The Destroyer Goddess (39 page)

Now that they were so close to Mount Darshon that it entirely blocked the sky in front of her, Elelar finally began to suspect she had made a grave mistake.

She rode quietly beside Cheylan, physically and emotionally drained from the journey. They had come through days and nights of heat and dust, the perils of their trip augmented by occasional earthquakes. The treacherous paths they followed were sometimes blocked by avalanches. Elelar was wary of prowling assassins, and Cheylan had been obliged to protect her from a particularly bold group of bandits. Elelar had brought nothing with her—not even a change of undergarments—and she wasn't used to traveling like this: no servants, no money of her own, no authority, and no comforts. She hadn't bathed since leaving home, and she was
definitely
not used to smelling like this. By now, she was rather relieved that Cheylan avoided people as much as possible, since she felt embarrassed by the image she presented.

So much for dying with dignity
. 

If she didn't wash and change her clothing soon, she'd be mistaken for a goat when she met her destiny.

She was also beginning to understand why hardly anyone liked Cheylan. She'd had very little contact with him before now and was previously inclined to attribute people's dislike of him (including Tansen's) to superstitious fear, even to jealousy of his power. Now, however, she realized that any distaste for Cheylan was almost certainly inspired by his personality, rather than by his fiery eyes.

Mirabar had certain things in common with Cheylan which had forged a bond between them, evidently making it easier for her to overlook his cool, sour, smug nature than it was for others, including Elelar.

It might be petty and querulous of Elelar, but if she had to give her life as payment for what she had done to the Firebringer, then she didn't want Cheylan to be the one to kill her. She wanted, she thought with weary futility, Mirabar to do it. Elelar didn't like Mirabar, but she trusted and respected her—and she knew by now that she'd never be able to say that about Cheylan. Being with him felt increasingly wrong; and the more she tried to understand him and put these feelings to rest, the worse she felt.

Elelar believed in her destiny, in the Olvar's vision, in her duty to surrender to "the one with eyes of fire..." She had been so sick of passively waiting for her fate, so relieved to see Cheylan and commit to decisive action, that she had recklessly assumed he was the one to whom the Olvar had advised her to surrender.

She now wished, with mingled irritation and fear, that the Olvar had been more specific. What if she
was
supposed to wait for Mirabar? What if she was supposed to wait for someone whose identity she didn't even know? What if following Cheylan to wherever he was leading her was actually interfering with her destiny, rather than fulfilling it?

What if Cheylan, with his vague answers and unexplained actions, was not telling her the truth? 

After Elelar's initial holy fervor had worn off, in the dreary reality of uncomfortable travel with a strange companion, she had started questioning Cheylan. Where was Mirabar? Back at Belitar. Why hadn't she come? She couldn't. Why not? She was not meant to. Where was Cheylan taking her? East. Where in the east? She would see. Why were they going east? Because Mirabar had insisted. Why? She would see.

And so on. 

He was polite, and even soothing—but Elelar was increasingly dissatisfied with his answers, and increasingly worried that whatever he intended was not what
she
intended... which was a difficult distinction to make, since she didn't really know what she intended, and Cheylan wouldn't clarify what
he
intended.

Elelar sighed, feeling glum, scared, and frustrated.

"
Torena?
" Cheylan said in polite inquiry, having heard the sigh.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"We'll be there soon."

"Where?"

"It's difficult to explain," he replied kindly.

Elelar sighed again.

The farther they traveled from Mirabar and Belitar, the more Elelar began to suspect that Mirabar might not, in fact, have ordered this journey. Might not even know that Elelar was following Cheylan toward some mysterious destination.

Elelar's stomach churned as she tormented herself with these fears. Now, conversely, she wondered if she was just trying, as she approached her death, to find an escape, a rationalization, a justification for fleeing the unknown punishment she had thought herself so willing to endure. 

Why would Cheylan have come to her estate and taken her away, full of his vague and portentous comments, unless he was indeed the one she had awaited? He certainly alluded, however vaguely, to a more thorough knowledge of Elelar's future than she herself possessed; and he was, after all, a Guardian of phenomenal power. 

Of course he's the one I've awaited. I'm just frightened. I'm just trying to talk myself out of this.

Which was wrong of her. It was too late, anyhow. She had come this far. There was no turning back.

But where was Mirabar? Why didn't Cheylan tell Elelar more, prepare her for what was to come? Why wouldn't he specify where they were going and what would happen when they got there? Why didn't he want her even speaking to the Sisters or
zanareen
they came across during their journey?

And were the two of them actively avoiding Guardians, or was Elelar imagining that?

She clenched her jaw, aware that her lips were trembling. She was making herself crazy with these wild speculations.

She could, of course, simply balk and refuse to let her horse take another step until Cheylan told her everything she wanted to know and eliminated every one of her worries. But she suspected that would be foolhardy, even dangerous. The time for such behavior had been back at her estate, where she was surrounded by her own servants and able to challenge Cheylan from a position of strength. Unfortunately, she had not done so. She had been a fool. And now she regretted it.

Now she was all alone, far from home, in a strange and dangerous place with a man she hardly knew; a man whom, she now realized, she didn't trust. He was a very powerful man, too. She had seen him incinerate two bandits and send their companions fleeing in terror only last night. He needn't humor her demands here, where she was so far from help or protection. He needn't even keep up a pretense of courtesy or respect, if she pushed him. 

