"No!" he cried.
"You must risk it," Tashinar said calmly, her gaze locked on the scarf. "You must... be..." Her voice trailed off, her strength absorbed by the ritual.
Josarian was about to rescue the scarf from the fire when he suddenly realized it wasn't burning. It danced in the flames with a life of its own, its fragile silk weave and delicate colors vivid and unharmed. Staring in wonder, he asked hoarsely, "Does this mean... she will come?"
After a long, quiet moment, Tashinar whispered, "She will come."
"Her name—"
"Shhh..." Flushed from her efforts, the old woman smiled slightly. "Her name is Calidar, and she is coming."
Disoriented and sick with frustration, Mirabar finally emerged from the cave, knowing that the longer she waited, the harder it would be to face everyone. Tonight was the first time she'd had one of these visions in front of the others; if they had doubted her sanity before, they were now probably convinced that she was quite mad. It might improve her position if she could present a coherent explanation of what she saw, but the visions were always so bewildering, the messages so strange and Otherworldly, that even she thought she sounded half-mad when she tried to relate them to Tashinar and the other Guardians.
A great warrior of terrible courage, bitter yearning, and stained honor.
Who was he? How would she know him? How should she welcome him? What must she do to prepare the way? And even if she found him, what could one man do to free Sileria from the Valdani?
The camp seemed deserted when she emerged from her cave. Momentarily unnerved, she then saw the reason for their absence. Josarian stood by the fire at the center of the encampment, his body taut, his attention riveted on the shade of a shallah woman rising from the flames. Even from where she stood, Mirabar could see the yearning that flooded his being, which had made him long to bridge the abyss between this world and the Other one. Even from here, she could see how he had loved this woman.
A bitter yearning? Instinct told Mirabar otherwise as she crept closer, staying in the shadows. The Otherworld was a mysterious place and the dead were very different from the living, but Mirabar thought she saw Josarian's love reciprocated in the shimmering, translucent figure that wavered and flickered as the fire did.
"Calidar." Josarian's voice was harsh and choked with emotion. As the feminine shade extended her arms toward him, he fell to his knees, murmuring her name again.
The shade shimmered with the speech of the dead, a song which only Tashinar could hear, since it was she who had brought it forth. Like Josarian, Mirabar waited to hear Calidar's words. He, however, flinched when they came from Tashinar's mouth.
"Josarian," she said on a long sigh. "Kadriah."
Mirabar realized she had been right. The endearment meant "my destiny," which was how a shallah addressed a dearly loved partner in life.
"Kadriah," Josarian replied, recovering his surprise at hearing Tashinar's voice. "I have missed you more than I would miss my own heart."
"And I, kadriah," murmured Tashinar as the shade of Calidar shimmered again. "I await you as night awaits the dawn."
Josarian laughed suddenly. "It may be sooner than you think, wife."
Ah, so the woman had been his wife. Mirabar listened as he told her about killing the Outlookers, living in hiding, and inciting the local shallaheen to resist the oppression of the Valdani. She knew that Tashinar would lecture her sharply if she learned Mirabar had intruded upon this private ceremony. Unless otherwise specified, only the Guardian performing the Calling for a petitioner should be present. All the other Guardians in camp were now tactfully absent and undoubtedly had been since the moment Tashinar had begun the Calling.
Besides the Guardians, only the client requesting a Calling could see the shade, though no one knew why. Even many Guardians could only see the shades they themselves Called, though courtesy still made them absent themselves from another's ceremony. The Guardians' work was a mysterious art, and Mirabar knew that many Callings failed. Indeed, some Guardians never even performed a successful Calling on their own, only succeeding as part of the group when they performed their regular rituals, seeking guidance and strengthening the bond with the Otherworld. Mirabar's gifts, however, were such that she had seen shades her whole life, long before being initiated into the secrets of the Guardians. During her savage childhood, she had taken these ghostly visions as proof that she really was a demon.
