When she saw him approaching, she knew who he was even before he spoke. She had heard him described so many times; had demanded his description so often from Josarian, Zimran, and Tansen. He was taller than Tansen. Not so broad as Josarian. Better dressed than any of them, with a silver broach as his Guardian insignia. A series of elaborate braids kept his dark hair off his face; seven long, gleaming curls fell from the knot at the nape of his neck. He was... rather handsome, really.
And his eyes glowed like the Fires of Dar.
"Cheylan," she breathed.
He stared back, taking in the glowing red of her hair and her flame-hot eyes. No one in her life had ever looked at her this way, before. Hungry, eager... pleased. Warmth fluttered in her stomach, spread through her limbs, and heated her cheeks.
"I thought..." He smiled slowly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Ah, but they did say you were young." He was perhaps Josarian's age. "I just didn't..." He shrugged.
He spoke common Silerian. Hers was not particularly good. She had never cared until now. Now she did not want this man to think her some ignorant peasant girl—even though she was.
"I... I don't know how old I am," she said haltingly.
He smiled again and, to her surprise, gently pushed her hair off her face. "I'm sorry, I don't speak shallah very well."
She flushed. "My Silerian is not so bad."
"No, it's not," he agreed. "And it will improve as we talk, Mirabar."
"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You're supposed to be in—"
"I came to tell Josarian that there's been an uprising in Liron."
"Really? Have you seen him? He's down—"
"Yes, he and I have already talked."
"Has Liron fallen?" she asked eagerly.
"Not yet." He took her hand and suggested they find some place to sit down. They settled down on a couple of boulders, and Cheylan blew a small fire into life to light the night. Then, at her insistence, he recounted events in the east to her.
"The Outlookers have killed many people and regained control of the city. For now. But they're short of men and money, and their overland supply routes have been destroyed, leaving them only those supplies which arrive by sea. And Kintish pirates are now taking about one out of every three Valdani supply ships bound for Liron—with the blessing of the Palace of Heaven, now that Kinto and Valdania are at war." He stopped, at her request, to repeat something she had not understood. Recognizing her embarrassment, he spoke more slowly as he continued, "The Outlooker commander in Liron has written to Koroll twice to request more men, but we've intercepted his couriers. He doesn't yet know that his reinforcements will never arrive."
"Liron will fall," she murmured.
"Does the Beckoner tell you that?" he probed.
"Common sense tells me that." When his brows rose, she said, "The torena is right about one thing. The arrogance of the Valdani will be their undoing."
"Torena Elelar?"
"Yes."
"I hear she's been captured."
Mirabar nodded and, in response to his questions, told him what she knew about Elelar's capture and Tansen's intention to rescue her.
"A brave man," Cheylan surmised, his voice smooth, rich, and cultured.
"He's very fond of the torena," Mirabar replied with all the tact she could muster.
"You are not," he gathered.
"Fortunately, I don't need to be."
He grinned at that. Then he asked her about herself. Following the path set by his questions, Mirabar told Cheylan how little she knew about her birth and recounted some of her childhood. Embarrassed about her youthful savagery, her responses were halting at first. She would have found pity as appalling as contempt. Cheylan, however, understood; and the simple, unfamiliar beauty of that loosened her tongue until she was speaking freely, with scarcely any prompting from him. She told him about her loneliness and ignorant fear, cast out from society and hunted as a demon, haunted by visions, dreams, and powers which convinced her that she was as evil as people claimed. She told him about being found by Tashinar, who captured her, tamed her, and taught her what she truly was. Told him about her initiation and her training as a Guardian.
Born into an ancient family of toreni, Cheylan's life, as he described it to her, had been very different from hers. His family was wealthy, ensuring that he was well-fed, educated, and protected. Yet his loneliness had been identical to hers, his sense of isolation remarkably similar. Like Mirabar, he had been an object of scorn and superstition.
