"A child?" Verlon murmured. When Cheylan nodded, Verlon asked, "How can you be sure it's him?"
"Because I'm in Mirabar's confidence."
"But isn't she protecting him?"
"She doesn't know where he is. Only I do."
"Then why haven't you killed him already, if he's such a threat?"
"Think! How can I remain in Mirabar's confidence if I do that? Besides, what would better establish your preeminence than killing him?" He added gently, "Especially since it was Kiloran, not you, who destroyed the Firebringer."
Verlon glowered briefly. "Then this boy can be killed?"
"Oh, yes. He can be killed. It won't be easy, but the longer you wait, the harder it'll get." Cheylan paused. "This is my gift to you, grandfather, whether or not you decide to let me come home. If you don't get rid of him, this boy will fulfill Mirabar's prophecies and destroy you, along with everyone else who opposes him or the Guardians."
"If he's your gift to me," Verlon said coldly, "then give him to me. Where is he?"
"Gamalan. His name is Semeon." Cheylan smiled. "I know the weaknesses in his Guardian circle's defenses. I'll help you plan the attack. Only..."
"Only what?" Verlon prodded.
"Only you mustn't do it until I'm elsewhere and surrounded by witnesses. If I'm to keep you informed about Mirabar's and Tansen's plans, then they need to believe I had nothing to do with Semeon's death."
Verlon started to smile. "Agreed," he said. "So..." He cast an annoyed glance at the fire-locked stream before inviting, with no more warmth than Cheylan expected, "Why don't you come honor my home, eat at my table, sleep beneath my roof... and tell me how to kill this boy?"
Knowing he had won, Cheylan blew upon the stream, and released his grip on its waters as his fire started to fade. "Gladly, grandfather."
Ronall was amused by how astonished Elelar's servants were to see him when he reached her country estate with Yenibar and Torena Chasimar in tow. They didn't even recognize him at first, which wasn't surprising. He seldom came here, since he'd always hated rusticating, and Elelar didn't like him visiting her estate, anyhow. Besides, he was scarcely recognizable now, after so long without a bath or anything resembling personal grooming. Some earnest young lowlander in the household immediately decided to take him into hand, and Ronall let himself be taken: bathing, shaving, hair trimming, nail trimming, a massage...
Oh, it's good to be a toren, he thought, sinking into the pleasures of his class. It's good to be rich and pampered.
But, as always, his pleasures were fleeting and their price was soon made clear. Half of Elelar's servants treated him with open disdain. They knew he was half-Valdani, and they knew how his wife loathed him. They had always shown him courtesy in the past, but that was because the Valdani ruled Sileria and the penalties were appalling for any Silerian who crossed a Valdan. Now, in a free and chaotic Sileria, despite his status as a toren, Ronall's Valdani birthright held him hostage to the rudeness, contempt, and resentment of Silerians. Even, as he well knew, to their violence and deadly hatred.
Meanwhile, the other half of the servants were so glad to see someone, anyone, with authority over the estate (however nominal and seldom-exercised it was in Ronall's case) that they fell all over themselves in an effort to force their bewildering concerns upon him. Three have mercy, didn't they understand he knew nothing about running an estate? He couldn't answer their questions about planting, harvesting, property disputes, repairs on old buildings, construction on new buildings, a new Guardian encampment on Elelar's land, how much to put aside for taxes, whether there would even be any taxation this year, what to do about the Valdani buried in one of the fields (Silerians considered burial a repulsive custom, and the servants wanted permission to dig up and burn the bodies), what to do about all the pilgrims begging for food at the torena's gates, and how to respond to Ferolen's demands for tribute.
"Ferolen the waterlord?" Ronall asked. "I thought Elelar paid tribute to... oh, what's-his-name? You know who I mean."
"Yes, toren. She did," a servant replied. "But he died during the rebellion, and now Ferolen controls our water. What shall we do, toren?"
It was an easy decision. An obvious one. The only decision possible in Sileria. "Pay Ferolen," Ronall instructed.
