The Destroyer Goddess Read online

  "No," said the voluptuous shallah woman whose humble clothes didn't resemble the austere gown of a Sister. "The Sister who lives here abandoned me. She's gone east."

  The woman spoke shallah, but clearly and slowly enough that Ronall understood most of it.

  "She's gone... to Darshon," he guessed hazily.

  "Yes. Dar Called her."

  He closed his eyes again and summoned what little will he possessed. "All right. I'll try to get up."

  "I'll help." She slung his arm around her shoulders and, demonstrating more physical strength than he expected in a woman, hauled him to his bloody, aching feet.

  He swayed dizzily. "Give me a moment."

  "How did you make it here?"

  Good question. "I don't really know. I just... kept moving." Even after being reduced to crawling, or just dragging himself along.

  "Take a step," she instructed. "Lean on me."

  The pain was nauseating, but he was too exhausted to protest, so he did what he could to assist her as she dragged him into the stone Sanctuary, bearing most of his weight herself. She was tall for a woman, particularly for a shallah woman.

  Once they were inside, she hauled him over to a simple bed and helped him lie down on it. He must have passed out after that, because when he opened his eyes again, he was mostly unclothed and she was dressing his now-clean, though still throbbing, feet.

  She started speaking to him. When he didn't understand, she made an obvious effort to switch to common Silerian, though her speech was still liberally sprinkled with shallah words.

  "A Sister could heal you more quickly, toren," she explained, having guessed his rank. "But I can't leave Sanctuary to find one for you elsewhere. Besides, you shouldn't be left alone. Don't worry, though. I have enough experience to help you. I'm just not..." She shrugged. "I don't know the arts of the Sisterhood. Just practical things."

  He nodded his understanding.

  "Your arm is broken, and your ribs are damaged—but not badly, I think."

  "They feel bad," he said, his voice weak and cracked.

  She shook her head. "No. It's nothing."

  Shallaheen. Yes, he had no doubt that to them his injuries seemed like nothing. He, however, was trying hard not to cry like a baby in front of this woman.

  Not that he had any tears to spare. "Water," he croaked, nearly maddened with thirst.

  "Of course." She lifted his head and gave him a little at a time, showing more patience than he would have had in her position.

  The water revived him enough to answer her questions about what had happened to him. "I was attacked last night," he said. "By bandits. While on my way here to seek shelter for the night." He sighed, drank a little more water, then continued, almost shuddering at the horrifying memories, "One pretended to be a pilgrim, and when I stopped to speak to him, two others jumped me. They were armed with yahr and Valdani swords."

  He had never before been hit with a yahr, and he had never guessed how much it hurt. Darfire, it was painful!

  "They took everything," he continued. "My money, my boots, the horse, my few possessions... Then they beat me unconscious."

  "Why?" she wondered. "They had no need t—"

  "Because I was rude."

  "Rude?" she repeated.

  "I said, er, vulgar things to them."

  "That was... not wise, toren."

  "I was very drunk," he admitted. "As usual. And good judgment is always the first thing to desert me."

  Ronall had awoken at dawn—badly injured, terribly hung over, and already dying of thirst—and decided his only hope was to try to reach the Sanctuary he had been seeking. His pampered feet suffered terribly, and the merciless heat of the dry season came close to killing him.

  "But you're safe now," the woman assured him. "You'll be well again in no time."

  "I've never been well," he muttered.

  "Toren?"

  "Never mind."

  He looked at her with clearer vision now. She was a lovely woman, in that harsh way of Sileria's mountain peasants. Earthy, strong, her modest clothing somehow emphasizing rather than concealing her sexuality. Her black hair gleamed cleanly, and she smelled... good. She looked about Ronall's age, but he knew that shallaheen often aged fast, so he figured she was probably a few years younger. And he, he knew, looked a little older than he was, thanks to years of self-indulgence.

  "Thank you," he said. "I think you've saved my life."

  She smiled. "I am glad I was here to help, toren." She sighed. "It's the first time I've ever been glad I was here."

  "You don't like it here?" he asked, watching the way the sunlight, shifting through the windows, played across her high cheekbones and dark skin.

