"Do you really think people can be convinced to fight the Society?"
"Don't you? You just told me that the Lironi already are fighting them."
"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Cheylan paused for a moment, then said, "So perhaps we..." He took her hand again and raised it to his lips. "We can be full of hope."
She felt the damp warmth of his mouth against her skin. She felt the tingle along her senses that his presence created.
No, not you, she realized sadly.
In her inexperience, in her ignorance of men, she had previously thought the tumult of her senses whenever she was with Cheylan might be the sparks of love. Tonight, though, she knew better. The power of his sorcery was what made the air quiver around her and created the hot and cold confusion inside her. And the touch of his lips, the touch of his skin... Well, it was certainly pleasing, but it was not the touch of the man who had, without realizing it, taught her the pain of love rather than the pleasure of mere desire.
Damn Tansen.
"Are you all right?" Cheylan asked.
"I'm... just tired," she lied.
Damn Elelar.
"You've been through a lot."
"Yes," she agreed. "And now there is so much more to come."
May they both burn like the Fires of Dar for all eternity.
Najdan was not usually credulous of common gossip, but he tended to believe the rumor that Sister Velikar had been born old and mean. Not even among the assassins of the Honored Society had he ever known such a foul temper. And learning of the Firebringer's death this evening had only made her nastier. She had, as improbable as such a gentle emotion seemed in Velikar, been fond of Josarian.
When Mirabar and Cheylan abandoned Najdan to this woman's sour company, he was tempted to assassinate her just so he could enjoy the rest of his meal in peace. However, he didn't kill women, and violence on Sanctuary grounds was forbidden to all Silerians. If Kiloran himself walked through that door right now, they'd have to tolerate each other's company in peace.
One of Velikar's few virtues was that she was a good cook, and he was glad of that. Learning that Tansen had not killed Torena Elelar shah Hasnari, as vowed, may have ruined the sirana's appetite, but not his.
Young women were hard to understand, and Mirabar was more complicated than most. Najdan wished that Haydar were here to advise him. He wondered briefly how he could find the time and safe means to bring Haydar here from Sister Basimar's Sanctuary, but then he dismissed the idea; it was doubtful they'd be here for long, anyhow. Tansen knew he had to move quickly against the Society. And unless she had lost all her wits since sunrise, the sirana knew it, too.
But young women could, Najdan was starting to realize, make bewildering decisions based on incomprehensible motives.
He had previously suspected and now felt convinced that Mirabar's interest in Tansen was not based solely on the visions which had led her to him and kept them linked. He also believed that the shatai returned this more personal interest, albeit in a confused and sadly blundering way.
The old ways were the best ways, Najdan reflected. He pushed aside the heavily-beaded jashar that covered Velikar's doorway, and he stood there to enjoy the night air and escape the Sister's unpleasant grumbling. He had first seen Haydar in a marketplace more than fifteen years ago. He wanted her, he gave her father fifteen sheep and several bolts of imported Kintish silk as a bride-price for her, and so she became his. And—after a period of mutual adjustment during which she kept threatening to run away and join the Sisterhood—they had been content together ever since. He had never married her, since he was unwilling to mouth the pledges to Dar that were required before cutting open a palm with the marriage knife, but he was devoted to Haydar and had no doubts of her devotion to him.
However, while Najdan's life might be easier if Sileria's rebel leaders could sort out their affairs of the heart as sensibly as he had done, he didn't really envision Tansen collecting sheep for a bride-price—or Mirabar feeling honored by such an effort. And if the shatai simply tried to take her home with him, as men sometimes did upon choosing a woman whom they couldn't afford, then Najdan would be obliged to kill him.
Or die trying anyhow.
The carnage Najdan had seen on the path to Dalishar today only confirmed what he'd realized long ago. He was glad he had never had the opportunity to claim Kiloran's bloodvow against Tansen. Anything was always possible in combat, of course, but he knew that it would be the wildest stroke of luck for him to survive attacking the shatai.