"Are you sure, toren? Tansen has declared—"
"Yes, but Tansen isn't here to deal with Ferolen when he decides to make us suffer for not paying, is he?"
"No..." was the uncertain reply.
"So pay the tribute."
"Yes, toren. Now about the Guar—"
"Everything else will have to wait until the torena arrives," Ronall said. "Get me some fire brandy."
"I'm afraid it's all gone, toren. The Valdani took it."
He sighed. "Well, bring me whatever you have. And bring me lots of it."
"Of course." The servant hesitated and then asked, "Is the torena coming soon?"
"You don't know?"
"She sent money and some instructions right after the Valdani surrendered Shaljir. She said she would come as soon as she could, to deal with everything. But we haven't heard from her since then, and we don't know quite when to exp—"
"Well, you know the torena," Ronall said. "Always so busy."
"Yes, toren."
"However, if she said she'll come soon, then you can count on it."
"I know, toren." The servant's dark face brightened when he added, "Only imagine how pleased the torena will be to find her cousin here!"
"Yes," Ronall agreed dryly. "Only imagine."
"Dar be praised for sparing Torena Chasimar's life."
"Yes. Now, I believe you were going to bring me something to drink?"
"Dar curse those Valdani dung-eaters for killing Torena Chasimar's husband!"
"As you say." Ronall had altered the truth a little to ensure Elelar's servants would accept Chasimar.
"The war took so much from so many," the servant continued, warming to his theme. "And now there will be more bloodshed. More loss."
"All this talking is making me terribly thirsty," Ronall prodded.
"Oh! Yes. Of course, toren. And shall we send something soothing to Torena Chasimar's room? I understand she's crying."
"Crying?" he repeated without much interest.
"The death of her husband must be a terrible sorrow to her."
"Yes, well, whatever you think best," Ronall murmured, not wanting to know more about it. He could still hear Porsall's dying scream in his head, and he wished it would go away.
Ronall finally got something to drink—some very good strawberry wine, in fact—but the servants simply would not stop pestering him for answers, advice, and decisions. He staggered up to his unfamiliar bedroom that night, pleasantly drunk and annoyingly burdened with Elelar's worries. He'd sleep in a clean bed for a few nights, he decided, and then leave with some money in his purse. He didn't want to see his wife again, and he didn't want her people nagging him until she got here.
His bed, when he found it, wasn't empty.
"Yenibar," he said without much enthusiasm. He lifted the bedclothes, saw she was naked, and felt some moderate interest begin to stir. He didn't encourage it, though. He was tired. "There's plenty to steal in this house," he assured her. "You don't need to come to me for that."
She didn't rise to the bait. "I wanted company. I thought maybe you did, too, toren."
He sighed. "Considering our history together, however brief, I think you can call me Ronall when we're alone."
"Everything is so strange now," she murmured, using one shapely leg to push the bedclothes off the bed. Her flesh was golden, young, and smooth in the glowing candlelight. "Strange places, strange people—"
"Strange bedfellows," he said dryly. "But then, these are strange times."
"The torena is inconsolable."
He nodded and sat down on the bed, depressed. "Porsall."
Yenibar made a dismissive puffing sound. "No. Although that has certainly upset her, too. H
e was the father of her child, after all."
"Well, of course he was..." Ronall stopped, studied her expression, and figured it out. "There was someone else."
She rolled towards him and started unfastening his clothes. He watched her impassively as she said, "Yes."
"Is he still—"
"No. He's dead."
"During the war?"
She placed her hand boldly between his legs and massaged him. He sighed and relaxed a little more. "In a way," she whispered.
"In what way?"
"It was not an honorable death," she explained.
"What happened?" he asked, sliding down onto the mattress to lie bedside her, pressing his hand over hers, showing her what he liked.
"It's a sad story," she warned him.
"I'm in the mood for a sad story," he replied, his head swimming with good wine and a woman's clever touch.
"Tansen killed him."
"That's it?"
"Yes."
"You're not much of a storyteller," he noted. "Why did Tansen kill Chasimar's lover?"
"For betraying Josarian."
