The Destroyer Goddess (12 page)

"Or," Dyshon finished for him, calling him back to the present, "has Baran betrayed you?"

"Yes," Kiloran said. "It's a possibility we must consider." A very real possibility, if Mirabar wasn't already dead at Belitar.

Damn Baran.

Dyshon said, "But he made a vow, swore a binding oath with you at the truce meeting."

Kiloran thought back to that day. "At the time," he mused, "I think he meant it." 

For a moment that day, despite all the hatred and bloodshed over the years, he and Baran had been mentor and apprentice once again. But only for a brief moment; and then a world of vengeance came between them again, as it would always do until Baran was finally dead, his golden gift for water magic perishing with him. What a pity. What a waste.

Who else taught him, I wonder? Who else had the shaping of that diamond-bright talent?

Kiloran almost felt jealous at the thought. Baran's talent had been a joy to see, a thing of beauty, a rich pleasure to guide. There had never been anyone else whose gifts rewarded Kiloran's teaching as Baran's once had.

 Baran could have been his heir; and would have been, if not for Alcinar. 

"Impetuous acts and ungoverned passions always cost too much and should never be indulged," he murmured to himself.

"
Siran?
"

"Nothing."

Armian, Srijan, Baran...

The disappointments of life were hard to bear. Only the ruthless survived. Only a heart of stone triumphed in the end.

"But to betray the vows of a truce meeting!" Dyshon protested, warming to his theme. "Without fulfilling the promises sworn that day! To end the truce without a warning or an honorable declaration! No, surely Baran—even
Baran
—surely he wouldn't... wouldn't..." He trailed off, evidently realizing that if anyone would do such a thing, it was indeed Baran. "Would he?" Dyshon sighed. "He would, wouldn't he?" He rubbed his forehead. "I humbly suggest,
siran
, that we have been betrayed." The assassin nodded and concluded, "And we must take vengeance, if that is so."

"If that is so," Kiloran agreed, "then we certainly must. But it will be very inconvenient."

"Damn Baran," Dyshon muttered.

"Yes," Kiloran said. 

"What shall we do?"

Kiloran thought it over. "In the interests of saving time, I think a direct approach would be best."

"An attack?"

"Not that direct," Kiloran said dryly. "A letter."

"Oh." Dyshon looked disappointed. "I will arrange for a courier."

"Make it a Sister. Just in case."

"Ah. You're thinking of the courier that Wyldon killed," Dyshon guessed.

"Yes," Kiloran agreed, thinking of the hot-headed waterlord who was at odds with him. "That was when Wyldon made me truly angry."

Dyshon grinned. "The bracelet you sent to him worked,
siran
. Wyldon thinks Baran is the one who has invited him to meet." He asked hesitantly, "The bracelet was Baran's once, wasn't it?"

"Not exactly," Kiloran said, his tone and expression discouraging further questions on the subject.

The bracelet had belonged to Alcinar. So had the necklace which it matched. She always wore them. But the necklace had broken in the struggle when two of his men—long since killed by Baran—removed her from Baran's simple mountain home near Kandahar that day so long ago. Alcinar was wearing only the bracelet when they brought her to him. When he took possession of the woman he must have. The woman he would kill for. Yes, he would even kill the most promising apprentice in Sileria for her.

Kiloran supposed Baran had found the necklace somewhere in his empty home. He had worn it ever since, and he always made his
shir
hilts in its image, despite the extravagant cost of Kintish silver and jade under Valdani rule. A sentimental indulgence? Or a constant reminder of the vengeance he lived for? 

Knowing Baran, both.

It was strange that two men so different from each other should love the same woman. Baran was at least twenty years younger than Kiloran, and in those days he had been a whimsical dreamer, more prone to laughter than to anger. A widely-traveled well-educated young man whose worldliness warred with an inherent idealism, he naively believed he could practice water magic without bowing to the dictates of the Society, without becoming one of them. Without belonging to the only kind who could ever truly understand him.

Baran had never been greedy, despite what others thought. His ruthless seizure of wealth and power over the years had all been in pursuit of one sole aim: destroying Kiloran. He had never been interested in wealth for its own sake. More than fifteen years ago, in fact, Baran had abandoned his family's profitable business to take his new wife far into the mountains. Far from the sea, because she wished to be far from it after choosing him over the sea-bound life of a Lascari. Baran wanted no serious profit from his wizardry, either, and the young couple lived simply in the hills around Kandahar.

