In time, when he felt strong enough, Marjan took advantage of Daurion's love and trust to destroy him. To a people who had always known fire as the most powerful substance in their land, the battle between these two giants was horrifying, signaling the end of the world, for neither Daurion's sword nor his fire could combat the voracious waves which one night suddenly rose up from the Idalar River to flood the palace in Shaljir. Though the city itself was untouched, the palace was entirely submerged. Water formed thick masks over the faces of courtiers who tried to flee, drowning them even as they stumbled away from the palace. Translucent monsters took shape out of the waves, spreading slender tentacles to entwine and strangle all those who stood and fought. Daurion's great spears of flame and rivers of fire were doused as easily as the ocean extinguishes a single candle. And so the last great Yahrdan of Sileria died that night in Shaljir, murdered by one he had trusted.
Chaos followed Daurion's death and the destruction of the palace. When loyalists resisted Marjan's attempt to seize power, he curled the Idalar River back upon itself and starved Shaljir of water for so long that most citizens were forced to abandon the capital. They fled in great numbers, migrating south, east, and west, abandoning one of the world's greatest cities, inciting confusion and terror as they spread their tale throughout the land.
As the Guardians united against him, Marjan recruited a mercenary force of brutal assassins, arming each man with a shir, the water-born weapon he had invented which was useless to an assassin's enemies—unless they killed him and took it from his corpse. Together with his assassins, Marjan seized control of whole regions. The remaining ruling families of Sileria splintered into disenfranchised factions incapable of leading their people. And then the Moorlanders came again.
This time the Moorlanders swept across Sileria in the war which came to be known as the Conquest, the war which forever turned Sileria into a vassal state of the great kingdoms surrounding the Middle Sea.
"Marjan survived the Conquest," Derlen told his son. "Not only survived, but became so powerful that the Conquerors found it easier to deal with him, cooperate with him, than to fight him. And to protect his own power, he taught the Conquerors to hate the Guardians, particularly those people who could be instantly identified as being especially blessed by Dar—"
"Like Mirabar," Turan said.
"Yes," Derlen said slowly, "like Mirabar. Anyone whose appearance identified them as destined for the circle of fire was persecuted by the Conquerors at the urging of the so-called Honored Society. The Kintish, of course, were a more sophisticated and tolerant people. So, after they claimed Sileria as their own two centuries later, the Society changed their methods. Marjan's successors taught our own kind—our own kind, Turan—to hate and hunt anyone whose powers the Society feared. Someone like me or Tashinar, we are only dangerous after initiation, if we prove to have the gift. Someone like Mirabar, though... They know from the moment she's born that she will be powerful. From the time she is an infant, a gifted person like that is the Society's enemy: hated, feared, persecuted, and hunted." He held his son's gaze. "Mirabar and others like her are Dar's greatest gift to us, and we must never forget that. There are very, very few like her left, and they are all in mortal danger every day of their lives. All because of the Society."
Mirabar, sitting as still as a deer scenting hunters, was startled to feel a hot tear roll down her cheek.
"This is how the waterlords became your enemies, son." Derlen's voice filled with fire. "This is why we can never trust them, why we must oppose them every day of our lives, until we drive them out of Sileria. Forever."
Mirabar was on her feet before she had even realized she intended to rise. Startled by her sudden appearance, Turan jumped up just as quickly. Derlen's face went blank with surprise as she stalked closer to them, tears streaming inexplicably down her cheeks.
"Yes, they are our enemies," Mirabar said, hearing how low and hoarse her voice sounded. "And no one—no one has more to fear from them than I do."
Derlen rose slowly, watching her with wary concern. "Mirabar, why are you—"
"But they are born of us. They are part of Sileria, too!"
"No, they are—"
"I tell you we need them," she cried, her insides churning with helpless frustration, fury, and fear.
"Don't you shout at m—"
"Do you think I want to unite with the Society? Do you think I want to go in search of a waterlord?" She gasped, startled to realize for the first time that that was precisely what the Beckoner expected of her. "Do you think I expect to live through this?"