He pressed his face against her neck, pleased that she had bathed, too. "This man, this, uh, sriliah—"
"Zimran," she murmured, arching her back into him.
"Mmmm. Faster," he instructed. Then he realized what she had said. "I thought Zimran was Josarian's cousin?"
"He was. And he betrayed him."
Of course. This was Sileria.
Ronall said absently, "So Tansen killed him?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"And Chasimar weeps for Zimran," he mused, getting distracted. "More than for her dead Valdani husband."
"She loved Zimran. She even helped the rebellion for him."
That surprised him. "A half-Valdani woman helped the rebellion?"
"That crowd trying to kill her that night," Yenibar murmured. "If only they knew. Torena Chasimar did more for Josarian than any of them."
"Such as?"
"She was one of Josarian's first abduction victims—"
"When he was trying to raise money." Ronall remembered; he had been terrified, at one point, by a rumor that he was among Josarian's intended victims. Elelar must have found that particularly amusing.
"Torena Chasimar was a voluntary victim, because she loved Zimran," Yenibar explained. "Even after Toren Porsall paid the ransom, the torena didn't want to come home. She was so happy living with Zimran in the mountains."
"That must have annoyed the toren," Ronall guessed.
"He didn't know. He just thought Josarian was cheating him. Thwarting him." She giggled a little. "But Josarian was trying to convince Torena Chasimar to go home, and she was refusing."
"War is terrible," Ronall said solemnly.
"And Zimran was a good lover."
"The torena told you that?"
"No. I knew him, too."
"I see. He was a busy man."
Yenibar shrugged. "It's not as if he had ever promised to be faithful to Torena Chasimar."
"No, I suppose not." Ronall and Elelar had, in their marriage vows, promised to be faithful to each other, and neither of them had ever done so, so who was he to judge anyone? "So now Chasimar misses Zimran."
"Well, I think being here makes it harder for her," Yenibar said. "Even though we really had no other choice."
Ronall pressed himself into her stroking hand and asked, with diminishing interest, "Why does being here make it harder for her?"
"Because of Torena Elelar," she replied absently, shifting her hips closer to his. "It reminds Chasimar of... Mmmm..." She sighed.
"Reminds her of what?" he whispered.
"Of how she lost him."
"To Tansen."
"No. To..." She suddenly stopped speaking and went stiff.
He noticed. "To..." he prodded.
The girl kissed him with as much enthusiasm as if he'd suddenly promised her a sack of gold.
Ronall wasn't fooled. He pushed her away and said, "Tell me."
Yenibar shook her head. "Ronall, let's just—"
He took her wrists in a punishing grip and rolled on top of her. The liquor fired his sudden shift to restless anger. "What?"
She looked wide-eyed and nervous in the flickering light. "She lost Zimran to Torena Elelar, and it wounded her. Now we are here, in Elelar's home, and Torena Chasimar keeps thinking about it." When he just stared down at her in blank astonishment, she added, "I mean no disrespect, toren."
"You're saying that Elelar and Zimran..."
"They loved each other," said the girl. "It was well known."
"Elelar let it be known that she was sleeping with a shallah?" Ronall said doubtfully. He didn't bother asking about the assertion that Elelar had loved Zimran, which he doubted even more.
"They lived openly together near the village of Chandar."
Ronall rolled away, losing all interest in the girl. "Why?" he wondered.
Yenibar reached for him tentatively. "Because Zimran was a special man."
"Zimran was close to Josarian," Ronall mused, staring into the darkness. "He was someone Josarian trusted." Someone in a position to betray Josarian. "Fires of Dar," he murmured, starting to remember Elelar's homecoming that night in Shaljir. The errand she had sent him on—getting a Society assassin to meet her in secret right after Josarian's death. "Oh... sweet, merciful, bloodstained gods."
"Toren?"
He didn't know how it all fit together. He'd probably never know. But Elelar was somehow involved in Josarian's death. He knew her well enough to know that. There was no such thing as coincidence where his scheming wife was concerned. Zimran had loved Elelar and betrayed Josarian. Elelar had needed so much power over Zimran that she, a torena, had lived openly with a shallah, letting him think she loved him that much. What could she have needed so much influence for... except convincing him to betray the Firebringer?