In any event, Tansen had no home to carry Mirabar off to, and after their argument today about his failure to execute the torena, Mirabar would probably incinerate him if he tried, anyhow. No one knew better than Najdan that the sirana was far from helpless. She had captured, imprisoned, and terrorized him upon their first meeting, and survived his two attempts to kill her. She was unlikely ever to need him to defend her honor, though it was, of course, his duty to do so.
That was why he now hovered in Velikar's doorway and kept an eye on Mirabar and Cheylan, who were speaking together at the edge of Sanctuary grounds. Respectable young women did not visit alone with men in the dark, and Najdan realized he had too often been negligent in this respect. It was sometimes easy to forget that the sirana was, after all, a marriageable young woman—albeit a very unusual one—and therefore as vulnerable to her own inexperienced judgment as she was to the presumptuous attentions of disrespectful young men.
Young men such as Cheylan. Whom Najdan had never liked.
Just because Tansen, for all his worldly experience, evidently had no idea how to present his honorable intentions—and they had better be honorable—to a woman, that was no reason for Mirabar to compromise herself with another man. True, the shatai was drawn to Torena Elelar, and that may well be why he had spared her; but sparing a woman was hardly dishonorable. Moreover, the torena was married, which certainly settled the question of which woman Tansen would choose. Najdan felt fairly certain that the shatai would not murder another man just to have his wife.
However, the sirana had become enraged beyond reason today. Threatening to set Najdan against Tansen. Embarrassing the shatai in front of Lann and the sea-born boy. Wishing aloud that Kiloran's assassins would succeed in killing him next time. Najdan particularly didn't like that; such wishes could well be powerful curses, he suspected, when uttered by such a capable sorceress.
Mirabar's hot-tempered inexperience and Tansen's ill-advised neglect of her feelings could cost them both—and everyone around them—a lot more than a broken heart. It was a woman's right, of course, to spurn a man, even after her parents had agreed to the bride-price. But Mirabar didn't have the luxury of abandoning her duty to Sileria because a man had hurt and angered her. Regardless of her personal feelings, she belonged at the caves of Dalishar tonight, conferring with the man who must lead Sileria's rebels now that Josarian was dead—not dallying in Sanctuary with Cheylan.
She knew it, too. If she didn't come to her senses by morning, Najdan would explain it clearly to her, but he didn't anticipate this would be necessary. He had never known her to shirk her duty, no matter how unpleasant. He disapproved of her behavior today, but young women were difficult to understand and so he was trying to be tolerant. Until sunrise, anyhow.
It was unfortunate that Cheylan happened to be here now. The aristocratic Guardian had followed his orders loyally throughout the rebellion, acting as a liaison between the Guardians and the Society, and between eastern and western Sileria. Despite this respectable behavior, though, Najdan found Cheylan's arrogant manners unpleasant and his reticence more suspect than modest.
So now, under the glowing light of the twin moons, Najdan scowled when he thought he saw Mirabar permit Cheylan to kiss her hand. Fortunately, she seemed disinclined to permit additional liberties, particularly of the kind she had allowed Cheylan in the past. Najdan had once come upon the two of them locked in a passionate embrace. He had been too stunned at the time to warn Cheylan abo
ut the consequences of such actions.
Now Mirabar made a brief gesture, evidently bidding Cheylan goodnight. Najdan decided he had rudely shunned Velikar's company for long enough, and he retired to the stone hut before Mirabar turned in this direction.
"It's late," Velikar growled at him. "Go sleep outside."
"Of course," he said, seating himself at the table again.
"I said—"
"Ah, here comes the sirana." He rose courteously as Mirabar pushed aside the door jashar and entered the hut.
Mirabar seemed unusually hesitant as she met his gaze, her fire-bright eyes now dull with fatigue. "We, uh... Tomorrow we need to..." She shifted restlessly and tried again. "I should..."