Kiloran had never known a more devoted couple. In retrospect, he now recognized with a clear head that many newlyweds were besotted, at least if they married for love as Baran and Alcinar had; but at the time, Kiloran had secretly envied Baran his wild happiness with his wife. There was something between those two which... Well, it seemed to surpass the ordinary in a soaring way that eventually stirred Kiloran to dark jealousy.

Kiloran's obsession with Alcinar began subtly. It was a while before he himself was aware of it, though he knew he thought about her—and asked about her—more often than was his normal habit. He seldom saw her, since Baran usually kept her well away from any place frequented by assassins; but he found his eyes straying to her often on those rare occasions when he was in her presence. Well, why not? She was young and lovely, and a sea-born woman was an unusual sight in the mountains.

Her behavior was always discreet, as was Baran's, yet Kiloran was aware of the earthy sexuality that flowed between them, as rich and lush as the waters of the Idalar River itself. Their secret smiles, the way their fingers touched when they thought no one was looking, the warmth in Baran's eyes when he gazed upon Alcinar, the glow in her own eyes when she watched him... Kiloran went from being amused by it, as a man well past the age for such things, to being annoyed by it, to eventually being hotly angry about it. 

When he finally recognized his grinding jealousy and realized what he felt for Baran's wife, he thought he could control it. And he knew he must. A strong waterlord could usually take an assassin's woman, even an ordinary apprentice's woman. But Baran's woman? No, Baran would die before he'd let another man, even Kiloran, touch his wife. 

Yes, I knew that from the first.

Kiloran also knew that Baran was worth too much to sacrifice over this inconvenient obsession with a woman.  Water magic was a gift, a mystery, a glorious birthright beyond the rigors of ordinary life and above the needs of lesser men. No, Kiloran would not murder his brilliant student to satisfy the passion which any aging man might feel for a desirable young woman in his midst.

Or so he thought.

He could still remember the moment he lost all control, all reason, all sense of proportion. It was during a celebration to mark the start of the dry season, traditionally a time of power and profit for the Honored Society. Kiloran provided music, singing, dancing, wine and ale, plenty of food... 

It was a good day, settling into the golden glow of evening. While watching some performance staged in his honor, Kiloran glanced at Baran and Alcinar, who were nearby. He always glanced at Alcinar, far more than anyone knew. As he watched, Baran held a fig up to her mouth, stroking her black hair with his other hand. She bit into the smooth purple flesh with those straight, white teeth of hers and then, her eyes glowing with promises, fed her husband that dripping piece of fruit from between her own lips.

Kiloran was suddenly consumed with lust: blinding, deafening, overpowering desire. He would kill to have her. He would commit murder, break vows, sacrifice the future, betray his sorcery and even his destiny... As he watched Baran whisper to her and then draw her away into the softening twilight, toward the path that led to the humble home where they lived together, and to the bed which they shared with such heedless pleasure... Yes, Kiloran knew then that he would do every terrible thing within his power to have this woman.

And the price was even higher than I anticipated.

Baran had never stopped making him pay.

Now, fifteen years later, Kiloran found it strange to remember—and hard to believe—that those feelings had ever lived within him, let alone ruled him to the exclusion of reason, sense, and cold wisdom. He knew Alcinar had been lovely, but now he had trouble recalling her features. He knew that her exotic tattoos had seemed burningly erotic to him... but now he couldn't remember why.

He... yes, he even regretted having destroyed her. He was certain that hadn't been his intention, though he must have known—surely, even in his fevered state, he must have realized?—that she would never accept any man other than Baran. 

No, he acknowledged honestly.
No
. He hadn't even considered that before capturing her, and wouldn't have cared if he had. It was only after she was gone that he began to suspect, appalled at his own weakness, that he hadn't wanted Alcinar so much as he had wanted the untamed joy that Baran knew with her.

How strangely foolish of me.

