In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  The Guardians were secretive, yes, but few events in these mountains were unknown to the shallaheen, the mountain-dwelling farmers, shepherds, and craftsmen of Sileria, the most numerous—and the poorest—of the vast island's diverse population. And while many shallaheen were likely to die under torture before revealing a secret to the Outlookers, interesting news tended to spread quickly from one mountain village to the next. Thus Josarian had heard the rumors for many days now that there were Guardians hiding in the old caves above the gossamer forest on Mount Niran. He had grown up in these wild, savage mountains and was confident he could find the remote place even in the dark.

  Indeed, his intimate knowledge of these rocky hills had saved his life after killing those two Outlookers. He'd been living in hiding ever since then and had made a couple of narrow escapes during the Outlookers' desperate and increasingly extensive search for him.

  With no wife to worry about him now, Josarian had grown reckless this past year and had joined his cousin Zimran in smuggling black market food through the mountains. He knew it was illegal, but he didn't believe for a moment that it was wrong. Why should Silerian peasants break their backs harvesting grain under the merciless sun, only to watch the Valdani confiscate most of it to feed their fat citizens and voracious soldiers, leaving Sileria with barely enough food to survive? Although he believed a man should have a family, and although he still mourned his, there had been moments these past few months when he'd consoled himself with the thought that at least he and Calidar had never known the pain so many others knew, that of seeing their children go hungry.

  No, he didn't regret the smuggling. It was sheer bad fortune that had brought him face to face with Outlookers one night. One of the donkeys had gone lame that night, and he and Zimran had tossed a coin to see who would have to hang back with it. Zim had lost, and so he was far behind when Josarian rounded a bend in the narrow mountain path—and came face to face with four Outlookers. He had never before seen any Valdani on these high, little-known goat paths, and he simply stared at them in stupid astonishment for a moment.

  Before he knew what was happening, they had roughly seized him. Two of them began interrogating him, while the other two searched his donkeys. Realizing he was caught, he now worried mainly about warning his cousin. Unable to think of anything subtle under the circumstances, he simply shouted, "Outlookers!"

  The Outlookers realized he was warning an accomplice, and two of them rode off to search for Josarian's companion. He shouted another warning, and the two Outlookers still holding him started to beat him. He resisted, and they unsheathed their swords. The struggle suddenly turned into a fight to the death.

  He would never forget the moment when all his fear vanished; it was the moment when he faced them as a man, refusing to bow down to the Valdani as a lowly shallah, refusing to die easily for them. One of them wounded him, and it only made him fight all the more ferociously. He had never killed a man before, even though bloodshed was commonplace among the shallaheen. He was repulsed by the sensation of flesh giving way beneath his blows, horrified by the amount of blood that splattered his face and clothing, shocked at how still and grotesque his enemies looked in death.

  But deeper than his shock, stronger than his revulsion, more enduring than his horror was a new sensation. Beneath the twin moons that glowed above the snow-covered peak of Mount Darshon, Josarian looked down at the lifeless bodies of his enemies and knew a fierce exultation which was like the birth of a new spirit within him. He, an ordinary shallah, had said no to the Valdani. He looked down at these Outlookers, the occupying force of the most powerful empire the world had ever known, and all he saw were mere men—men who could be defied and defeated by him.

  He knew in that moment that he would never say yes to them again. He would never again stand by as they took crops and livestock for themselves while leaving Silerians to starve. He would never again shake his head and hope for better days while the Valdani raped Sileria's rich mines, abused her people, and violated her ancient culture and customs. And until the day the Outlookers caught and killed him, he would tell every Silerian he met—whether shallah, city-dweller, or sea-born folk, whether Guardian, zanar, or Sister, whether merchant, aristocrat, or Society assassin—to say no to them, too.

