Chapter Nine

 

 

Remembering Mirabar, the half-mad but harmless girl from the Guardian encampment on Mount Niran, Josarian held his ground, smothering the superstitions of his kind.

"Who are you?" he asked evenly, his gaze dropping to the silver broach—the Guardian insignia of a single flame within a circle of fire—that the demon wore on his cloak. Silver. Like everything else about the man, it suggested he had come from a wealthy family. He was no shallah, that much was clear.

"I am Cheylan. My circle of companions is not far from here."

"Why are you alone out here?"

"Messages from the Otherworld," Cheylan said vaguely, "telling us we must be ready."

"For what?"

"We don't know, but we've been posting sentries in the woods. We thought it might be an attack by the Society..." The demon flashed a smile. "But here you are."

"Then you'll help me?"

Cheylan nodded. "Of course."

"I need someone to care for my cousin until I can return for him."

"Come with me."

"I must warn you..."

"Yes?"

"Outlookers will be searching for him," said Josarian.

"Naturally."

"They'll want him back. They'll want him very badly."

Cheylan glanced at Zimran's unconscious form. "I promise you they won't find him."

There was a fierceness in the vow that made Josarian believe him. He nodded, convinced. "Then take me to your circle, Cheylan."

 

 

Water, water, a house of water.

Weary and bewildered after another sleepless night, Mirabar wandered away from her circle of companions early in the morning to stare into the depths of the spring they had camped near a few days ago. Indeed, since coming to this site, she had done little but stare into the depths of the cool spring, transfixed by it, pulled here by the Beckoner—and desperately frustrated by the calm, unspeaking surface of the water.

Fire in water.

Fire and water.

Could the Guardians and the Society really unite? After a thousand years of enmity, was it possible?

She flinched when she heard voices approaching, then relaxed when she realized it was only Derlen and his son. She had never felt much warmth for Derlen, a fussy, perpetually worried man. She liked him even less now that he had convinced the others to exclude her from the Callings, making no secret of his fear that her visions came from an evil source. But despite disliking him, she had to admit that he was an attentive and patient father to his inquisitive son—a duty which seemed to be aging him fast.

"But why did Marjan betray Daurion?" young Turan now asked as father and son approached the other side of the spring. Mirabar sat in thick, high grass with her knees close to her chest, her head bowed, and her gaze fixed on the water, hoping they wouldn't see or bother her. "Weren't they both Guardians? Weren't they bloodbrothers?"

"Yes, that's right," Derlen said, coming to the water's edge and sitting down. He had brought a fishing pole with him, some elaborately carved thing acquired from the sea-born folk. As he spoke, he baited the hook and tossed it into the water. "Marjan and Daurion were brothers in blood and brothers in the circle of fire. They were raised together, initiated together, became men and warriors together."

"Then why did Marjan betray him?"

Today's lesson was an important one, Mirabar realized as she sat quietly in the tall grass and listened.

"The Yahrdan died, and when the Council of the Guardians met in Shaljir, they chose Daurion as the new Yahrdan."

"To hold Sileria with a fist of iron in a velvet glove."

"Yes," Derlen said, clearly pleased. "And Daurion was a great Yahrdan, a man of wisdom, courage, and conviction."

"What about Marjan?"

"He served as Daurion's right hand, as the Yahrdan's most trusted servant and advisor. They were as close as they had been all their lives. But..." Derlen frowned and continued, "Secretly, Marjan was discontent with his position. After all, he had served Sileria all his life, just as Daurion had. He had always fought as bravely as his bloodbrother. The Otherworld welcomed his Call as warmly as it welcomed Daurion's."

"So why had Daurion been chosen by the Council instead of him?"

"That's exactly what Marjan wondered." Derlen checked the fishing line, then shook his head. "When the Guardians chose a Yahrdan, they didn't chose him just by the length of his service, the strength of his arms, or the brightness of his fire. The Yahrdan was the most important, powerful man in Sileria, the ruler of all the people of this great island. He must not only be the strongest and most able of men, but also the wisest, able to rule with ruthlessness tempered by great compassion, able to judge all matters impartially regardless of his own personal needs and desires, willing to put the welfare of even the lowliest shallah before his own comfort and safety."

"Even a shallah?" Turan repeated doubtfully.

Mirabar rolled her eyes. Now that's the spawn of a merchant family talking, she thought derisively.

"Yes, Turan," Derlen said. "The Guardians knew that in order to lead the disparate peoples of Sileria, a Yahrdan must love each one of them more than he loved himself; and Marjan loved no one more than himself."

"But Daurion..."

"But Daurion was such a man. Daurion was everything a Yahrdan should be."