  "It's very dull here. And I'm not used to being alone like this. I miss my husband. I miss my friends and family. I miss..." She suddenly looked very sad. "I miss the way it used to be."

  "How did it used to be?" he asked, hoping but doubting that her conversation could keep his mind off his throbbing feet, aching ribs, painful face, and agonizing arm.

  She shook her head. "It can never be that way again, toren, so why dwell on it now? So many are dead. So much is lost."

  "Is your husband dead then?"

  "No," she said quietly. "Not yet." Something bitter passed across her expression. "But he is trying hard."

  Ronall wished the poor bastard luck. Dying wasn't turning out to be as easy as he had always assumed. "Don't you have any family you can go to?"

  "I must stay in Sanctuary." She clearly wasn't pleased about it.

  "Why?"

  Instead of answering him, she gestured to his arm. "I must splint that."

  Fear made his belly roil in protest. "Uh, I think I'd like something strong to drink before you do that."

  "Oh. Yes. I'll get you something."

  When he opened his eyes again, she was lifting his head to help him drink some... "Kintish fire brandy!" He choked and his eyes watered.

  "Is it too strong?" she asked.

  "Absolutely not," he said, afraid she'd take it away. "Give me some more. Lots more."

  "As you wish, toren."

  "Bless you... Uh, what's your name?"

  She hesitated briefly, then replied, "Jalilar."

  "Jalilar," he murmured. "A lovely name."

  Chapter Four

  The bitter heart eats its owner.

  —Kintish Proverb

  By the time they reached Baran's home at Lake Belitar, five days after their marriage, Mirabar knew that something was wrong.

  Although Baran had married her to get a child, he hadn't touched her since their wedding night. Mirabar might be inexperienced, but she wasn't naive; men did not normally neglect their new brides this way. Moreover, the journey back to Belitar clearly taxed Baran more than it should. He looked gray-faced and exhausted. In addition, she knew by now that he was eating very little. Mirabar also realized a few days ago that Sister Velikar was treating him for something. However bizarrely fond of Velikar Baran might be, he hadn't brought her along to keep him company or even to vex Mirabar; he needed her to keep him functioning.

  Mirabar didn't discuss this with Najdan or anyone else. Whether she liked it or not, Baran was her husband, and she must treat her marriage with respect. She would not gossip about him with others. She would, however, immolate him in his own bed if he didn't treat her with enough respect to tell her the truth now that they had finally reached the safety of his home.

  "Some say this place is haunted," Najdan told her, with a failed attempt to sound casual, as the two of them now gazed upon Baran's notorious abode.

  Mirabar shivered, well able to believe that the many people who had died violently here over the centuries still wandered Belitar, lost and helpless, unable to find their way to the Otherworld. Mist rose from the chilly, ensorcelled mountain lake, making this a damp place even in the dry season. Lush greenery thrived in the moist air, keeping the lake hidden and eerily remote. Now that she stood at the water's edge, Mi
rabar's vision was so obscured by the ever-shifting enchanted fog that it was easy, even by day, to imagine she saw fleeting shapes and shadows that were neither living people nor mere vapor.

  Now, at Baran's silent command, the mist parted as smoothly as curtains, revealing the large, gloomy, crumbling castle that squatted on the island in the center of the lake.

  Baran turned to her and smiled sardonically. "Welcome home."

  Far in the distance, there was a crack of thunder from the volcano wherein dwelled Dar. Everyone in their party froze, looking at the sky to the southeast, waiting to see if the noise heralded an eruption. They were too far from Darshon to be immediately affected, but they would see it. Now black smoke billowed out of the snow-capped caldera to mingle with the brightly colored whirling clouds still surrounding the summit.

  Baran laughed. "And the same back at you, you old bitch!" he called.

  Mirabar gasped. Her escort of shallaheen muttered nervously. Velikar snorted. Haydar crept closer to Najdan.

  "Can we leave now?" Pyron asked faintly.

  "Not yet," Najdan replied.

  The column of black, angry smoke rose higher and higher in the distant sky, filling Mirabar with mingled awe and fear.