If any other shallah were the petitioner tonight, then Mirabar, like the others in camp, would respect his privacy. But she couldn't return to her cave, not now. She had to know more about Josarian, had to know if he was the warrior she sought. Having heard of his exploits, she had thought he might be. Now that she'd met him, though, she had changed her mind. Courage, special ability, unbearable yearning—he unquestionably possessed all of these. Yet the longer Mirabar hid in the shadows and intruded upon this Calling, the more certain she became that Josarian was not the man whose spirit and soul haunted her visions. There was no angry torment in Josarian's yearning, no apparent shame in the naked heart he offered to the shade of his wife. His spirit was made of light; Mirabar sought one darkened by shadows.
How will I know him, sirani?
"Calidar," Josarian said, his voice quickening with urgency as Tashinar grew fatigued and the shade began to disperse. "Wait. You must tell me—our child... Is it with you?"
What little Mirabar could still see of Calidar's face melted with sorrow.
"No," Tashinar said, her voice growing weak as her strength ebbed. "No, the child... could not make the journey."
Josarian's shoulders slumped. He murmured something so softly that Mirabar couldn't hear it. She guessed then how Calidar had died. Hard as her heart was, it ached for Josarian as he watched his wife fade into thin air, then lowered his head to weep for the child who had known neither this world nor the one beyond it. He was a big man, taller than most, with broad shoulders and strong arms, but he looked as helpless as a child right now. She felt an uncharacteristic desire to comfort him, but she went to Tashinar instead, who was now slumped over and breathing hard.
"Come," Mirabar said. "You must lie down." Tashinar wasn't as strong as she pretended to be, and the Calling had taken its toll. It was never a thing to be undertaken lightly, and the burden of Tashinar's gift now weighed heavily on her as she allowed Mirabar to help her into the cave. Once she was prostrate on her pallet, she insisted Mirabar go back outside to be with Josarian.
"He shouldn't be alone," the old woman rasped. "Not now. He's never Called her before, and... You watched, didn't you?"
"You knew?" Mirabar asked cautiously.
A faint smile cracked Tashinar's lips. "You want to know if he's the one. Considering the... the force of your visions, I would be surprised if you didn't try to find out more about him."
Alarmed by her mentor's pallor, Mirabar said, "Sleep now. We can talk tomorrow."
"Go to him."
"Yes, Tashinar."
She found him still sitting before the fire, brooding in silence. She had to speak twice before he noticed her presence, and he refused the tisane she offered him. He held a painted silk scarf in one hand—the token Tashinar had used for the Calling—absently rubbing it between his fingers as he gazed into the fire.
After a while, Josarian held the scarf up to his face, inhaled deeply, and then sighed. Whatever demon chased him, he seemed to have escaped it now. His expression lightened to a kind of melancholy peace. He looked at Mirabar with clear eyes and even gave her a slight smile. His face was open and warm, a strong, handsome face that would age well. His dark brown hair fell in thick waves past his shoulders, part of it tied back from his face. He was a man who could easily find a new wife if he wanted one; but Mirabar had seen enough to guess that his heart was still a prisoner of the Otherworld.
"I'm glad you're feeling better, sirana," he said gently.
She met his gaze, noting that he didn't flinch from her eyes as so many shallaheen did. "Yo
u needn't call me sirana. I'm just an initiate."
His smile was more heartfelt now. "If your gifts are as great as Tashinar says, then I want you to remember how respectful I am the next time you lose your temper with me."
She remembered snapping at him when he'd deposited her on her pallet. "What do you expect when you drop a woman on her head?" she retorted.
He grinned at that. Then, noticing how she studied his face, he asked, "What is it, sirana?"
No. He was not the one. She was sure of it.
"Nothing," she said at last. "You can't go back down the mountain now. Let me show you where you can sleep tonight."
Chapter Three
"One shallah against four Outlookers," Tansen mused, rolling his left shoulder to test his wound. "How did he do it?"
