In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  Koroll still didn't know who Tansen was, other than some shallah or part-shallah who'd convinced a Kintish swordmaster to train him and then worked for a time in the Moorlands. Nonetheless, Koroll thought he understood him. Whether the man had come home to visit his family or to finish some business connected to the shir he carried, he was a mercenary and could be counted on to act like one. If he succeeded on this first assignment, he could become a useful ally, a very valuable tool. That possibility, added to the buoyant belief that his problems with Josarian were about to end, had inspired Koroll to offer to pay Tansen out of his own coffers when he returned, in addition to returning the shatai's gold. Such men were bought with money, after all, not with loyalty, promises, or threats.

  "Twice the amount of gold you took from me—I have your word on that?"

  Oh, yes, Koroll had caught the swordmaster's attention with that offer; he had seen the look of greed in the warrior's eyes. Yes, the shatai would return to Cavasar for his gold, or die trying.

  Mirabar picked up a stick and traced a symbol in the dirt, then stared at it, frowning.

  "What is it?" Tashinar asked.

  "I saw this last night. The Beckoner called me outside while everyone slept, and this," she tapped the drawing with her stick, "was written across the night sky in fire."

  "What is it?" Tashinar repeated.

  Two curved lines, each shaped like a sickle, flanked a strange symbol. Mirabar shook her head. "I don't know."

  "It doesn't look like a picture of anything," Tashinar ventured.

  "No," Mirabar agreed.

  "I don't know about those two marks, but this..." Tashinar traced the complex symbol. "It looks like... like writing."

  "Writing?" Mirabar repeated.

  "Writing. It's what the roshaheen do instead of—"

  "I know what it is," Mirabar said brusquely. "You've told me before. But since I can't read, why would the Beckoner show me this?"

  Accustomed to Mirabar's embarrassment over how ignorant and savage she had been when the Guardians first found her, Tashinar ignored her tone. "Since I can't read either, we'll need to ask someone else."

  "Who?"

  "Derlen came from a merchant family in Shaljir. He might—"

  "Not Derlen," Mirabar protested sullenly.

  "He is not your enemy." Tashinar knew that Mirabar was angry over Derlen's insistence that she not participate in any Callings while her mind was so obviously disordered.

  "Yes, he is!" Mirabar's eyes flashed yellow with hot emotion, her red brows lowered into a scowl, and her unbrushed red curls danced in the mountain wind. She looked more demon-like than usual today. "He is also a coward and a fool."

  "That's enough," Tashinar warned.

  "He is trying to exclude me!" Mirabar protested. "He is trying to take away—"

  "He believes you're dangerous, to yourself and others, while this thing, this Beckoner, has such a hold on you. But that does not make him a coward or a fool. I understand your anger, and I don't agree with Derlen. But I will not permit you to be unjust to him."

  Reprimanded by the woman who had been teacher, friend, and even a sort of mother to her, Mirabar flushed and pressed her lips together. Tashinar watched her struggle to control the volatile emotions which always seethed so fiercely inside her soul; more than ever, they needed a direction, a focus. For a long time the girl had found that direction in her studies, applying herself tirelessly to the difficult, sometimes frightening, often painful work of becoming a Guardian. Her extraordinary gifts and her tremendous determination had made her the most promising initiate Tashinar had ever seen. Having lived a rootless life as an outcast for as long as she could remember, Mirabar had seized on this newfound purpose and belonging with passionate intensity, undergoing every hardship without protest or complaint.

  The Beckoner had stolen the peace Mirabar had started to find, and for that, Tashinar hated him, whoever or whatever he was. Although the Beckoner continued his strange visitations to Mirabar, cutting into her mind and ripping into her heart, she nonetheless struggled to maintain her studies and continue her duties; it was a hard fight, but it meant everything to her. So she was both crushed and infuriated when Derlen convinced the other Guardians in their circle that Mirabar should be excluded from all Callings until they understood what was happening to her. Derlen and the others had made the choice they believed was best; no madwoman should be allowed to summon the power and wisdom of the Otherworld, lest she use it for her own gain or even for clearly evil purposes.