  Pyron said in a breathless voice, "I'd really rather be in battle. Or... or almost anywhere else than here with this madman."

  Mirabar heard Najdan reply, "When you report back to Tansen, do you really want these to be the circumstances in which you last saw the sirana?"

  Pyron groaned. "You just had to think of something that would be even worse than being here right now, didn't you?"

  "You can leave in a few days," Najdan said tersely.

  Mirabar didn't take her gaze off Darshon, but nothing else seemed to be happening there. If this was a tantrum of Dar's, it evidently wasn't going to be a severe one. She shuddered, waiting for guidance, waiting for a sign. Had she been wrong about Baran, about Belitar, about her destiny? Had she misunderstood?

  Someone touched her sleeve. Mirabar jumped and turned to find Haydar looking at her with sympathy.

  "Who knows the ways of Dar, sirana?" Haydar said. "Perhaps She is... congratulating you on your marriage?"

  Mirabar gave the woman a shaky smile. "Thank you. I hope so."

  She glanced up at Darshon's tumultuous peak again and prayed that such was the case, because she wasn't turning back now.

  "Nyahhh!" Pyron's incoherent protest attracted her attention now. "I hate water magic! I just hate it."

  She followed his gaze and saw the evidence of Baran's formidable power as water gathered itself together from the lake and rose to form a shimmering bridge across its surface. Mirabar met her husband's gaze.

  "After you," he said with silky courtesy.

  She was the most powerful sorceress in all of Sileria and would not be intimidated by the second most powerful waterlord. She nodded graciously and proceeded across the slippery bridge without hesitation.

  The others followed more cautiously, but everyone made it across the long, slightly wavering bridge and into the ancient castle. Four assassins, alerted in advance by Vinn, awaited them in front of the massive door of crystallized water. One of them pushed it open and escorted them all inside.

  After entering the castle's gloomy interior, Mirabar said, "It's a little dark in here, don't you think?"

  She summoned the fire that lived in her veins, in her breath, in her soul. Feeling the heat rush to her palms, as commanded, she waved her arm and flung a ball of fire at the wall, where it settled itself and remained as a glowing torch. Not waiting for Baran to approve or object, she did this seven more times, until the shadowy great hall of Belitar was blazing with enchanted Guardian light. The shir of Baran's assassins were shivering wildly, she noticed with satisfaction.

  She smiled at Baran. "I won't make many changes, but a new wife has certain rights, doesn't she?"

  He looked amused. "My home is now our home, my dear. Do whatever you wish." He glanced at his uneasy assassins and added, "I'm sure my men will be stimulated by the changes."

  Vinn looked startled for a moment, then laughed. "Only you would do this, siran. Only you."

  The rest of the men started to relax and seemed to adopt Vinn's wryly resigned attitude. Well, Mirabar supposed that it took a certain kind of personality to serve Baran for years.

  Her husband started issuing instructions to his people on the housing and care of his bride and her various guests. Mirabar listened as he did so, but wandered away looking around her new home, wondering what mysteries would be revealed to her here.

  She knew already—knew the moment she crossed the threshold—that she had been right to come here, Dar's ill-timed explosion notwithstanding. Already, she could feel something here. Something... strong.

  Mirabar assumed that Baran wouldn't help her secure her position as mistress of his household, and that his servants and assassins would try to walk all over her if she didn't take immediate steps to establish herself. She knew nothing about running a home, let alone the strange domain of a waterlord, but she had learned by now how to take charge of people. It also helped, of course, that these people were rather afraid of her.

  After examining her own bedchamber—separate from Baran's, she noticed with mingled relief and surprise—she found some minor faults with Najdan and Haydar's chamber and instructed a servant to make improvements. Baran had disappeared by now, so it was Mirabar who insisted that one of the assassins make Najdan familiar with the grounds of Belitar, and also make plans to show him around the surrounding countryside and nearby villages in the days to come. She wanted Najdan to be no less informed and able than Baran's most favored assassin, Vinn.