"But he failed," Turan protested. "A Yahrdan should be a great warrior and powerful—"

"He was," Derlen said. "He repelled the Moorlander invasions again and again, slaughtering those barbarians as they fled for the open sea, holding this island as he had sworn to do, slaying our enemies without mercy or fear."

"Until Marjan betrayed him."

Derlen sighed. "Yes, until then. For Daurion loved Marjan dearly, and so he didn't see the evil right in front of him. Marjan knew that he could never defeat Daurion in single combat or with fire, but there was another element even stronger than fire, one over which Daurion had no control."

"Water."

Mirabar could hear the eagerness in Turan's voice. They were getting to the bloody part of the story now. Little boys were all such savages.

Derlen told his son how Marjan stumbled across the ancient mysteries of water magic, an art previously lost in the mists of time and only vaguely recalled in the ancient cave paintings and cliff carvings of the Beyah-Olvari, the strange race which had peopled Sileria before passing into legend eons ago. Somehow Marjan discovered the secrets of those long-dead half-human water wizards, and he used every spare second of his time to study and secretly practice this powerful magic, forsaking fire magic entirely in favor of the new force he had discovered.

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 this 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 his 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!"

"He tried to kill Josarian," Emelen snapped. "Why should he be spared? So he can betray all of us?"

"Is this why you freed us?" another man demanded. "Is this what we escaped for?"

"Tan," Josarian said quietly, coming forward. "Let him go."

Tansen obeyed instantly. He knew that killing Falian was not the answer, for there were undoubtedly others who agreed with the man; but he didn't know what the answer was. He stepped back and let Josarian come close to the other man, though it took considerable self-control to stay still when Josarian bent down to retrieve the Valdani sword and then handed it to Falian.

"If you want to use this," Josarian said, "now is the time. I do not want to have to guard my back against my friends, against my own kind."

Falian's grip tightened on the sword, but he glanced resentfully at Tansen. "The minute you're dead, this roshah will slaughter me."

"Tansen," Josarian said without looking away from Falian, "promise me you won't hurt him if he kills me now."

Tansen said nothing, appalled.

"Promise me," Josarian insisted.

"I... promise," he muttered at last.

"He's a man of his word," Josarian told Falian. "Now this is just between you and me."

Falian stared into Josarian's eyes, his face contorted with anger and fear, his arm shaking as he raised the sword. "We played together as boys. We've worked alongside each other as men. I was bloodcousin to your wife, Josarian." Falian shook his head, still holding the sword ready. "Why? Why did you bring us all to this? Why?"

"Yes," Josarian said, nodding, "you have questions, good questions." With stunning disregard for his own life, he turned away from Falian and looked at the tense faces around him. "Certainly others here have the same questions." He paused. "Perhaps each of you thinks as Falian does. Even," he added, hearing Lann start to protest, "even if your loyalty to me prevents you from listening to the protests in your heart."

One of the smaller men came forward. "I... I stand with Falian," he said haltingly. "My life is ruined because of you, Josarian. What am I to do now? Tell me that, if you can."

"Ruined because of me, Amitan?" Josarian said. "Your father was killed by Outlookers while smuggling grain to Liron where he hoped Kintish traders would offer a better price for it than the Valdani pay us—when they don't simply take it from us, that is."

"I have a wife now," Amitan protested. "We want ch—"

"After that," Josarian continued, "your elder brother was taken to the mines of Alizar, and you don't even know if he's still alive. When your mother went to plead for his release, she was attacked and raped by bandits on the road to Alizar. Your youngest sister is spindly and weak-boned from lack of food, because your family has been so desperately poor ever since losing your father and brother and their strong backs." To Tansen's dismay, Josarian handed Amitan a sword, too. "And you can say that I've ruined your life?"

"I am no assassin, to kill an unarmed man who has always been welcome under my mother's roof." Amitan tossed away the sword. "Only tell me, Josarian, how will my mother, wife, and sisters survive without me now? How am I to keep them fed, if I must live like a hunted animal with you from now on?"

"Yes, how?" Falian spat.

"Yes!" Josarian said. "Yes, that is the question!"

He laughed exultantly, picked up the sword Amitan had tossed aside, and waved it in the air. The men, even those most loyal to him, all looked at him as if he'd gone mad. Tansen wondered what he was up to.

"Your mother and Calidar are dead," Amitan pointed out. "And your sister has—had—a husband in the house. It was different for you, but—"

"The question is," Josarian boomed, grinning, "how will we feed them, how will we protect them? How, indeed, will we live now?" He looked around. "Aren't those the answers we seek?"

The men looked at each other in blank confusion. Josarian wasn't troubled by their lack of response.