Having agreed to Koroll's proposition, he had been moved to a comfortable—though locked, barred, and heavily guarded—bedchamber in the fortress. He had stayed there for several days while the Outlookers, in an ironic twist of fate, did everything they could to help him recover from the wound they had inflicted. They fed him nourishing meals, cleaned, mended, and returned his clothes, and removed his shackles. They permitted him light exercise in the courtyard, treated his wound twice daily, and politely knocked before entering his chamber. He had even politely endured the presence of a chanting Valdani priest every day. Although he would have preferred the healing magic of his own kind, he would not ask for a Sister to be brought to the fortress to be terrified and humiliated by uncouth Valdani.
"The Outlookers separated to search for his accomplice in the dark," Koroll told him. "Two remained with Josarian; they were dead when the other two returned."
"And Josarian was gone," Tansen surmised.
Koroll nodded. "He knows those mountains the way a man knows his wife's body. Otherwise we'd have caught him by now."
Sitting once again at the table in Koroll's command chamber, Tansen watched with dry amusement as Koroll blessed a cup of wine and then handed it to him. Ever since Tansen had promised to kill their rebel, the Valdani had extended all manner of ritual courtesy to him. His wound protested as he reached for the cup, but he could tell it was healing. By the time he found Josarian, he'd be in fighting shape again.
"But how did one shallah kill two armed Outlookers?" Tan persisted.
"By the look of the bodies, he used something to bludgeon them with." Koroll's eyes grew hard. "He beat them to death."
A yahr, Tansen realized. Koroll wouldn't know, of course; the whole point of a yahr was that most Valdani didn't know. Upon seizing Sileria from the Kintish Kingdoms over two centuries ago, the Emperor of Valdania had issued a decree: All Silerians were forbidden to carry weapons, and violation of this decree was punishable by death. Most Silerians couldn't speak or understand Valdan in those days, let alone read it, and the idea of going anywhere without a weapon was so unthinkable among Silerians that most of them didn't believe the decree even after it was translated for them. Consequently, there had been a horrific number of executions during those early years of Valdani rule, as well as widespread chaos, countless murders, and more than a dozen bloody massacres as the Valdani disarmed whole villages at once.
Even worse, the disarmed Silerians were in more danger from their still-armed countrymen than the Valdani were. Once the weapons of a family, community, or religious sect had been confiscated, their blood enemies were more likely to attack them than to cause trouble for the Valdani. Recognizing this, the Valdani altered their plans and began disarming Silerians with strategic precision, dispassionately encouraging the internal chaos which destroyed what had been a relatively prosperous, if fragmented, society under Kintish rule. Within five years, the rich fields of Sileria's lowlands lay fallow and barren, dispossessed beggars crowded the streets of Shaljir and Cavasar, and whole shallah villages were wiped out. The people of Sileria, devastated, humiliated, and ruined, became the Emperor's slaves.
In the years following the Disarmament, Silerians began developing weapons out of their daily tools—weapons that couldn't be readily identified and therefore confiscated. Ever resourceful as they carved a new life out of their fierce mountains, the shallaheen developed the yahr, a deadly striking weapon. It was made of two smooth, short, wooden sticks, sometimes metal-tipped, which were joined by a short rope. If the Outlookers noticed a yahr, they saw only a small bundle of sticks, or a distinctive shallah grain flail, the tool which had inspired the weapon.
Tansen had not touched a yahr since the night, nine years ago, he had used one to kill a man. One who trusted you, a voice from the Otherworld reminded him; he silenced it.
But shallaheen used the yahr on their own kind. Tansen had never before heard of an Outlooker being killed with one. It was a good weapon, but even so, Josarian must be a very good fighter to have killed two armed Outlookers with it.
"Was he wounded?" Tansen asked Koroll.
"According to rumors, yes."
Tansen said nothing. The rumors that people chose to share with Outlookers were not to be credited. "And he's definitely still alive?"
"Alive?" Koroll slammed his fist down on the table. "Alive, you ask? The fatherless son of a whore is wreaking havoc throughout my district! By the Sign of the Three, I wish his insides would rot and consume him!"
"Do go on," Tansen urged blandly.