  Zimran had escaped, thanks to Josarian's warning, but the two remaining Outlookers had pursued Josarian for half the night. By the time he finally crawled into an isolated Sanctuary of the Sisterhood at dawn, he was half-dead. Guessing where he had gone, Zimran joined him as soon as he was able to elude the Outlookers who now constantly watched Josarian's friends and family. Zimran stayed by Josarian's side throughout the ordeal of his healing and then kept him supplied with food, medicine, and news after he left the Sanctuary. It wasn't safe for Josarian to stay anywhere for more than a day, but he and Zim had grown up together and knew a dozen secret places where they could meet safely.

  Zim wasn't with Josarian now, however, as he ascended alone through the gossamer forest of Niran. Josarian's cousin was skeptical of Guardian magic and sneered at his faith. True, neither of them had even seen a Guardian in years, and that one had possessed feeble powers, but Josarian was not one to forsake his faith just because the Valdani wanted him to. Besides, he couldn't give up his hope; not now, not tonight of all nights. The Guardians were the gateway to the Otherworld—and to Calidar.

  Before he saw the clearing he sought, he heard the voices. A woman was screaming as if she were in terrible pain, and others were apparently trying to soothe her. He hadn't heard such agonized screams since the night Calidar had died. Although he had not flinched at the many dangers he had faced since the night he had killed those two Outlookers, he flinched now and was not ashamed; few things would ever trouble him like the reminder of Calidar's grim and painful death. The anguished cries unmanned him, and he could not bring himself to leave the forest until they died down to mournful whimpers. Hoping that the worst of it was over, he emerged from the forest and stepped into the clearing.

  He had explored the caves up here many times, intrigued by their mysteries. Ancient paintings of eerie beauty decorated their interior walls, scenes from another era, an age lost in the mists of time. The paintings were said to have been made by the Beyah-Olvari, the half-human race who had been the original inhabitants of Sileria. Driven to extinction long ago, they had left behind a portrait of their existence. Gazing at the evocative, graceful cave paintings eons after they had been painted, Josarian had often wondered about the fragile, blue-skinned beings they depicted.

  There seemed to be more than a dozen people living here now: men, women, and a couple of children. Each of them wore a brooch which was fashioned into the ancient symbol of the Guardians: a single flame within a circle of fire. Once made only of gold, the brooches were usually made of copper or bronze these days; silver, perhaps, if the Guardian had served a wealthy patron. The temporary settlement was a poor place, as Josarian had expected, but no one would ever mistake these people for ordinary peasants; the fire blazing in the center of their camp burned without wood. Guardian fire magic. He had come to the right place.

  No one paid any attention to him. They were all gathered around a young woman who lay writhing on the ground, whimpering and mumbling half-formed phrases.

  "Shackles... he will break... We must come for...ward... " She gasped hard several times, then continued, "Enemies... terrible enemies who must... We must... We and the Society must..."

  "No!" cried a man crouching near her feet. He stood up, glared at an old woman, and said harshly, "She's insane, I tell you! Did you hear that? We and the Society? Never!"

  "At least wait until she's coherent before you reject what she has to tell us," the old woman argued.

  "No! If this is her vision, then it's an evil one, and I want no part of it!"

  "Derlen, you don't..." The old woman gave up as the man stalked away. She was about to turn her attention back to the young woman when something alerted her to Josarian's presence, a
nd she whirled to face him. A cloud of fire formed to shimmer protectively around her. Seeing it, Josarian quickly stepped into the light. Recognizing him as a shallah, she hesitated before drawing upon more of her power.

  "Who are you?" she demanded.

  "Josarian mar Gershon shah Emeldari," he answered formally: Josarian, child of Gershon, born to the Emeldari clan. "I've come to ask—"

  "Josarian?" she repeated. "I've heard of you."

  Some of the other Guardians turned away from the young woman on the ground, whose cries and gasps continued unabated.

  "The Outlookers are searching for you everywhere," the old woman said, her fireglow fading slowly. "You're the shallah who killed two of them and who has been rampaging throughout the district ever since."

  "I wouldn't say rampaging. I'm recovering from a wound, after all," he said.

