Elelar went to her room and refused to come out for three days. Her grandfather finally recognized her youthful infatuation with their foreign guest and, his voice rich with compassion, questioned her about it through her locked door. Had the news hurt her very badly? Had she not known their friend was a married man and a father? Had she felt a special affection for him?
After a while, the questions revealed that her grandfather now began to suspect the full truth, for Elelar had never before behaved so irrationally. Had the man dishonored her? Was there anything she wished to tell her grandfather, who promised to understand no matter what she revealed? How could he help her? Wouldn't she please talk to him?
After three days, Elelar emerged from her bedchamber, having answered none of her grandfather's questions. She told him once, and only once, that she would not tolerate any mention of the man's name in her presence ever again. And so they never again spoke of him or the incident. She could see that her grandfather's heart was heavy with sorrow for her, but she felt too humiliated to acknowledge his compassion. At seventeen, she had learned a valuable lesson about men, one which she would never forget. From that day forward, the dance between man and woman was something she only did for the Alliance, never for herself.
Elelar supposed it was sheer exhaustion that permitted her mind to dwell on such maudlin memories, since this night's work had been demanding. The sky east of Shaljir was just starting to grow pale, subtle shades of pink and peach painting fantastic patterns on the vast celestial canvas as Elelar concluded the last of her business and wearily ascended to her bedchamber. She was halfway up the grand staircase when Faradar, gasping for air, came running into the main hall and stopped her with an excited shout.
Surprised, Elelar turned and met her servant, who was already running up the stairs to thrust something into her hand. "They left something for you, torena. I was so shocked! It's been months since—"
"Who?"
Faradar paused to get control of herself, then whispered more calmly, "Our old friends."
Elelar drew in a quick, surprised breath. "Our old friends" was how the Alliance referred to the Beyah-Olvari. For their own protection, their existence remained a closely guarded secret, so any contact was always made discreetly. When the Beyah-Olvari wanted to see Elelar, they usually left a message of some kind for her in a subterranean cubby hole between the house and the underground tunnels. Tonight, instead of a message, they had left—it seemed—a silky piece of cloth.
"Hold this," she instructed, giving her lantern to Faradar so she could more easily examine what the woman had handed to her on the shadowy staircase.
Elelar held the material—a hand-painted silk scarf, she now saw—up to the light. After a moment of blank confusion, she recognized it with a hot rush of mingled shock and panic—for it had once belonged to her.
"Dar have mercy!" She swayed, feeling faint for the first time in years.
"What, torena?" The lantern light wavered as Faradar caught her arm. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"
"By all the gods above and below," Elelar gasped out, slumping down onto a stair as her knees gave way. "I never thought it possible..."
"What is it?" Faradar asked in concern.
Elelar shook her head, unable to speak of what had happened so long ago, unable to form any coherent thought except the one which now pounded inside her skull over and over.
He's back, he's back, Dar shield me, he's back...
Chapter Sixteen
Mirabar awoke to find herself lying in a heap near a sacred fire. It had been a long night's work, petitioning the Otherworld for help, trying to guide shades of the dead toward the gateway, begging Dar for mercy and consideration on their behalf. She now realized she must have passed out from the strain. She looked around and discovered that someone had put food near her. Famished, she threw off a blanket—which someone had used to cover her while she slept—and attacked the meal. When she was nearly done eating, she heard a man's voice from the mouth of the cave.
"Ah, you're awake."
She jumped and turned around. He was not the same shallah who had led her here last night, but he had obviously been warned about her, since he didn't gasp, utter prayers and curses, or reach for his sword. Darfire—this one had a sword, too!
There was an awkward pause. She decided to break it by saying formally, "I am Mirabar, no father, no clan, a Guardian of the Otherworld."
"Sirana." He crossed his fists and bowed his head respectfully. "I am Amitan mar Kiman shah Islanari."
"Basimar's clan," she noted.
"She says that you are a Guardian of great gifts, favored with special visions from the Otherworld."