Ah. This, at least, Najdan felt he understood. And since Mirabar was very proud, he knew what to do. "I'm uneasy about the shir wound," he said.
She blinked. "What?"
"Tansen's wound."
She frowned thoughtfully. "The one that healed so suddenly. As if..."
"By magic."
Mirabar nodded. "It bothered you. You wanted to leave that place."
"Yes. But now I think it may not be the place."
"The boy, then?" She murmured distractedly, "A child of water... I need to speak with that boy. I need to know why he's here."
"The boy, perhaps." Najdan shrugged. "Or Tansen himself." He held her gaze and said, "Who knows what might occur when Dar wants Her will done?"
"You're not afraid of Dar," she said. "That's not what you're worried about."
"No..."
"What do you think it was, then?"
"Water magic."
She drew in a quick breath. "What should we do?"
Najdan made it easy for her. "I think we should return to Tansen's side."
"You do, do you?"
"Especially if you want to speak with the boy," he added helpfully.
Mirabar brushed her hair way from her face. "All right. If you insist."
"It's best."
"We'll go in the morning," she agreed.
"I'm glad you understand, sirana." Najdan headed for the door. "I will sleep outside. Goodnight."
"It's about time," Velikar grumbled. "Leave, already."
"Goodnight, Najdan." Mirabar paused, then added, "Cheylan—"
"Will sleep outside, too," Najdan said loudly as the jashar flapped into place behind him.
Although raised in wealth and physical comfort by the aristocratic family he now seldom even spoke to and had never regarded with any warmth, Cheylan's Dar-given talents ensured that he had spent most of his adult life among the Guardians. So he was accustomed to sleeping outside, living in caves, appreciating whatever food and shelter he could find, and doing without it when he had to. He was not poor, for the Guardians did not require one to renounce one's personal wealth or worldly goods the way the Sisterhood did, but his family's money couldn't protect him from Valdani laws—and no one could protect him from the Society.
He had first met Josarian when the shallah was nothing more than a notorious local outlaw, a peasant who had killed a couple of Outlookers who tried to beat him to death one night after they caught him helping his cousin Zimran with a little smuggling.
Like all the Guardians at that time, Cheylan had appreciated Josarian's bold defiance of the Valdani. And he had been willing to help. Outlawed by the Valdani and hunted by the Society, Cheylan—like all Guardians—had too little to lose to worry about possible punishment for assisting the outlaw. But Cheylan had had no more expectation than anyone else that the local mountain bandit would change the world.
Unlike so many people, however, he hadn't needed Josarian's transformation at Darshon to convince him that a great destiny was at hand. Cheylan had realized it the moment he had first heard about Mirabar, an immensely gifted prophetess blessed with the fiery coloring that was a portent of great and terrible power.
Tansen, who knew her well, was always reticent about her, and so Cheylan had learned little of value from the shatai during the time they had spent working together—as allies, but never as friends—in the east. Most others Cheylan spoke to were in awe of the demon-girl who talked to gods and Called shades of the dead from the Otherworld, and whom even Kiloran respected. Little of value could be learned from the superstitious admiration of the shallaheen, but Cheylan heard enough to recognize that Mirabar's visions were as important as Josarian's acts.
It was only upon meeting her at last that Cheylan discovered, with mingled surprise and frustration, how little she herself understood the visions, how incapable she was of seeing where they would lead. She was cautious, too, about what she would relate. He had taken pains to win her affection and her trust, even sharing a deadly secret or two of his own to gain her confidence. Cheylan had cultivated patience his whole life, and now he recognized how wise he had been to do so.
Tonight was the first time Mirabar had ever spoken to him freely, without any reserve, about this thing she called the Beckoner, the Otherworldly demi-god who had led a parentless peasant girl out of obscurity and straight into legend. Tonight was the first time Cheylan began to realize the full weight of the Beckoner's power, the inexorable nature of its will. Tonight was the first time he'd been certain his own destiny—at last—was beginning to unfold.