"I was kept inside during most of my childhood," he said, speaking more fluidly as her ears grew more accustomed to his speech. "Either in our house in Liron, or else at my family's country estate. I'd stay with my tutor at one house for a while, usually without my parents, who didn't like to look at me. Sooner or later, there would always be trouble: a frightened servant, a superstitious merchant, a bad harvest in the country, a terrible accident in the city... Then there would be talk and threats. And so, keeping me concealed, my family would move me to the other house."
Mirabar understood, too. She didn't suppose the luxuries of his life had made up for being an outcast. Even as a rag-clad starving child, she had longed for affection and acceptance far more than she had ever longed for wealth or comfort. She had cherished private fantasies wherein people loved her and begged her forgiveness, not fantasies wherein she became richer than the rest of them.
"In the end, though," he said, "I found my path in life with the Guardians."
"Have you ever... seen another like us?" she asked.
"Two," he answered promptly. "The Guardian who initiated me was very much like you. I never got to know him well. The Society assassinated him."
"I'm sorry."
He nodded in acknowledgement. "And there is a boy somewhere near Liron. Guardians keep him hidden, of course."
They talked easily about the mystery of who and what they were, about the dangers and difficulties, and about whether or not there were more and how they came to be.
"There were once many," she told him. "I've seen it, in my visions."
He took her hand again, making her blood move a little faster. "Tell me about the visions. The Beckoner."
"I, uh..."
His gaze held hers in the firelight. His hand was very warm. Hard, like a shallah's hand, despite his birth and the lack of scars. Guardians led hard lives, after all, as did rebels. Something unfamiliar danced in her belly, a mingling of danger and excitement. Cheylan was one of the few men who had ever looked at her with no hint of fear or revulsion, without even surprise. He was sophisticated like Elelar, worldly like Tansen, and kind like Josarian. He was the first person she had ever met who could truly understand her life. And he was appealing enough to incite feelings she recognized but didn't know how to act on.
So she wasn't quite sure why something warned her not to discuss the Beckoner with him now. She didn't understand the reluctance she felt, but she had stayed alive this long by obeying her instincts.
"Kiloran is here," she said at last, feeling the chill in the air. That must be why. "I do not want to tell you about the Beckoner near him."
He accepted her response. "Of course." He'd had plenty of trouble with the Society, too, after all. "Another time?"
"You have seen, Kiloran?" she asked.
"Not yet. But he makes his presence known, doesn't he?"
She smiled at his dry tone. "Oh, yes. Very much so."
"You're shivering," he said , standing up and drawing her to her feet. "And you have no cloak. Here, take mine."
She nestled into the cloak's body-warmed folds as Cheylan wrapped it around her shoulders. It was finer than anything she had ever worn, though not so fine as Elelar's things.
Cheylan's arms stayed around her, his body close and strangely tense. His gaze was hooded, the bright glitter of his eyes shielded by dark lashes. He smelled of the wind and the woods. He was so close, she could even smell the wine he had recently drunk; Josarian must have offered him s
ome. She could feel his breath on her face, slower than her own—which was suddenly very fast.
He was staring at her mouth, she realized. She had seen men look at Elelar like this, but never at her. Mirabar's heart banged hard against her chest, beating out a rhythm that thundered through her head. She suddenly felt small and weak. Even in Kiloran's watery palace at Kandahar, she had not felt as vulnerable as she felt now. She'd been more sure of herself when facing the waterlord and his assassins that she was now, facing one man who looked at her... the way a man sometimes looked at a woman.
She suddenly remembered how Tansen had looked at her at Kandahar, the sudden flash of revulsion after all she had gone through to find him. She remembered how wounded she had felt. Now, remembering that moment, rebelling against all the moments like it, something inside her unfurled and unfolded, responding to the expression on Cheylan's face, quivering in answer to the tension in his body. She wanted to be wanted; she suddenly wanted that more than anything.
More experienced than she, he sensed the change in her, the sensation of surprise and uncertainty yielding to need and desire. He leaned down to her, his head slowly descending towards hers, giving her one more moment to think it over. She started shaking in earnest, and she hoped he had already guessed how little she knew, how inexperienced she was. Mirabar had never been kissed before, and she didn't want the first time to be a humiliation of disappointment and embarrassed apologies.