It sounded good, so Mirabar didn't contradict the description. "She says that one of you has seen another like me."
"Well..." A wry smile touched Amitan's mouth. "That was Zimran, and since he is given to telling tales..." He made a dismissive gesture, then added, "But Josarian saw him, too, so I suppose it must be true."
She asked him to repeat what both men had said. She was disappointed that the description he offered was no more detailed or satisfying than what she had made Basimar tell her a dozen times already—fire-gold eyes, dark hair, very powerful, apparently a toren by birth—but she listened intently nonetheless, like a child who never tired of hearing a favorite tale.
"Another like me..." Her mind drifted as she dwelled on this extraordinary notion once again.
Amitan came forward, approaching her as if she were a deer who might run away. "You fought hard last night, sirana, to help those slaughtered in Malthenar."
"Their cries are still loud," she replied, shying away from the din. "Or perhaps they are other voices." She glanced at him. "That's why Guardians only come here for special occasions and only stay briefly. We hear so many voices up here, where the Otherworld is so close to this one."
"I knew Corenten," Amitan said quietly. "He was a good lad. He might have married my sister."
"I'm sorry."
"Is he...." Amitan cleared his throat. "I know little about these things. Is he in the Otherworld now?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I'm sorry. If you can bring me something that belonged to him, I can try Calling him. But, you must understand, he died very recently, so it may be too soon for—"
"She's awake!"
Mirabar looked up to see Basimar, at the mouth of the cave, reporting this news to someone who waited outside. At Basimar's urging, she left the cave and went out into the sunshine. There were five men with Basimar, all of them obviously curious about Mirabar but evidently prepared for her appearance. Along with Amitan, they were the only ones in residence at Dalishar.
"I thought there were supposed to be many more of you," Mirabar said.
"There are, sirana, but we don't just sit around Dalishar filling our bellies," said the man from last night. "We spend most of our time attacking the Valdani and distributing the supplies we've stolen from them."
"So why are you here, then?"
"Someone has to keep Dalishar safe," a young man said, clearly annoyed that the duty was his at the moment.
"We can't have the Valdani finding out about it and setting a trap for us here while we're all away," Amitan explained.
"So Josarian is gone. The warrior—Tansen—is gone. Zimran is gone." Mirabar frowned. "Who's in charge now?"
"Emelen."
She looked around. "Which one of you—"
"He's gone, too, sirana."
"Wonderful." She sat down on a rock.
What was she supposed to do now? She had sought Kiloran ever since leaving Tashinar's side, and she was no closer to finding him than she had been then. When Basimar had revealed to her that the warrior might be found at Dalishar, she had abandoned her quest for Kiloran in favor of finding the warrior. Had she been wrong? Now that she knew Tansen had gone in search of Kiloran, she had a terrible feeling that she'd made a mistake in coming here; she should have kept looking for Kiloran, too. Tan
sen would be with him.
"Find the shir and you find him." What shir? If not the shir of Basimar's brother-in-law, then whose? "Fire and water. Fire in water. A house of water. An alliance."
"What's she saying?" one of the men asked, starting to back away from her.
"She does this all the time," Basimar said dismissively. "Don't let it bother you."
"I must find Kiloran," Mirabar said at last.
"We've already tried that," Basimar pointed out.
"There must be a way..." Mirabar looked around at the men. "Who would know where he is?"
"An assassin, I suppose," said Amitan. "One of his assassins."
She thought it over. "All right, how do I find one of his assassins?"
Basimar jumped as if she'd been stung. Amitan shook his head. Another of the men laughed at her.
"Sirana, you can't possibly—"
"Mira, that is the worst idea I've ever—"
"An assassin! Surely avoiding them is the only—"
"Haven't we had enough trouble with Kiloran?"
"What trouble?" Mirabar asked. "Surely Kiloran doesn't care if you keep attacking the Valdani?"