  There was nothing personal about the group's decision to exclude Mirabar from Callings for the time being, and several of the Guardians regretted it deeply. Mirabar was one of them, after all, and their status as hunted outlaws had made Guardians everywhere unconditionally loyal to one another. But none of them knew Mirabar as Tashinar did. None of them saw the loneliness that haunted her heart, the secret fear that she would never belong anywhere, and the proudly hidden need to be not only accepted but also genuinely wanted. None of the others knew how their decision to exclude Mirabar from the Callings turned her once again into a hungry, skinny, scab-covered child in filthy rags, living on the outskirts of villages, huddling just beyond the circle cast by a night fire, and fleeing when superstitious shallaheen threw rocks at her and called her a demon.

  "Shall we ask Derlen, then?" Tashinar prodded, stifling her sorrow as she watched Mirabar struggle with her pain.

  Mirabar grunted and shrugged, refusing to meet Tashinar's eyes. Knowing that this was the most gracious acceptance she could expect, the old woman went in search of Derlen.

  She found him supervising the packing of the gossamer that the Guardians had recently harvested and refined. Once the wealthiest and most powerful sect in Sileria, the Guardians now survived by whatever means they could. Derlen, who was shrewd and efficient in such matters, had long ago set up trade between discreet merchants in Shaljir and various Guardian groups. Living so high up and in such wild places, the Guardians had daily access not only to gossamer forests, but even to some mountain springs and streams that weren't controlled by the Society. If gossamer leaves were harvested at the right stage of growth, soaked, treated, beaten, stretched, and dried, then the vast, fibrous leaves ripened and softened into the most exquisite, sought-after fabric in Sileria. Silerian aristocrats and Valdani usurpers would soon be wearing elegant garments made of swathes of refined gossamer which many Guardians had broken their backs to produce and provide illegally.

  The Valdani had, of course, tried to monopolize this trade, but they'd never gained access to any freshwater sources except those controlled by the Society. Refining gossamer required enormous amounts of freshwater, and the Society demanded heavy tribute for such a privilege. When Emperor Jarell ascended to the Valdani throne several decades ago, he had declared that no more tribute would be paid to the Society. The waterlords were quick to respond. Streams and rivers in Sileria had dried up overnight, and deep lakes and ponds became so cold that men lost their hands if they dared to immerse them. Valdani gossamer production, by then a source of great wealth to the Empire, came to a sudden halt.

  Tens of thousands of Silerians were also deprived of water—a side effect of the power struggle, and one which concerned neither the Society nor the Valdani.

  A huge force of Outlookers, Valdania's gray-clad occupying army in Sileria, immediately attacked the moated stronghold of Harlon, Sileria's most notorious waterlord. The Outlookers drowned, of course; every single one of them. Legend had it that they'd been taken by the White Dragon; it was a brutal, hideous death which made Tashinar shudder even to think of it. The White Dragon, a grotesque monster born of a magical union between water and a wizard, gobbled up souls as well as bodies. While many things about the Otherworld were unknown even to Tashinar, one thing was certain: no one taken by the White Dragon ever saw the Otherworld or any of his loved ones again. A victim of the White Dragon lost his soul to the monster that had killed him, and he remained in its keeping, in to
rment and agony, until the death of the waterlord who had created the beast. Even Valdani Outlookers didn't deserve such a death, Tashinar thought.

  After the mysterious death of his Outlookers, Emperor Jarell vowed to destroy the Society. The waterlords' power in Sileria had gone unchallenged for centuries. But now the most powerful ruler who had ever lived was waging war on the most dangerous wizards in the world, seeking them out despite the huge risks and heavy cost, forcing them underground and into hiding—and also driving thousands of Silerians into destitution and death.

  The Valdani had foolishly believed their battle was won when, after a few years, they succeeded in destroying Harlon, the Society's most powerful wizard. However, he was eventually succeeded by Kiloran, who became even more notorious during the ensuing years. Indeed, after so many years of eluding the Valdani and maintaining the Honored Society's stranglehold over Sileria, Kiloran was now reputed to be the most powerful waterlord who had ever lived—perhaps even more powerful than Marjan himself, the very first waterlord.