He was very sure, though, despite her hesitancy and awkwardness. His arms tightened around her as his mouth touched hers, pulling her against his chest, making her feel weightless. Darkness swallowed her as their lips melded, rubbing, caressing, exploring. Her mind reeled, astounded that so simple a contact could make the world whirl around her. Mirabar sighed when he lifted his head slightly, then she opened her eyes and gazed at him in a daze.
His eyes were as hot as flames. It excited her. She wondered if hers were the same. If so, she knew it would repulse any other man, and so she burrowed into this one, determined to enjoy what other women enjoyed, what she had resolutely pretended not to need or want until this moment.
She kissed him again, more sure of herself this time, giving as well as taking now. His hands moved over her back, shaping her, molding her, pulling her even closer so that every curve and crevice of their bodies flowed together in harmony and hunger. His kisses were hot on her face, his breath now almost as fast as her own. She sighed again, enraptured, lost in him...
"Sirana!"
The sound of Najdan's shocked voice was like a bucket of cold water. They both froze. Too disoriented to respond to the intrusion with dignity, Mirabar stumbled out of Cheylan's embrace and faced Najdan. She was breathing as if she'd just run all the way to Dalishar and back. She could only guess what she looked like. Najdan's gaze was fixed on Cheylan, rather than on her. He looked suspicious and disapproving.
It infuriated her. He had a mistress near Kandahar, one he visited whenever they passed that way. Was she entitled to less just because of an accident of birth? Just because other men couldn't stand the sight of her?
"What do you want?" she snapped.
Najdan blinked in surprise at her tone. He had followed her to Idalar and was angry that she had run off like that, leaving Niran in the middle of the night without warning. She'd been very nice to him ever since his arrival here, trying to make up for it.
"Well?" she prodded, furious with him.
"Josarian is asking for you. You've been gone for some time." Najdan's voice was cold, smarting with insult that she should speak to him this way in front of a virtual stranger. They had come a long way since their first meeting at Dalishar, and he had grown to expect a certain consideration from her. "I was worried and thought I'd better find you. I saw the fire, and..." He shrugged.
Mirabar tried to control her temper, something she seldom bothered doing. Najdan's surprise was natural, since no man had ever before touched her. And this one was a stranger, after all. Najdan had perfectly good reasons for seeking her out. She had duties to perform. She had been gone too long from camp and had caused concern.
Mirabar took the biggest breath of her life and let it out slowly. Then she met Najdan's gaze in the firelight. "I'm... sorry." Dar knew how she hated saying those words.
Najdan knew it, too. Having won an apology from her, he replied magnanimously, "I startled you, sirana."
"Yes," she agreed. "You startled me."
Cheylan said nothing. Too embarrassed to look at him now, Mirabar asked, "What does Josarian want?"
Najdan shifted uneasily. "I believe he wants you to Call his wife, sirana."
Chapter Thirty-Two
Zimran was not surprised when Tansen caught up to them in Shaljir's ancient, underground tunnels. He had seen the roshah fight often enough to know how hard it was to kill him. So, no, Zimran was not surprised—just a little disappointed. After all, Tansen had long ago replaced him in Josarian's favor. There was also something—though he wasn't sure what—between Tansen and the woman that Zimran now secretly wanted more than he'd ever wanted any other. So there were few men living whose deaths would have caused him less sorrow than Tansen's.
To Zimran's relief, they escaped the tunnels the same night they freed the torena from prison. Carved out of underground lava flows long ago, perhaps from the now-extinct volcano of Mount Shaljir which filled the skyline beyond the Lion's Gate, the tunnels were a wonderland of strange blue beings, exotic plant life, and little glowing creatures. However, a brief visit was more than enough to satisfy Zimran, who hated enclosed spaces and felt as if he couldn't breathe properly until they were once again in the open air. Unfortunately, they fled by sea, and like most shallaheen, Zimran had no sea legs.