That whole brief episode of Kiloran's life was one he had ensured remained secret. Of course, Baran had unwittingly helped, in a sense, by killing almost everyone who knew; even as Kiloran mourned their loss, he felt a private relief that his secrets died with them. Najdan, who had been busy making war on Gulstan's assassins at the time, never knew about those days at Kandahar; and a few months later, he brought Haydar, a very forgettable woman, back to his home near Kandahar. Searlon entered Kiloran's service the following year, and prying curiosity was not among his faults. There were few left alive who had even the vaguest knowledge of those strange months at Kandahar when Kiloran had behaved so irrationally, and Kiloran had made sure they knew better than to speak of that time to anyone. Ever.

Such passions, Kiloran knew—had probably known even then—were for younger men. And for weaker, lesser men. He had been too greedy, he saw that now; saw it soon after losing Alcinar. A man could not be what Kiloran was and also be what Baran was in those days. He could be a great waterlord of immense power and influence
or
a dreamily contented lover. He could never be both at once.

And the choice was so clear. Had Kiloran ever doubted it (which he hadn't), he need only consider how warped and wildly grieving Baran had been ever since then, insane with rage and sorrow for all these years. No, Baran had never recovered from the loss of his wife—a loss which would never crush a stronger, wiser man.

A loss which did not crush
me.

But what an expensive lesson that period of folly had become. Kiloran was well aware that living without ever having tasted Alcinar would be much easier than living with fifteen years of Baran's enmity had been.

And now there was this unexpected marriage to Mirabar. Kiloran sighed, acknowledging that he may once again have erred in his dealings with Baran.

"
Siran
." Dyshon's voice again captured his attention.

"Hmmm?"

"Will you entrust the kill to me?" 

Kiloran was startled, realizing he hadn't been listening to Dyshon. "The kill?"

"Wyldon." 

"Oh, Wyldon," he murmured, gradually pulling his thoughts back to the subject at hand. 

Dyshon's face was intent, his ambition overriding his fear of Wyldon's sorcery. "May I be the one to kill him?"

"Ah."

Forcing his attention away from fruitless memories and back to current business, Kiloran considered the request for a moment. He had proposed a meeting place to Wyldon which was bone dry at this time of year. For a meet between wary waterlords such as Wyldon and (as Wyldon thought) Baran, it was almost as good as Sanctuary. Their power was useless so far from a water source, a situation which would help secure a temporary truce between them.

Stripped of his sorcery, Wyldon would be defended only by his assassins. So Dyshon wasn't asking to match power with Wyldon, only combat strategy. 

"Very well," Kiloran agreed.

He was tempted to remind Dyshon to take Wyldon by surprise, not to waste time gloating about the trap they had set. However, he resisted. If Dyshon knew this already, then the reminder would be an insult, a sign that Kiloran doubted his shrewdness. And if Dyshon didn't know it... then Kiloran hoped he would learn from his mistakes, though dying from them was also a possibility.

"And when I'm done,
siran
..."

"Ah," Kiloran nodded, guessing the rest. "You would like his territory." Still only an apprentice, Dyshon hoped to become a waterlord.

"Only when you deem me ready,
siran
." Dyshon bowed his head and crossed his fists, evincing his respect as he made his bold request.

Kiloran liked ambition, at least when it was no real threat to him. So he was pleased to see it growing within Dyshon. 

"I'm sure you will be ready soon," he lied, not at all sure Dyshon would ever be able to hold Wyldon's territory. However, men worked harder when they desired something passionately, and people had surprised him before. So Kiloran would dangle the promise of Wyldon's territory before Dyshon, hoping—without expecting it—that the assassin's ambition would someday prove great enough to compensate for his modest talent.

In any event, the need to kill Wyldon was entirely Tansen's fault. Tansen had won six of Kiloran's
shir
by surviving the ambush on Mount Dalishar shortly after Josarian's death. Knowing how notoriously rash and suspicious Wyldon was by nature, Tansen had then disguised some of his men as assassins, led an abortive attack on Wyldon's stronghold, and left behind one of the
shir
to cast suspicion on Kiloran. The plan had worked. Wyldon not only blamed Kiloran, he was also asking other waterlords to side with him in a feud against Kiloran—at a time when they should unite in crushing Tansen, the Guardians, and the Firebringer's loyalists.