Koroll glared at him. "He has looted an Outlooker outpost. He burned down another outpost. He incited villagers to kill two tribute collectors, urging them to see for themselves that Valdani die as easily as shallaheen do." Koroll rose to pace before the window in agitation. "He defiled a Shrine of the Three less than four leagues from Cavasar!"
"He's not Valdani," Tan pointed out reasonably, "so he doesn't worship the Three."
"Don't push me, shatai," Koroll snapped. "I could still have you tortured to death in the main square."
"Yes, you could," Tan agreed. "But you won't. You're afraid no one but me can kill him."
"Some of the peasants are already saying he can't be killed." Koroll's expression was grim. "Frankly, enough of my men are provincial bumpkins that this kind of rumor could be dangerous if it starts passing among the ranks."
"You really think they could become frightened of a shallah?" Tansen asked, letting contempt creep into his voice.
"This one..." Koroll nodded and slumped back down into his chair. "This one is different. He's very dangerous. Cunning. Bold. He strikes as fast as a serpent, then disappears just as quickly. I've had patrols searching for him for almost two twin-moons, and we still haven't captured him! Neither bribes nor threats get us any useful information, but everyone knows who he is and what he's doing."
Which, of course, explained how Koroll himself had learned Josarian's name. "Does he have a family?"
"Don't they all?" Koroll said wearily. "Only a wizard could untangle the net of a shallah's blood and bloodpact relations, let alone his enemies."
"Where does he live when he's not hiding in the mountains and tormenting Outlookers?"
"The village of Emeldar. But he won't be there."
"Perhaps not," Tansen agreed politely. "But it may be a place to start." He suspected that Josarian could sneak home every night without the Outlookers being any the wiser. If he had eluded pursuit for this long, then the locals were loyal to him. "I need a lead, a starting place. I can't look behind every gossamer tree in the mountains, after all."
"I suggest you begin your search in the Orban Pass, just a hard day's ride from here," Koroll snapped.
"Why?"
"Because I received word this morning that Josarian attacked four of my men there."
"How?"
"Bow and arrow." He scowled. "This is the thanks we get for allowing hunting weapons."
"Were the arrow tips poisoned?"
"Yes. The poison was Valdani. Stolen, of course."
"And?" Tansen prodded.
"They're all dead."
"How do you know it was Josarian?"
"This is Sileria, no
t Kinto or the Moorlands!" Koroll thundered. "Bandits here don't attack armed Outlookers!"
"Those men were a patrol looking for Josarian?" Tansen guessed.
"He found them first." Koroll's voice was bitter.
"Four Outlookers," Tansen mused.
"We're keeping this as quiet as possible."
"Word will spread."
"I know." Koroll's fair Valdani complexion was chalk white now. "And the gods will grow thirsty."
The following day, Koroll and four Outlookers escorted Tansen beyond the city walls. His belongings had already been returned to him, bundled up in his worn satchel and strapped to the back of the saddle he now sat in. He'd also been given enough coin to live modestly until the next dark-moon; a shatai, Koroll had asserted, didn't need money for bribes, since only a fool would refuse to cooperate with him. His swords, however, remained firmly strapped to Koroll's saddle as they rode away from Cavasar. Tansen would not be trusted with those until they had released him. His gold, of course, would remain in Koroll's keeping until he returned with proof of Josarian's death. He didn't necessarily have to complete the job by the next dark-moon; but that was clearly when Koroll's confidence in him would begin to wane.
"If I were to be slaughtered like a goat in Cavasar upon honorably fulfilling our contract," Tansen told Koroll as they road side by side, "all shatai everywhere would be very annoyed."
Koroll chuckled. "If you were to come back and cut me in half for having pressed you into service on behalf of the Emperor, His Radiance would also be annoyed." He glanced at Tansen. "However, I think I see before me a reasonable man, despite the shallah blood in your veins. If we can do business together this time... Who knows? There may well be other contracts, eh?"
"You will find that I usually charge a higher fee than the return of my own gold," Tansen said dryly.
Koroll laughed out loud at that. "All right, here's a better bargain. Kill Josarian, and I will pay you double the gold I took from you. Fair enough, shatai?"
In Legend Born Page 5