Tansen believed that their best chance of safe exit from the city was to leave Shaljir while the Outlookers were still stumbling over themselves trying to figure out what had happened. The following day would be too late. And so, after collecting Faradar from the Beyah-Olvari, they escaped via the same route Derlen had used, covering themselves in blue designs to disguise themselves as sea-born folk. They exited the tunnels at the port, where they joined a boatload of sea-born folk ostensibly setting out for their fishing grounds before dawn.
Afraid of disgracing himself, Zimran just concentrated on trying not to throw up everything he'd ever eaten while the boat heaved and swayed. Meanwhile, Elelar and Tansen consulted with their hosts. The sea-born folk and lowlanders had recently sent representatives to meet with Josarian, though no one knew where. This clan Zimran was sailing with, already part of the Alliance, believed that their people were nearly ready to join the rebellion. There was just one small problem.
"They want Josarian to prove he's the Firebringer?" Elelar repeated incredulously. "You can't be serious."
Even wearing sea-born clothes and covered in strange indigo designs, she looked beautiful in the faint, shifting lantern light. Zimran had never before seen such a beautiful woman. Every gesture and glance tugged at his loins, drew him further into her web, and made him long all the more for her. He was no fool, though. He had known that he had no chance of winning her while she was a torena living in a palace in Shaljir and wooed by men of her own class. He had flirted with her because he couldn't resist, but he had known she was beyond his reach—even though Tansen didn't seem to know that she was also beyond his.
Upon learning from Faradar that the torena had been captured, Zimran had believed, as had Josarian, that she couldn't still be alive. In these dangerous times, the Valdani executed Silerians every day, after all.
Knowing that Josarian would seek privacy with Tansen at Idalar to break the news to him, Zimran had followed his cousin into the woods and eavesdropped. He wanted to see the pain on Tansen's face when he learned Elelar was undoubtedly dead. It wouldn't be as satisfying as seeing the shatai's corpse lying in the mud after some battle, but it would be enough.
Upon learning that Elelar was, in fact, alive, Zimran had known instantly that he must go to
Shaljir with Tansen. Since the torena couldn't go back to her palace in the city or to her grand country estates, she would have to live with them, become one of them. Suddenly she was within Zimran's reach, and he would not let Tansen get to her first. He would not sit by idly while that roshah won her by rescuing her single-handedly from Shaljir. He knew that the shatai's plan was insanely dangerous, but he also knew that if anyone could make it succeed, it was Tansen. Zimran decided it would be better to die like a man in Shaljir rather than stay in the mountains and wish he himself could have been the torena's hero. So he went, praying that he would survive and hoping—but not expecting—that Tansen would get himself killed.
Having exhausted the improbable topic of Josarian flinging himself into Darshon, Zimran's companions turned to a new subject while the boat rocked the way his bed had done once during an earthquake in Emeldar.
"Dalishar?" Tansen repeated in response to the captain's question. "No, we can't go back there. The Valdani will expect it, so they'll be watching every road and raiding every village on the way." He sighed. "They'll want the torena back very badly, and they'll do a lot of damage trying to get her."
"You sound as if you think you should have left me where I was," Elelar said sourly.
"Don't you?" Tansen replied without heat.
She hesitated, then admitted, "Perhaps."
Wishing the deck would stop heaving beneath him, Zimran protested, "Your death could only be counted as a terrible loss, torena. Your life is worth whatever it costs us."
Tansen rose to his feet. "Oh, for the love of Dar."
He stalked away—though it wasn't possible to go very far away on this boat. Darfire, Zimran couldn't wait to get back on dry land!
At least Elelar smiled at him. Warm. Sweet. Welcoming. At least there was that.
Calidar's silken scarf danced in the circle of fire. Josarian watched it, absently rubbing the dull ache in his wounded thigh while Mirabar chanted. She had tried to talk him out of attempting this.
In Legend Born Page 53