"When have we ever lived as men should?" He ignored the expressions of insulted indignation this comment provoked and continued, "We haven't fed our women and children and parents; we've only done what we could to keep them from starving. And we've never been very successful at it."

"That's not our fault," Lann growled. "The Valdani—"

"Exactly," Josarian interrupted. "The Valdani! Why have we borne their yoke for so long? Why have we allowed them to empty this land of all its wealth? Why have we let them take whatever they want when they sweep through our cities, villages, valleys, and farms?" He looked around, his dark eyes glowing in the firelight. "Why have we never taken from them?"

"I am no thief," Amitan said sharply.

"It isn't theft to take back what belongs to you and your kind," Josarian countered. "For two centuries, they have taken everything they could find, more than we could spare, more than they deserve. It's time to say no. It's time to tell them they've taken enough! It's time to start taking back what's been taken away from us!"

"This is madness," Falian said. "This is not—"

"This is reality, the new reality of condemned men who are finally free of the yoke, the lash, the burden of saying yes," Josarian insisted. "You want to feed your families? I tell you, you can feed them better than you ever have!"

"Words do not fill bellies," Amitan argued.

"No! Grain does!" Josarian answered. "Meat, milk, and cheese do! The produce of a thousand groves does!"

"But that all..." Lann frowned. "That all belongs to the Valdani."

"It does not belong to them!" Josarian said fiercely. "This is Sileria, and every crop grown, every animal butchered, and every mineral mined in Sileria belongs to Silerians!"

"You mean to take it away from them?" Falian said, sounding short of breath. "You mean to start robbing the Valdani on such a massive scale?"

"Before I die," Josarian vowed, "I mean to make them pay for every single thing they have ever taken from us. I mean to see the women and children of Emeldar grow fat upon the plenty that should always have been ours.  I mean to lay the diamonds of Alizar upon every Guardian altar from here to Liron. I will live as a man and no longer as a slave!"

"By the Fires of Dar, we'll make our own Society!" Emelen declared, slapping Lann on the back. "We'll take what we want—"

"But only from the Valdani," Josarian cautioned.

"I can think of one or two toreni who've robbed us for centuries, too." Emelen grinned at Josarian's expression and said, "We can argue that another day. For now, brother-in-law, I am with you!"

"So am I!" boomed Lann. "May my sons grow strong on food taken from the Valdani! May my daughters wear wild gossamer, and may my wife grow too fat to leave the house!"

"Do you think it's possible?" Falian asked. "Can it really be done?"

Lann laughed. "Two days ago, surely the whole world would have said that it was impossible for two men to free twenty prisoners from the fortress at Britar. What is the world saying now, Falian? What is not possible for men who have done such a thing?"

Excited talk clamored through the cave, and Tansen realized with awe that Josarian had them. He had taken a group of scared mountain peasants who wanted only to go home, who had been ready to turn on him, and he had won them over. They had been ready to break and run, but instead, they had listened to his words and been moved by his courage and his vision. They had chosen Josarian and his way. These men were his now.

There was only one thing left. Amidst the shouting and laughter, Tansen held up his hand, bound with a now-ragged cloth, showing Josarian the bloodstains seeping through from his still-throbbing left palm. Josarian saw the gesture and nodded. He jumped up onto a large, smooth rock to get the men's attention, raising his own hand so that everyone could see the new mark on his own palm.

"I have sworn a bloodfeud against the Valdani," Josarian announced. "I ask you to give your blood to our cause." He looked around and added, "You were imprisoned because of me, and you owe me nothing—nothing—for helping you escape. Any man who doesn't want to join me is free to go his own way tomorrow morning." He leaned over to put a hand on Amitan's shoulder, meeting his eyes with compassion. "If you want to leave, I promise to help you and your family go wherever you want, as far away from here as you need to take them for safety. I'll get some of Porsall's gold back from the Sisterhood to help you start a new life elsewhere."

Amitan gazed into Josarian's eyes for a long moment while all the men waited in silence for his answer.  The small man turned away and picked up a sword. Tansen tensed briefly, then relaxed when Amitan thrust the sword into the ancient Guardian fire. When it was blessed, Amitan drew the blade across his palm and held it over the fire. A moment later, Falian did the same. One by one, the men opened their flesh and began reciting the vow as their blood sizzled in the sacred flames.

"I swear by Dar, by my honor, and by the memory of my slain kin, your enemies are now my enemies, and I will not rest or be at peace until the blood of every Valdan in Sileria flows as mine flows now."

Looking over the heads of the men as they prayed, Tansen met Josarian's gaze. Whatever the future held, he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.