Derlen said nothing now, gaping at her in stunned silence.
"The Valdani," Mirabar rasped. "It is the Valdani who don't belong here. It is the Valdani whom we must drive out of Sileria, now and forever! They are our worst enemies! They will destroy Sileria, taking everything from us to fuel their wars, to conquer the whole world!" She flung ribbons of fire into the air to punctuate her words, ignoring the way Turan flinched. "No one has ever been as dangerous as they have become, not even the Society!"
Derlen's city-born complexion was turning even paler than usual. "How can we trust the Society? How can we possibly—"
"I don't know! Don't you think I've asked?" she raged. "Don't you think I've begged for an answer?"
"You can't go in search of a waterlord. You can't, Mira."
Her fire collapsed in on itself, sizzling into a stream of black smoke. Her fury drained away from her as she finally stopped fighting her destiny.
"I have to." She bowed her head. "I didn't ask to be born this way. I didn't ask to be sent visions from the Otherworld." She looked at her throbbing hand, absently noting she'd burned it in her careless anger. "But the circle of fire is the only place in this entire world for someone like me. I'm a Guardian because I can be nothing else, and I serve the Otherworld because there is no other life for my kind."
"I never thought... I mean, I've always envied you your gifts," Derlen said haltingly.
She had enough strength left to be surprised. That anyone in the three corners of the world should envy her... "How strange," she murmured. Her thoughts scattered like petals in a storm, and she said unthinkingly, "He was like me, you know."
"Who?"
"Daurion."
Derlen swallowed. "You've seen Daurion?"
"Seen him?" She nodded. "Yes, I've seen him. And I think it very likely that I will soon die for him." She turned away.
"Mirabar?"
She paused. "Yes?"
"Where will you go?"
"Yes, I must go, mustn't I?" she said vaguely, realizing the time had come.
"How will you find a waterlord?"
"I don't know."
"Which one will you look for?"
"The greatest one, of course. Marjan's legacy to us. Harlon's successor." She nodded. "I must find Kiloran."
It was well after dark by the time Tansen, traveling on foot, reached the Dalishar Caves. He'd spent all of last night playing hide-and-seek with fifty Outlookers after losing his way on the path to the old Kintish quarry. Now a sentry spotted him as he approached the first cave at Dalishar, then relaxed upon seeing he was a shallah.
"I'm Tansen," he said, keeping his hands in sight and coming close enough to the other man's hand-held torch for his jashar to be easily seen.
The man nodded. "He's expecting you." He called ahead to warn another sentry, and Tansen was directed to go to the fourth chamber of the third cave.
The place was a marvel, as Josarian had promised him it would be. An ancient holy place, the caves were illuminated by perpetual Guardian fires, breathed into life eons ago. Many of the interior walls were covered with paintings made by the Beyah-Olvari, whom most people believed had been extinct for centuries beyond reckoning. Easily guarded and blessed with good lookout points, the caves were readily defensible. Moreover, considering how uninterested the Outlookers were in shallah religion and traditions, it was doubtful they even knew of the existence of t
his place. Yes, the escaped prisoners should be safe here.
The interior of the caves was a darker, richer shade of the honey-colored stone that made up the surrounding mountains. Fresh spring water bubbled up through several sources, neglected by the Society for centuries. His bloodbrother couldn't have chosen a better spot for them to hide out in.
Another sentry stood at the entrance to the fourth chamber. He stopped Tansen with a Valdani sword. "I know your face," the man said, "but I don't know you."
Tansen heard Josarian's laughter a moment before he saw him.
"No, don't stab him, Emelen. It's him: Tansen!" Josarian pulled Tansen into a rib-crushing bear hug, held him away to look at him, then hugged him again. Now feeling as embarrassed as he was tired, Tansen pulled away.
"I was worried," Josarian told him. "Everyone else got here hours ago. I was starting to think maybe they'd caught you. Or perhaps the horse—"
"No, I'm fine. There was just—" He winced as Josarian grinned and slapped him hard on the back. "That's right where my arrow wound was," he pointed out.