  "You tell everyone to resist the Valdani," she said. "You tell them that Outlookers can be killed by ordinary shallaheen, and if they don't believe you, they should try it themselves."

  He nodded, then added quietly, "I also tell them not to let their children starve so that Valdani children may grow even fatter."

  "So I've heard." The old woman studied him for a moment, then reached out to him. He saw that she was missing several fingers, a common sign of Valdani torture. "I am Tashinar. Honor my home, Josarian, eat at my table, sleep beneath my roof." She smiled wryly at her own traditional welcome, since she had neither table nor roof.

  "With pleasure, sirana," he said respectfully, crossing his fists over his chest. Then he lowered the heavy load strapped to his back and said, "I bring a gift for the Guardians of the Otherworld."

  "We—" Another cry from the young woman stopped Tashinar in mid-sentence. She went to tend the girl, crouching over her prostrate form.

  Josarian followed her. When he got his first good look at the girl, he recoiled in shock. He had heard stories of such demons—every child in Sileria had—but he had long since stopped believing that there really were such fire-haired, fire-eyed creatures lurking in these mountains. At least this one wasn't breathing fire. Not at the moment, anyhow. She was sobbing softly, tears streaming down her face as she mumbled something about a warrior.

  "He comes," she muttered. "He comes. Welcome him!"

  Once he had recovered from his initial shock, Josarian studied her more closely. Except for the appalling color of her hair and eyes, she looked human. Moreover, her fawn-colored tunic bore the insignia of the Guardians; her brooch was made of copper.

  "She's one of you?" he asked Tashinar in puzzlement. When the old woman nodded, he asked, "Is she insane?"

  With a troubled expression, Tashinar admitted, "We don't know. She is visited by strange visions that no one else can see or hear. They tell her unbelievable things. Things I can't bring myself to repeat even to you, my young friend." Tashinar took a shaky breath. "Either she is insane, or she is gifted beyond my understanding. And if it's the latter..." Her face dissolved into a hundred worried wrinkles. "Then everything we know will change beyond imagining."

  Seeing her fear and sensing that it was not typical of her, Josarian covered her three-fingered hand gently. "Then surely that's a good thing, sirana, for we know only hunger, poverty, injustice, shame, and abuse."

  The demon screamed abruptly, then moaned, "The blood..."

  Tashinar turned a troubled gaze to Josarian. "Does that sound like a good thing to you?"

  Ignoring the question, Josarian suggested, "Perhaps we should get her off the hard ground and put her somewhere more comfortable. Does she have a bed?"

  "A pallet. In my cave. But the others won't touch her when she's like this, and I can't lift her myself."

  "I'll do it, sirana."

  "Are you sure?"

  "She's only a tiny thing, and my wound no longer—"

  "I meant... aren't you afraid to touch her?"

  "You're not, are you?" he countered.

  "No..."

  He grinned. "Then I'll count on you to protect me, sirana. Now show me where to put her."

  Without waiting for a response, he scooped the red-haired woman into his arms. She was heavier than she looked; muscular and sturdy, like a good mountain girl. He realized with a sudden ache that he hadn't held a woman in his arms since Calidar's death. He swallowed the memory and followed Tashinar into one of the caves, marveling at the way she simply blew a flame into life upon the stone wall to light the chamber where the demon-girl's pallet lay.

  The young woman started to struggle, making the task of depositing her on her pallet rather awkward. His wound stretched at the last moment, and he abruptly dropped her head.

  "Ow! Be careful, you idiot!" she snapped, sounding quite different all of a sudden.

  He glanced at her in surprise and found that her eyes were now open, alert, and glaring at him. They gleamed a feral yellow color that awoke old superstitions; but when she snapped at him again, he couldn't help grinning.

  "You don't sound like a mystic when you're awake," he observed.

  Still glaring, she sat up and rubbed her head.

  "Can you talk now?" Tashinar asked her hesitantly.

  "Who is this man?"

  "He's our guest, Mirabar." The old woman sounded embarrassed by her companion's discourtesy.