  And so Kiloran frightened most Guardians even more than the Outlookers did.

  However, at least the Guardians had found some small benefit in the struggle that was crippling an already impoverished land. With the vast Valdani gossamer industry now destroyed, and with the Society occupied with fighting the Valdani, the Guardians were able to turn a decent profit by supplying refined gossamer at the best prices on the black market.

  "We're nearly done here," Derlen told Tashinar. "They can finish packing the rest without me—if this is important?"

  "It is." The old woman led him back to Mirabar, who glanced up briefly with hostile golden eyes, then returned to brooding over the strange drawing she had made in the dirt.

  Derlen's brow puckered with interest. "What is this?"

  "It's something I saw in one of my mad visions," Mirabar said in her most abrasive tone.

  To his credit, Derlen didn't stomp away in a huff.

  Tashinar said, "We were wondering if you can identify this symbol."

  He traced it with a fingertip. "It looks Kintish to me."

  "Kintish." Tashinar nodded. "I thought it looked—"

  "Do you know what it means?" Mirabar asked, her tone a bit less hostile.

  Derlen shook his head, then stroked his gray beard. He had lost his wife in a Valdani raid five years ago and was now raising his son alone, a responsibility which Tashinar suspected accounted for his turning gray so young.

  "No, I know only a few Kintish symbols," he said. "Just the ones that were relevant to my family's trade. And that was a long time ago, too... " He frowned at the symbol a moment longer, then shook his head again. "No, I don't know what it means. But it definitely looks Kintish to me."

  After he left them alone, Tashinar asked, "Do you think your warrior could be Kintish?"

  Mirabar shrugged, staring at the symbol with absorption, seeking to unlock its secret. "I don't know, but I..."

  "What?"

  "I keep asking the Beckoner how I will know this warrior." The wind toyed with her red curls. "I think this is the answer."

  "Are all the Beckoner's answers this oblique?"

  "All of them," Mirabar said with evident irritation.

  "A great warrior is coming... from Kinto?" After a moment, Tashinar said slowly, "But he still might be Silerian."

  Mirabar glanced up at her. "How could a Kintish warrior be Silerian?"

  "He might not be Kintish. He might just be coming from there."

  Mirabar's voice was impatient as she said, "Now why would a Silerian warrior be in Kintish lands? If there's even such a thing as a Silerian warrior."

  "Armian," Tashinar said, her voice wispy as the notion occurred to her. "Could he be coming at last?"

  "Who?"

  "Armian."

  "Who in the Fires is Armian?" Mirabar demanded.

  "He was Harlon's son."

  Mirabar shot to her feet. "Harlon's son?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you mean to say that I've been having visions about a waterlord?"

  "No. He's not... I mean, he's probably not a waterlord. After all, his father died before—"

  "An assassin then?"

  "Maybe."

  "I've been having visions about an assassin?" Mirabar sputtered. "Derlen was right! This is an evil—"

  "No, not necessarily," Tashinar said.

  "How can you say that? They are our enemies! They always have been. Worse than the Conquerors! Worse than the Valdani! How can I have visions of a warrior who will free us, whom I must help, if he's Harlon's son?"

  "No, they say that—"

  "Who says?"

  "The shallaheen. They say that Armian is the Firebringer."

  Mirabar was so surprised, she nearly keeled over. "The Firebringer?"

  "Yes." Tashinar added, "Sit down. You look like you're going to be sick."

  "Well, wouldn't you?" Mirabar exclaimed. "Harlon's son?" She sank gracelessly to the ground. "Do the zanareen believe it?"

  "Only if he passes the test."

  "The Firebringer... I thought it was just a myth," Mirabar murmured. "Do you really think I'm waiting for the Firebringer?"

  "I don't know. I've always thought..." Tashinar shrugged. "I've always thought the zanareen were mad."

  "So does any sane person." Mirabar paused and then asked in confusion, "Is Armian one of them?"

  "No, he's not even in Sileria. The shallaheen say that he was spirited away after Harlon's death. Just a helpless child at the time, he was taken across the Middle Sea to live in hiding somewhere, to keep him safe from the Valdani.

  "Taken to the Kintish Kingdoms?"