"I mean the assassin who came here. Tansen killed him, which puts us in an awkward position with Kil—"
"An assassin came here?" Mirabar jumped to her feet. "In search of Tansen?"
"Yes. The shir is still lying over there, where it fell."
"Sweet Dar, he's leaving a trail of them," Mirabar muttered. "Tell me, how many people know that Tansen has disappeared and may not return?"
Amitan blinked. "Well... no one, really. We didn't think it wise to reveal that Josarian is missing, so—"
"So not even Kiloran knows that we don't have Tansen with us right here?" she pounced.
"Yes, I suppose that's true."
Mirabar laughed. "That's it! That's how I'll find Kiloran!"
"Sirana?"
"We'll lure an assassin up here. I'll capture him and make him lead me to Kiloran!"
If she had told them she intended to march into Valda and spit in the Emperor's face, they could not have been more horrified. Mirabar waited for them to calm down, then offered to do a Calling.
"Someone is looking for you," the Olvar said, stirring the Sacred Pool with a wrinkled hand.
"Kiloran?" Tansen guessed.
"No. An ally."
"Elelar? Is she coming?"
He kept his voice level, concealing the emotions churning inside him. It was hard to mark the passage of time down here, but he thought it must be more than a day since he had sent the scarf to Elelar via the Olvar's messenger, revealing his presence down here, alerting her to his return.
She would come. Surely, she would come. She couldn't risk not coming; nor had she ever been one to back away from a challenge. But part of him was still afraid that she wouldn't come.
"Oh, the torena is coming," the Olvar assured him. "She is in the tunnels even now, coming to meet you."
It felt as if someone had grabbed his insides and squeezed hard. He didn't risk looking at Josarian, though he could feel his friend's gaze hard upon him.
"Someone is looking for you," the Olvar repeated. "Seeks you far and wide. Takes great risks to find you."
Tansen thought for a moment. "It couldn't be Koroll, the Valdani commander, could it? He thinks we're allies, and he doesn't know what happened to me."
The Beyah-Olvari who were gathered around them uttered a banishing prayer. The Emperor's engineers had already destroyed a vast section of this underground world when expanding the port of Shaljir several years ago. Now the Valdani spoke of using Shaljir's vast network of tunnels to channel water into the city from a new source so they would no longer be so dependent on the Idalar River; that source always required costly tribute to the Society, and it had lately become catastrophically unreliable thanks to Kiloran's power struggle with Baran. The very existence of the Beyah-Olvari was threatened by such plans.
"No," said the Olvar. "Not a Valdan. An ally. One who will be the shield, as you will be the sword."
"The shield and sword for what?" Tansen asked.
The Olvar looked straight at Josarian. "For him."
Koroll read Myrell's latest dispatch without much surprise. He had known that this brutal show of force Myrell was making in several villages in the western district was unlikely to produce immediate results, for every shallah was—quite rightly—afraid to betray Josarian. The Society would almost certainly take swift action against anyone who violated lirtahar. Moreover, the murder of Arlen, Myrell's Silerian informant, proved that Josarian would be just as quick as the Society to punish betrayal.
For the moment, the shallaheen built their sacred fires to send their dead to Paradise, or some such place, and made up songs about the martyrs who had died rather than give up Josarian. For the moment, they remained loyal to him.
Sooner or later, though, someone would betray him. Sooner or later, people would grow tired of suffering on behalf of this outlaw, no matter how much of his booty he gave away. Eventually, old rivalries and grievances would surface to combat this uncharacteristic solidarity. Undoubtedly, Josarian would have to kill one of his own kind again. And if Koroll was lucky, next time the deceased would be a shallah that some local family loved, instead of a despised stranger who had abandoned his family long ago.
The shallaheen were—and always had been—a violent, quarrelsome, irrational people. Whether they finally enabled Koroll to kill Josarian or whether they simply killed him themselves, the High Commander of Sileria knew that this embarrassing rebellion couldn't last much longer.