  "My name is Josarian. I've come to—"

  "Josarian!" The girl gripped his shoulder with a hand which was surprisingly strong for its size. "I've heard..." The glowing eyes searched his face eagerly. "Could it be you?" she whispered.

  "Could what be me?" At the moment, she did look a little insane.

  She said nothing, only continued to study him as if seeking the answer to all her questions. Whatever the test was, he apparently failed it, for her face crumpled in pain. She tore at her hair and ground out between clenched teeth, "I don't know. I can't tell. You must send me a sign! How will I know him, sirani?"

  Tashinar knelt upon the pallet and tried to calm the girl—Mirabar—who was becoming agitated again. Sensing that his presence only added to Mirabar's anguish, Josarian excused himself and went outside to find the load he had carried up the mountain. A few minutes later, moving wearily, Tashinar joined him around the woodless fire at the center of the Guardians' camp.

  "She needs time alone," the old woman said pensively. "Time to think over what she has... been shown. She'll be better tomorrow. This mood... passes."

  "I've never seen... You know. One like her."

  "Ah. No. It's very rare, her look. And, of course, they're usually killed at birth."

  "Why wasn't she?" he asked, knowing that had Calidar's baby been red-haired and orange-eyed, he still couldn't have helped loving it. "Did her parents protect her?"

  Tashinar shrugged. "Perhaps. She doesn't know who they were."

  "Was she given to you as a baby then?"

  "No. Someone obviously took care of her as a baby, but she remembers no one. Somehow, as a child, she survived on her own for years. She lived as an outcast, scavenging for food. Then I found her and... trapped her. Tamed her. Taught her."

  "Why?" he asked curiously. "She must have been very difficult to—"

  Tashinar almost laughed. "Oh, she was! But I knew that the coloring that the shallaheen fear so much is a sign of great gifts."

  "Gifts? People say it's the sign of a terrible curse."

  She looked at him thoughtfully for a moment. "Once, long ago, before the Conquest," she said, "such coloring was revered as the mark of great power. In those days, there were many more like Mirabar. But, fearing their power, the Conquerors sought to destroy them. So did the waterlords; but the waterlords were more cunning, and they destroyed them by teaching people to fear them. And so the very people they once served now stone them, drown them, burn them, or—at the very least—reject them."

  Josarian considered the old woman's words before saying, "Are you sure that isn't just another story? Like the tales that are told about them being demons? Perhaps they're really just... ordinary."


  "No, it's true. I, after all, have special sources," she reminded him.

  He smiled. "Excuse me, sirana. I forgot myself."

  "Now why don't you tell me why you have taken time out from harassing the Outlookers to pay us a visit?" she suggested.

  He gestured to his gift. "I have brought food, sirana." He'd hauled a heavy wheel of cheese—stolen from an Outlooker supply post—up the mountain tonight.

  "Food is always appreciated here." She nodded her acceptance of his offering. "Now how may I serve you?"

  He took a breath and looked up at the stars. Now that the moment was upon him, hope made him afraid. "My wife... she died in childbirth one year ago tonight."

  "Ah," she said softly, "I see. Have you brought something of hers?"

  She meant to do it! His hand trembled as he reached inside his pouch and pulled out a delicately painted silk scarf. It had been his wedding gift to Calidar, and she had treasured it. He was convinced it still smelled of her. He was reluctant to let another touch it, even Tashinar, but he knew that a Guardian needed something which had belonged to the deceased in order to summon her from the Otherworld.

  "Will this do, sirana?" he asked, his heart pounding as he proffered the scarf.

  She took it from him and said, "We shall see, Josarian."

  "Can you... Will she..." His throat felt tight.

  "I can Call her," Tashinar said. "That is all I can promise."

  "Then do, sirana. Please. Call her to me."

  Tashinar nodded, then inhaled deeply, closed her eyes, and clasped the scarf between her palms. Josarian bowed his head respectfully when she began to chant, but he sprang to his feet in panic when she tossed the scarf into the fire.