  Haydar was scandalized by the condition of Baran's kitchen, tended by an ex-Sister who had been ejected from the Sisterhood for lewd public behavior. Mirabar agreed to let Haydar take over the cooking duties at Belitar, and she assigned the ex-Sister some menial cleaning tasks which she suspected the woman wouldn't bother to do.

  Mirabar was satisfied and tired by the end of her first day at Belitar. Now, she decided, it was time to seek out her husband.

  She found him, as she expected, in his bedchamber, attended by Vinn and Sister Velikar. Mirabar entered without invitation, met Baran's gaze, and said, "I want to speak with you. Alone."

  Baran nodded at Vinn, who crossed his fists, bowed his head, and departed. Sister Velikar hesitated, saying to Baran, "Don't you want—"

  "Come back later," he instructed her.

  "Much later," Mirabar said to Velikar.

  Baran lifted one brow, but he didn't contradict her. Velikar scowled at Mirabar, but she left without further protest.

  Mirabar turned and thoughtfully examined her husband, who was reclining on his bed.

  It was hard to get used to sharing a bed with someone, particularly someone she didn't trust, so during their nights together on the road, she was well aware of every movement he made as he lay beside her, every shift, every sigh. So she knew he didn't sleep well, in addition to not eating and to needing treatment from Velikar.

  "What's wrong with you?" she asked bluntly.

  "Wrong with me?" Baran repeated.

  She nodded.

  "Hmmm, let's see... I was raised badly?" he tried. "I have no shame? My morals were corrupted by a wasted youth?"

  Mirabar came forward and sat beside him on the bed. "I'm sure all of those things are true, but that's not what I'm talking about."

  He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "Ah, have I been neglecting you, my dear?" he purred.

  "Well, you're certainly behaving strangely for a man who wants an heir," she said. "But I haven't taken offense."

  "I'm glad."

  "Because you're very ill, aren't you?"

  Baran looked away. After a long, tense moment, he said, "Yes."

  "How ill?"

  "As you just noted," he replied. "Very ill."

  "What's the matter with you?"

  He still didn't look at her. "
Velikar says it's a wasting disease in my stomach."

  Mirabar tried to find a tactful way to ask. "You mean... you won't get better?"

  "No."

  She stared in silence, considering this. She hadn't expected it, not even after realizing he was ill. "You're dying?"

  "Yes." Baran's voice was pleasant and calm.

  She lowered her head as it all became clear to her now. "That's why you want a child. An heir. Immortality of a kind."

  "When I knew, when I realized..." He nodded. "Yes, that's when I started thinking about an heir."

  "Someone to carry on your bloodfeud against Kiloran after you're dead." After another pause, she asked, "Soon?"

  "Yes." He smiled a moment later. "Tansen will be pleased, won't he?" He touched her chin as he added, "And you're probably not terribly sorry."

  Mirabar couldn't pretend that she felt sorrow, but she did feel enough pity for him—even for him—that she didn't admit that relief was her primary emotion after sheer confusion.

  She tried to sort out her chaotic thoughts. "Fire and water, water and fire..." Perhaps she was beginning to understand. "I will be the one left in charge of Belitar and your legacy."

  "Yes. In trust for our child."

  "But if you barely have energy to sire a child, and very little time left in which to do it, what makes you so sure—"

  "I've been promised."

  She glanced sharply at him. "By whom?"

  He smiled. "I still have enough time left to tell you that. And more." He shook his head. "But not tonight, sirana. Tonight, I'm tired."

  "Do you have visions?" she prodded.

  Baran stared at the cracked ceiling over his head as he said quietly, "Visions? My dear Mirabar, I don't even have dreams anymore. Now leave me in peace, won't you?"

  "No. There's something else," she began.

  "Of course there is," he said wearily. "Do you know, you've already learned to nag like a wife?"

  "I didn't realize it was missing at first..." When he gave her a brief, questioning glance, she said, "Your power."

  He looked insulted. "I assure you—"

  "Oh, I know you've still got it. I can feel it when we're in the same room like this." She shook her head. "But I used to feel it even before I saw you. Not anymore, though. You're getting weak."