Elelar shivered, chilled by her own dark imaginings.

We're approaching Darshon
, she reminded herself, as her horse plodded towards the slopes of Dar's imposing domain. Cheylan was taking her to the goddess. Whatever his intentions, they must surely be directed by Dar Herself.

But when she looked at him... she felt afraid.

Enough of this.

She was tired of enduring this uncharacteristic indecision and mind-tangling fear.

Cheylan was a man, she reminded herself in exasperation. His Otherworldly insights and fiery power notwithstanding, he was just a man, like any other. Elelar knew better than any woman in Sileria how to get what she wanted from a man, and how to convince him to tell her what she wanted to know.

It was time—past time—to take control of the situation, using the same skills she had always used to take charge of men. The two things which made a man easiest to manipulate, she knew, were letting him believe he was in control, and letting believe he was desired. Men who were convinced of those two things were usually as easy to dominate, thereafter, as hungry puppies.

Cheylan already believed he was in control of her. And Elelar could tell by the arrogance of his manner that he would be very easy to convince of the second thing, too.

"I'm so tired," Elelar murmured. "Can we stop to rest soon?"

"Of course,
torena
."

"And," she asked with genuine longing, "is there any chance of a bath and a bed?"

"A bath, no. But a bed..."

"Yes?"

"We're not very far from my father's hunting lodge. It's a simple place, with no servants, but it will serve our needs."

Certainly it sounded far better than sleeping on the ground outside yet again.

"Oh, good!" Elelar added wistfully, "I feel so dowdy and unkempt."

"You always," Cheylan assured her, "look lovely,
torena
."

"You could..." She lowered her eyes.

"Yes?" he prodded.

"You could call me Elelar," she said softly.

In the long silence that followed, she raised her gaze to his. She was puzzled by what she saw there, but after a moment he smiled, then murmured, "Elelar."

Their eyes held for a long moment. Then he turned his horse and again led the way.

Oh, yes. Cheylan could be convinced to lower his guard. And when he did, Elelar would learn whatever she wanted to know.

"I'm sorry, father," said Tansen. They stood together in Kiloran's encampment, where Armian had just given him the
yahr
which Tansen would soon use to murder him. "I want you to know I'm so sorry."

 "Don't worry about it," Armian replied. "The first kill is always the hardest. But you'll do it. I know you will."

Tansen nodded, sick at heart. "Yes. I will."

Josarian asked, "Does he know what you're going to do?"

"Don't tell him!" Tansen insisted.

"Are you afraid?"

"I don't want him to know. He should never know what I've done!"

"You can't keep this from him," Josarian said.

"I have to. He could never understand."

"You know it's wrong," Josarian warned.

Tansen squinted through the rain at his brother. "He's only a boy," he protested.

"So were
you,
" Josarian pointed out gently.

They were on the cliffs east of Adalian. A dark-moon night, a treacherous landscape. The long rains had finally come.

"But what if the rains don't come this year?" Tansen asked Josarian. "What'll I do? I'm not the Firebringer."

Elelar said, "He is not like other boys. Surely you see that."

"You shouldn't be here," Tansen told her.

"How well do you really know him?" she persisted.

"Go away," Tansen said.

"You're making a mistake," Elelar warned.

"I've made many," he reminded her. 

Armian stood boldly at the cliff's edge searching the cove below for some sign of the Moorlanders he awaited.

"I should do it now," Tansen said, unsheathing his swords and stalking Armian.

Josarian urged, "Tell him now."

"I curse Dar every day for letting you die," Tansen told his brother.

"What about the day She let
him
die?" Josarian asked.

Tansen shook his head. "No. That was my choice, and mine alone. I don't blame Her for that."

"Don't you?" Josarian murmured.

Fast, please Dar, let it be fast. Let him not suffer. I can't bear to make him suffer...

 "This silence..." Josarian said. "It's like killing him twice."

"I
have
killed him twice. I've killed him a thousand times."

"He won't stay dead," Josarian said. "You know that."

"Yes, I know. But what else can I do?"

He struck out. The blow connected, reverberating through Tansen's soul. Armian fell to his knees.

Josarian said, "Tell him."

"Get away," Tansen warned. "He might hurt you."

"No, you're the only one he can still hurt," Josarian replied. "Be careful."

Armian rolled away from the next blow, moving so fast he escaped it entirely, while simultaneously reaching for his
shir
... But Armian froze, like a statue, when he saw his son standing above him on that windswept cliff
... "Tansen?"

"I never forget the way you said that," Tansen told him. "I  never stop hearing it."

"Father..."

"Tell him," Josarian repeated.

"It's too late," Tansen insisted.

"Father?"

"Tell him."

"I can't!"

"It's not too late."

"No, I can't!"

Armian said, just as he had said a thousand times,
"Tansen?"

"Armian..."

Forgive me, father.

"Father, wake up. Father!"

Tansen sucked in air on a huge, painful gasp as he sat bolt upright, fleeing his dreams, his father, his brother, his past. Running from what he had done. From what he knew.

"You were dreaming," Zarien said, his voice sleepy and irritable. 

Breathing hard, Tansen rubbed his hands over his face, feeling sweat there. Feeling the fear and guilt which oozed out of him in the night, when he couldn't control it.