  "So they say, but who knows for sure?"

  "Someone in the Society must know."

  "If they do, they're not likely to tell us," Tashinar pointed out.

  "How did he go from being Harlon's son to being the Firebringer?" Mirabar wondered.

  "Oh, you know the sort of tales the shallaheen tell."

  "I know how they worship the assassins," Mirabar said with disgust. "I know how they cower before the waterlords."

  "Harlon was a hero to them, fighting the Valdani the way he did."

  "Never mind that thousands of them died because of Harlon."

  "The Valdani wanted Harlon's child. They wanted him badly. I remember it well. Many people must have risked their lives to get him safely out of Sileria and out of the Emperor's reach." Tashinar shrugged. "You know how stories spin out over the years. Armian was probably still a mere boy when people began telling tales of his great skill and courage as a warrior."

  Mirabar scowled. "Even I could kill a man with an enchanted blade—especially an unarmed man." She had seen Society assassins at work and knew their ways.

  "Still, Silerians have always preferred a homegrown killer to a foreign one," Tashinar said dryly.

  "So people embroidered the story," Mirabar guessed, "and said Armian was destined to return to Sileria to fight the Valdani?"

  "Yes. And with that, it was not surprising that some even began to say he was the Firebringer, the long-prophesied hero who would lead us again to the glory we once knew."

  "Uh-huh. But first he has to please the zanareen by flinging himself into the volcano and surviving." Mirabar rolled her eyes. "In which case, we'll never be free."

  "You speak of freedom so often now," Tashinar said quietly. "It's been a thousand years since we were free. Do you really think we will be again?"

  Mirabar looked again at the strange symbol she had drawn in the dirt. Was the warrior coming from Kintish lands? Would he really free them?

  He will succeed, and he will fail.

  "I don't know, sirana," she said at last. "I don't know."

  Chapter Five

  Josarian circled the tiny, isolated Sanctuary of the Sisterhood several times before finally concluding that it wasn't being watched. The Valdani were tightening their net, and it paid to be careful. Zimran had not been at their appointed meeting place, an old
lightning-struck tree that was about three hours' walk from here. Josarian had arrived there to find a woven, knotted cord hanging from one of its branches; the message advised him to come here today after dark.

  His brief life as an outlaw had already taught him to take nothing at face value, and it occurred to him that this might be a trap. The mysterious stranger who was searching the mountains for him knew their ways and their language. It seemed possible that he had found out where Zimran was next supposed to meet Josarian, had gone there himself, and had left the small jashar Josarian had found hanging in the tree. Nothing in the area around the tree suggested that a struggle had taken place, but that didn't necessarily mean Zimran was safe. The stranger, Tansen, could have killed Zim elsewhere. Or he could be holding him hostage at this small, isolated Sanctuary. Perhaps he was even now waiting inside the hut to kill Josarian.

  So, suspicious and wary, Josarian arrived before sunset, circled the area several times, then crept up to the best-protected side of the little stone building, under the cover of heavy shadows. Listening at the hut's eastern window, he heard ragged breathing inside, as if someone were in panic or in pain. Moving with caution, he peered into the building—and was immediately relieved by what he saw in the shadowed interior. His cousin was on a narrow cot in the corner of the room, naked and glistening with sweat as he ground his hips against the woman who writhed energetically beneath him. With a wry grin, Josarian crept around the hut and crouched quietly by the front door, waiting for them to finish.

  Calidar had always loathed Zimran for his womanizing, referring to his many conquests as the half-witted victims of his lust. While Josarian couldn't comment on their intelligence, most of the women Zimran sported with definitely didn't seem to consider themselves victims. Indeed, judging by the impassioned moans and urgent instructions of the woman inside the Sanctuary with Zimran right now, this one—like most the others that Josarian could recall—seemed quite pleased with the situation. True, there had once been a girl who'd begged Zimran to marry her after she'd become pregnant, and even Josarian, loyal though he was, thought Zim's recalcitrant behavior on that occasion had been disgraceful. The girl had wound up miscarrying—intentionally, some said—and was sent to live with relatives in Adalian, where it was hoped she might still find a husband.