"Ah, as long as there are no new wounds!" Josarian slung an arm around his shoulders and dragged him into the next cave. "Come! I have told them all about your exploits, and they've been waiting to meet you."
"Wonderful." Josarian hadn't been present when Tansen had fouled his name with vile insults in the tavern in Emeldar. Josarian hadn't seen the look in men's eyes there that day. Tansen was dubious that he was about to be welcomed as warmly as his brother suggested.
Sure enough, there was an awkward silence as he entered the midst of more than a dozen shallaheen. Josarian proudly introduced him to the men. The atmosphere didn't warm up appreciably. Tansen stood his ground. A shatai never asked for acceptance. These were Josarian's people, not his.
One of the men stepped forward. Tansen vaguely recognized him; no doubt he'd been at the tavern that day. He was a big man, even bigger than Josarian. His face was bearded, an unusual trait among smooth-faced Silerians, one that usually indicated Moorlander blood somewhere in a man's ancestry.
"I'm Lann," he said in a booming voice. "My mother's brother married Zimran's mother, which makes me Josarian's cousin by marriage."
Tansen nodded, acknowledging the claim.
"I remember you, roshah," Lann continued. "I remember your foreign looks and your cruel words. I remember what you said about my cousin."
"And if I had said I was a friend? If I had asked you to help me find him?" Tan challenged.
Lann nodded, his expression uncompromising. "He's right. I wouldn't have helped you find him. In fact, I'd have gone to prison to stop you." Suddenly, he grinned. "So either way, I guess you'd have had to break me out of there."
He laughed and slapped Tansen hard on the back—right where Josarian had. Tansen hoped the wound was too well-healed by now to reopen.
"It was my pleasure, Lann." He looked around and saw other grinning faces. Apparently everyone appreciated the joke. "It's not that I mind freeing prisoners from a Valdani fortress, but it is a lot of work. So I suggest we all agree to stay out of prisons from now on."
The laughter surprised him, as did the wineskin another friendly soul thrust at him. Someone had had the wits to get supplies from a Sanctuary on their way here. After taking a long swallow of some fairly good strawberry wine, he received a dozen more slaps on the back, making his previously forgotten wound throb in angry protest. Every man offered his name then, but there were too many for Tansen to keep straight in his exhausted condition. He noticed that no one wore a jashar, and he was told that the Outlookers had taken them away.
"Lest we use them to strangle our guards," Emelen, Josarian's brother-in-law, said.
"Or hang ourselves!" Lann added in disgust. "The ideas these Valdani come up with!"
Suicide was anathema among all the peoples of Sileria. Even the zanareen disapproved of intentionally self-inflicted death. A zanar who threw himself into the volcano was seeking ecstatic union with the goddess, not death; death was merely the unfortunate result of a man's failed attempt to prove he was the Firebringer, the chosen one of Dar.
At Josarian's insistence, Tansen sat down and ate the food they had set aside for him, and he listened as his brother recounted the prisoners' escape from the fortress. Two men had died. Tansen had thought it likely that more than that would be killed, but he hadn't told Josarian so. Josarian's pretty-faced cousin, though injured by a previous beating, had survived the escape, but then collapsed on the journey to Dalishar.
"A Guardian encampment," Josarian said, explaining where he'd left Zimran. "Southeast of Britar. They've come all the way from Liron."
"Why so far?" Tansen asked.
"They fled Liron last year because a waterlord called Verlon particularly sought one of them: Cheylan, born to a family of toreni."
"Oh, my heart bleeds for the toren," Emelen joked.
"Your heart should bleed for anyone sought by a waterlord," Lann said gruffly.
"This toren is a Guardian," Josarian pointed out, "and he took in Zimran."
"Then he's a better man than most toreni," Emelen said.
"Now tell us," Josarian said when Tansen had finished eating. "What happened last night?"
He told them the story up until the moment when he realized he'd lost his way. "I couldn't have forgotten a three-way fork in the path. I knew I must have gone the wrong way earlier." He sighed. "So I abandoned the horse and doubled back on foot."