The arrival in the Chamber of the Sacred Pool of Torena Elelar mar Olidan yesh Ronall shah Hasnari occasioned much chanting and blessing, both before and after the interminable formal greetings the Beyah-Olvari invariably bestowed upon a guest.
Tansen was glad. It gave him time to strangle a thousand unwanted memories and emotions before he actually had to speak to her. She was even more poised than she'd been at eighteen; except for a brief glance in his direction when she first entered the chamber, she managed not to look at him again until she had finished exchanging lengthy greetings with the Olvar, his family, the respected elders of the tribe, and their families.
Graceful and elegant, she had ripened to fulfill all the promise she had shown nine years ago. She wore a costly confection of painted gossamer, the traditional long tunic and pantaloons of a Silerian woman modified for the more permissive standards of the toreni. The slim pantaloons tapered down to hug her slender ankles, the grace of which were probably lost on the Valdani clod she had married.
Yesh Ronall: spouse of Ronall. Those words had hit Tansen hard when the Olvar's praise singer had announced Elelar's arrival. Tan had known she would probably be married; except for a Sister, what woman did not marry? He had expected it, but it clawed at him, even so. She belonged to another man—and to a Valdan! Tansen's mind reeled. Knowing how she had hated the Valdani nine years ago, he wondered whether she had changed beyond all recognition, or whether this marriage was another strand in the Alliance's tangled web of scheming and deception.
Physically, at least, she had certainly not changed beyond recognition. He would have known her anywhere. Her smooth, arrogant face with its wide-set watchful eyes and full mouth was just as he remembered it, though it was the face of a woman now, rather than a girl. Her fine clothing was designed to artfully reveal the graceful curves and slender waist he had never forgotten. The short sleeves of her shimmering tunic bared the smooth flesh of her arms, exquisitely fair by Silerians standards—though the pale Valdani probably considered her too dark for true beauty.
However, beauty, though she had it, was not what set Elelar apart from other women. The elaborate coils and braids her glossy black hair was woven into, the oils and cosmetics which she used with such skill, and the exquisite garments she wore all pleased the eye as much as her face and figure, but Tansen had seen more beautiful women. There was something about Elelar which exce
eded mere beauty; it had been there nine years ago, and it had now blossomed into its full power. Was it the grace and sensuality of her movements? The mingled warm challenge and cool intelligence of her gaze? The courage which, as Josarian would have put it, was like a banner? Or was it merely the arrogant pride, so evident in every gesture, that made a man want to feel her tremble beneath him?
When he was fifteen, he had fallen instantly, irrevocably under her spell. She had ignored him, mocked him, embarrassed him, angered him. She had also taught him, guided him, and opened his eyes, ensuring that they could never close again. She had shaped his destiny more than she realized. And, in the end, she had betrayed him.
He had tried to hate her, to despise her, to cultivate his resentment against her. Sometimes he had even succeeded. But he had always found it impossible to forget her. And now, after all these years, he was ashamed to discover, as he gazed at her, that hatred and resentment were weak, pale things that withered beneath the onslaught of his longing.
The last time he had seen her, she had raged at him with a violence that knew no relief, with a passion that craved vengeance. Now, as she turned to acknowledge and greet him, he saw that she, too, had given long and hard study to the art of concealing her emotions. Her voice was cool and her expression betrayed no more interest than she would show in any other unexpected visitor to the tunnels. Her apparent indifference tore at his insides, even as he kept his own expression equally impersonal.
Acknowledging her greeting, he crossed his fists over his chest and bowed his head, dignifying her rank. "Torena, I am pleased to see you looking so well."
"May Dar welcome home Her wandering son," she recited, not bothering to try to sound sincere. "I see you bring a friend."
"Torena," he replied, "I beg the honor of presenting to you my bloodbrother, Josarian mar Gershon shah Emeldari."
Even Elelar couldn't conceal her surprise. Her dark eyes flashed to his brother's face and she stared with open astonishment. "Josarian?"
In Legend Born Page 27