. Tomorrow they would commence the journey to Baran's home.

  Although he looked forward to returning to Belitar, Baran dreaded the trip, knowing how it would tax his diminishing strength. Making the journey to Emeldar and curing the water there had been too much for him. He had remained five days in Josarian's abandoned village, which was how long Mirabar and Najdan deemed their witnesses—Lann and Yorin—needed in order to be sure the slow poison which Josarian had ordered put in the water, during the early days of the rebellion, was now expelled from it. When the goats drinking the water were still hale and hardy five days after Baran cleansed it, the two men were satisfied and returned to Dalishar with him.

  He had not enjoyed their company.

  What a dull and ignorant lot the shallaheen were. How incurious about the world, how smug about the narrow boundaries of their own culture.

  Baran sighed and looked again at his shallah wife. Oh, well. At least she wasn't as dreary as other shallaheen—or other Guardians. Her feral childhood had expanded the wisdom of her heart beyond that of most other Silerians. Her extraordinary powers had made her intimate with things beyond the imagination even of worldly and educated people. And her prophetic visions had forged in her a strength and determination that few people alive could match.

  Now, as they shared a wary silence, Baran glanced at the simple bed where Velikar had recently spread fresh, sun-dried bedclothes for them, and he thought more practically about his new wife. A virtuous young shallah woman, a sorceress gifted with enough power to scare away any man less brave than that poor sod Tansen, an endangered Guardian protected day and night by an assassin as strict and old-fashioned as Najdan...

  "Do you know what's supposed to happen now?" Baran asked Mirabar abruptly, wondering if tonight would be even more awkward than he anticipated.

  She blinked. "In general."

  He lifted one brow. "How general?"

  "Well, I, uh..." She licked her lips. "I understand the main, um, requirements." She folded her hands. Being a shallah, she didn't even seem to notice the cut he had made on the left one today. "No one who has lived long in the closeness of a Guardian camp could be unaware of... of..." She unfolded her hands. "And Haydar explained a few things to me." She nodded. "Things which were more specific than I had previously..." Mirabar met his gaze. "Some of them seemed reasonable."

  Now he was amused. "And others?"

  "Others... Well, I'm not sure I believe her. And even
if I did..."

  "Yes?"

  "I don't think I ever want to know you that well, Baran," she admitted frankly.

  "Ah. Well." He grinned. "Then I count on you to tell me when our acquaintance is crossing the boundaries of what you deem acceptable."

  "Don't worry. I will." Mirabar's gaze dropped to his thin torso. "Have you been ill?" She caught herself a moment later. "I'm sorry. Perhaps that was rude."

  "According to rumor, I've always been unwell." He tapped his forehead, distracting her from the subject of his physical health.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she reminded him of a cat. "Are you as crazy as they say? Or saner than you want people to know?"

  "It varies," he admitted.

  Baran took a step toward her and, seeing her nearly jump out of her skin, decided that tonight might be a good time to work at ordinary sanity, if only for a few hours. He wanted this woman to ensure his immortality with a child, one strong enough to stand against Kiloran if need be; and that couldn't happen if she was too wary of him to let him touch her.

  "I won't hurt you," he promised.

  "You're damned right you won't," she growled.

  He smiled, appreciating her spirit. He supposed that kind of fire and fury had kept her alive after her mother abandoned her as a small child and before the Guardians found her and raised her.

  "I know it'll seem strange," he said, nodding toward the bed. "But shall we try acting like husband and wife for a little while?"

  "It's what I agreed to," she said. But she didn't come closer.

  Baran had once known love—passionate, hungry, joyful, uninhibited love. And, since those days, he had occasionally known the confident attentions of experienced women. But he had never before found himself in precisely this situation, and he was at something of a loss.

  Mirabar evidently recognized this. Wearing an expression of such determination that he briefly wondered if she meant to attack him, she started undressing, her gaze fixed on his.

  "Ordinary people do this every day," she said. "So you and I should certainly be able to."

  She dropped wild gossamer garments at her feet until she was naked, and then she came closer, until the heat of her skin warmed his. She was young, smooth, lithe, softly curved, sun-kissed golden and lava-red. Warm and small and more womanly than he would have guessed before now.