It had been easy enough to keep out of sight in the dark until he returned to a landmark he clearly remembered, got his bearings, and determined which way to go. By then, the Outlookers had caught up with his abandoned horse and were milling around in confusion. They began searching for him, and he had to slowly draw them back to the landmark from which he was sure he could lead a headlong race through the dark and straight into the old Kintish quarry. A series of sudden appearances kept them lumbering in the right direction, but it was time-consuming, and he had worried that dawn might come before he could lead them into the trap. When he was finally satisfied with their position, he attacked one of them in the dark and stole his horse. The ensuing fight with several more Outlookers called enough attention to his presence to force the rest of the men to follow him. Then he set a breakneck pace all the way to the abandoned quarry.
"Everything went fine after that," he concluded. "But I couldn't keep the horse. The climb was too hard. So left it in some almond grove."
Josarian grinned. "May it grow fat and wild there."
"Ah, the mountains are a terrible place on a dark-moon night," Emelen said. "My father lived his whole life on Mount Garabar. He knew every rock, tree, cave, and path on that mountain. Yet he died up there on a dark-moon night, lost and wandering in confusion until he broke his neck in a fall."
"The Outlookers?" Josarian asked Tansen. "All dead, then?"
"All dead," Tansen confirmed.
"That's... a lot of men," Lann murmured. "A lot to die all at once. A lot to kill."
"Yes," Tan said without expression. "A lot."
"They'd have killed you," Emelen told Lann. "They intended to kill us all."
"They still intend it," Tansen warned. "You're not just unlucky friends and relatives of some outlaw, now. Not anymore."
He looked at the solemn faces around the ancient fire and watched realization dawn on some of them for the first time. "Now you're escaped prisoners. Now you've killed Outlookers." He paused. "Now they will want you for yourselves, not just for Josarian."
They were hard words, the hard truth. He saw anger in some of the shadowed faces gazing back at him, fear and confusion in others. Now that the euphoria of escape, combat, and flight had worn off, they wanted their lives to go back to normal; but their lives could never be normal again. Lazy afternoons in the shadowed doorways of Emeldar were forever a thing of the past for these men. There was no turning back, no undoing what had been done, and no escape from the path upon which destiny had set them. He remembered h
is youth, and for a moment he felt sorry for them.
"You did this," one of them said suddenly, rising to his feet and staring at Josarian with open fury.
"Falian..." Emelen said uneasily.
"This is your doing," Falian shouted. "You weren't content merely to escape arrest. You wouldn't disappear and let the rest of us live in peace!"
Josarian said nothing, just silently held Falian's gaze. Tansen scanned the area around Falian with his eyes, wondering if the man had a weapon near him. There it was: another Valdani sword, lying on the ground near Falian's feet. None of these men had sheathes or knew how to care for a sword, he noted absently.
"No, you had to go out and slaughter more Outlookers, infuriating the Valdani!" Falian raged. "You had to kill and urge others to kill. We've had Outlookers swarming all over Emeldar because of you! I've been imprisoned and threatened with execution because of you! And now I'm an outlaw. Now they will hunt me down until they finally catch and kill me—and it's all because of you!"
Falian scooped up his sword and lunged at Josarian, who never moved. Several of the men jumped to stop Falian, but Tansen, who'd been farthest away, got there first. He swiftly disarmed Falian, then cut him twice, once across the wrist and once above the eyes.
As blood blinded the man, Tansen held one blade to his throat and used the other to ward off anyone who might be thinking of interfering. A quick glance around the cave, however, revealed that no one would dare consider it; they were looking at him as if he'd suddenly materialized from the Otherworld.
"Whoever threatens my bloodbrother threatens me," he said, "and so pays the price of threatening a shatai."
Falian dragged an arm across his blinded eyes, streaking his face with blood, and glared at Tansen. "Do it, roshah," he snarled, leaning toward the blade. "Do it before the Valdani do it to both of us!"
"No!" someone shouted. "Don't!"
In Legend Born Page 16