A child of fire, a child of water, a child of sorrow.
Yes.
Now, as Cheylan bedded down at some distance from where Najdan the assassin ostentatiously stretched out in front of the threshold of the stone hut, he considered the things Mirabar had also told him tonight about the splintering rebel factions. He lay on his back and gazed up at the moonbright sky, wondering what he should do now. The time for patience was nearly over. The day for action was almost at hand.
Torena Elelar's betrayal might be irrelevant. Kiloran's brutal actions might be ill-advised. The Alliance might have been right or wrong. Cheylan would let Tansen, Mirabar, and Sileria's quarreling factions worry about all that. There would undoubtedly be bloodshed and chaos; this was Sileria, after all. The future remained uncertain, and Mirabar's visions were still too vague to act on for the time being.
However, one shining beacon of light, one promising turn of events assured Cheylan that his patience had not been wasted.
The Firebringer is dead, he thought. Dar be praised.
Chapter Eleven
First the man takes a drink;
then the drink takes the man.
—Kintish Proverb
His own wife refused to see him.
Ronall sat in the luxuriously-furnished library of his aristocratic wife's palatial house in Shaljir and fumed in bitter hurt as he poured himself another generous glass of jasmine wine. It wasn't strong enough, but there was nothing stronger left in the house—he had drunk it all, and now he was too tired to go out in search of more. He could send the servants—he was a toren, damn it, he was supposed to be waited on!—but they were all her servants, and they were bustling around to make the torena comfortable now that she was back. To make the house suitable for the wandering traitress who had finally come home.
Ronall had been living here with just one servant on loan from his father's house, since being released from prison. He'd been held for several months in the old Kintish fortress not far from Santorell Square, as hostage for his wife who had staged a violent escape from prison after being accused of high treason against the Empire.
He swallowed more wine.
Just one servant. Yes, all right, he supposed the house had become a bit dirty and shabby during his wife's long absence. She was right about that.
"Who gives a damn?" he muttered and drank some more.
What could one servant do, after all?
And why get more? The Silerian rebels were going to descend on Shaljir at any moment and probably use their fire sorcerers to burn the whole city to the ground. Or maybe they would just get their waterlords to flood it, or to wrap the Idalar River around it like a noose until no one was left alive.
When R
onall was a child, many people had died of thirst in Shaljir before the Outlookers relented and met Kiloran's demands. In later years, the legendary waterlord's struggles with Baran, some crazy upstart from who-knew-where, had caused even worse problems. When those two giants battled for control of the Idalar River, Shaljir thirsted. Even sending generous tribute to Kiloran didn't solve the problem, since Baran didn't relent.
"Who owns it now?" Ronall asked the engraved silver chalice in his hands, noting absently that Elelar owned such very fine things.
If anyone knew, in all this chaos, which waterlord currently controlled the Idalar River, Ronall supposed it would be his dear wife. She kept company with such people, after all.
"Keeps company with everyone but her husband," he mumbled.
Their marriage had been a living inferno since the day it began. His desire, her disgust. His desperate love, her cold rejection. His cowardly sniping, her unyielding contempt. His wild violence, her bitter tears. His self-disgust, her vicious sarcasm.
His drinking, his dreamweed, his cloud syrup.
Their marriage bed had been a place of conflict rather than comfort. And he'd hurt her there more than once. Hurt her badly more than once.
Afterwards, he was always ashamed, always wondered how he could have done it. But sooner or later, he always did it again.
So maybe he deserved everything that had happened to him in the past year.
"At any rate, she certainly thinks I deserve it," he told the priceless Kintish sculpture on the mantle of the vast fireplace. A woodless fire burned in the hearth, the enchanted flames blown into life months ago by Elelar's pet Guardian. Ronall didn't know how to put out the damn thing. Maybe now that Derlen was back, he'd finally douse it. Ronall hoped so. Forbidden fire sorcery right here in his own house... it made him queasy.
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