And who in all of Sileria was powerful and cunning enough to have convinced Elelar, with her vehement hatred of the Valdani, to sacrifice Josarian? Who except...
"Kiloran," Ronall concluded, feeling sick.
"Yes, he's the one who killed Josarian, but Zim—"
"Tell me," Ronall said quickly, pushing her hands away from him. "Think hard. Have you ever heard of an assassin named..." He tried to focus, tried to remember. "Searlon?"
"Yes," she said, surprised. "Everyone has heard of Sear—"
Ronall sat up. "Who's his master?"
"You know, toren." She looked confused. "You just said it: Kiloran."
He slumped over on the bed. "Don't touch me," he snapped a moment later. "I think I'm going to throw up."
"What's wrong?" Yenibar asked.
"Dar have mercy," he groaned, feeling the room spin. "I hate my wife." What a fool he had been to marry her! To hope for her love—to long for it even now. How had he ever expected to master Elelar when the Firebringer himself couldn't do it?
"I hate my life," Ronall said with feeling. Less than a full day in Elelar's house, and he was already back to fervently wishing someone would just kill him and get it over with.
"I'm leaving this place," he announced blearily. "I'm leaving as soon as I wake up. You and Chasimar will have to manage for yourselves here until Elelar shows up. I can't stay here."
"I... I'm sorry, Ronall."
"Oh, don't even bother," he said morosely. "It's hardly the worst news I've had this year."
"Can I get you something?" Yenibar asked, sliding off the bed.
"Go see if there's another bottle of that strawberry wine somewhere."
Ronall lay upon the bed and closed his eyes as she left the room. "I wish," he said to the four walls and empty silence, "that my ancestors had never left Valda."
Chapter Thirty-Seven
At the point of a sword, love and friendship
become just another point of view.
—Valdani Proverb
It was late. Elelar waited in a shadowed hallway of her home, pacing slowly
outside of the bedchamber to which Teyaban had brought Zarien before going to Santorell Palace to inform her and Tansen that something had gone terribly wrong in the Bay of Shaljir today. After rowing out to the floating market, Zarien had returned to shore in a fiercely destructive mood, according to Teyaban. Angry, bitter, hostile, raging without making much sense, fighting tears, and altogether looking as if the world was about to end.
Well, maybe it is.
Elelar banished the fatalistic thought as soon as it came to her. The Guardians flowing into Shaljir believed profoundly in Mirabar's visions. A new leader was coming, they said, a ruler of great potential, the first Yahrdan in a thousand years... If Mirabar could just find him—and, oh, yes, keep the Society from slaughtering him.
If he's such a great leader, why doesn't he step forward? Why don't we already know who he is? And just how young is he?
Elelar sighed and continued pacing, casting a doubtful glance at the door to Zarien's bedchamber. Tansen had been in there with him for a long time. Elelar went to the door and pressed her ear against it, listening. She heard nothing. Which was all she had heard the other times she had done this while waiting for Tansen to come out and tell her what was wrong.
The sea king.
Imagine that. Tansen, embracing some goddess—much as his own bloodbrother had done at Darshon—and becoming the prophesied leader of the scattered sea-born folk of Sileria.
In truth, it made no sense to Elelar. Tansen's place was in the mountains. All his strength and influence were needed to lead the shallaheen and to destroy the Society. Though he himself scarcely knew it, he was loved, feared, and respected in the mountains; not with the same religious fervor as the Firebringer, but in an deep and enduring way. During the rebellion, Elelar had spent enough time among the shallaheen to know that.
The sea-born folk knew his name, knew his deeds, and no doubt regarded him with the same legendary awe as the city-dwellers and the lowlanders did. But it was hard to believe that his true destiny was at sea—or even inside the walls of Shaljir. With Josarian dead, the shallaheen needed Tansen too much to part with him. Surely Dar could see that? Surely Sharifar, this sea spirit in search of a consort, could understand that?
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