Chapter Twenty-Three

 

 

Tansen had grown used to Cheylan's demon eyes as the sun-stunned days of summer passed, but he didn't think he'd ever be at ease with the man. Not because of those fire-hot eyes, though they could be unsettling, but because of Cheylan's personality. He was a man whose moods and actions were as unpredictable as they were inexplicable. His power was extraordinary, his position among the Guardians was one of trust and respect, and his courage in facing Verlon to get the bloodvow rescinded was undeniable... but Tansen didn't like him. Too many of Cheylan's comments seemed vaguely double-edged, as if he laughed at his own allies even while he assisted them. His fine-featured face seemed to express contempt or private amusement on too many occasions. There was something about him that didn't seem entirely trustworthy, despite the risks he took for the rebellion, and despite the fire and strength he pledged to their cause.

No one knew why Verlon wanted Cheylan dead, and Cheylan declined to discuss it. Since this so closely mirrored Tansen's own situation with Kiloran, he could appreciate Cheylan's desire for privacy. Nonetheless, Tansen couldn't help wondering about the past that Cheylan and Verlon shared. When Verlon had met with the rebels and rescinded the bloodvow, Tansen—though he couldn't say exactly why—had come away with a feeling that Cheylan and Verlon knew each other much better than anyone realized.

However, Tansen was reluctant to express his uneasiness to anyone else. He was well aware that old prejudices might be clouding his judgment. Cheylan was a toren, after all, and they were different. Elelar always had two meanings for every sentence, three plans for every situation, and five reasons for every action. Perhaps it was just bred into the toreni to be subtle and slippery, as well as arrogant.

Childhood superstitions lingered in Tansen's heart, too, more powerful than they should be. Sometimes, if he caught a flash of those flame-gold eyes in the dark, if his mind was wandering or if he awoke suddenly, his hands reached for his swords before he realized what he was doing. Cheylan had noticed, and Tan had a feeling that the Guardian despised him for it. Tansen had once tried apologizing for the instinctive reaction, but the apology had only made things worse. Cheylan also seemed to despise anyone who acknowledged a mistake.

They had spent the summer traveling through the eastern mountains, gathering support for the rebellion, strengthening old alliances, forming new ones, and ending old enmities. The combined strength and conviction of the Society, the Guardians, and the shallaheen, along with Josarian's growing legend, served their cause well. A bloodfeud begun by one lone peasant had now become a true rebellion, with a scattered army whose strength numbered in the thousands. Several successful attacks on Outlooker targets in the district of Liron had drawn even more shallaheen, waterlords, assassins, and Guardians into their ranks. Leaving Emelen, Cheylan, and a high-ranking assassin of Baran's behind to continue the good work, Tansen now traveled back to Dalishar to report to Josarian.

He had met with Elelar two days ago, prior to heading west into the mountains. She had passed most of the summer living openly with Advisor Borell, the most important Valdan in Sileria. Tansen didn't ask, but he couldn't help wondering what manner of man her husband was, that he tolerated such behavior in his wife. Tansen knew by now why she slept with Borell, of course. As a result of her relationship with the Imperial Advisor, there seemed to be nothing that Borell knew which Elelar could not find out. Now she had news that confirmed the visions the demon girl had spoken of at Kandahar, the prophecy that Armian's shade served: Valdania and Kinto were about to fight an all-out war, the Kintish Kingdoms resisting the Empire's attempt to crush them at last after centuries of awaiting the right opportunity.

"Valdania's armies will be fully committed to the wars in Kinto and the Moorlands, with Outlookers left to hold the rest of the Empire." Elelar's voice had been rich with promise. "The Valdani won't have enough weapons, men, and money available to suppress a full-scale rebellion in Sileria."

She had gripped his forearm in her excitement, the soft unscarred palm of a torena pressing against his skin. She had whispered to him like a lover, "There will never be a better time."

So now, at summer's end, he returned to Josarian's side to share the information and make new plans. Elelar had been ordered to return unfashionably early to Shaljir, before the northern winds had finished cooling the summer-baked city. She was needed there to act as a link between Josarian and the Alliance as they gathered support and information for the rebellion's boldest move yet. Tansen approved the Alliance's new plan, and he believed that Josarian, the Society, and even the Guardians would, too. After the Empire entered into its first violent engagement with the Kintish Kingdoms and became irrevocably committed to the war there, then the Silerian rebels would strike a blow that would be felt in Valda itself.

 

 

Camped deep in the mountains south of Britar, Zimran relieved Lann in the empty hours of the night, taking over the sentry duty as the others slept. Clumsy as the Outlookers were, they had nonetheless raided a rebel camp four days ago, killing nine people—including two Guardians. So much for the Otherworld, Zim thought; he didn't see much point in communing with shades of the dead if they didn't bother to mention that you were about to become one of them.

Mirabar had wanted to put a ring of protective fire around the camp's perimeter tonight. Zimran thought few things were more likely to attract Outlookers than a vast circle of magic fire blazing away in the middle of the night, but it was actually Najdan who had talked her out of it, convincing her that good vigilance would suffice. Zimran tried to picture Amitan's description of how the assassin and the demon girl had met, but he couldn't really; by the time Zimran had joined up with them, Najdan had become—at Kiloran's order—Mirabar's constant shadow.

Mirabar... well, she wasn't a bad girl, really, not once you got used to her. Zimran could think of women he'd rather be spending his days and nights with—a brief memory of the "abduction" of Porsall's wife made him smile—but he didn't really mind Mirabar. Recuperating in Cheylan's camp after escaping from the fortress at Britar months ago had taught him that superstitions about demons, like all other superstitions, were just children's nonsense. Admittedly, Mirabar was even stranger looking than Cheylan. That hair... Lann had practically fallen to his knees and started praying when Josarian had first brought her back to Dalishar to meet them.

Josarian had told them all incredible tales about journeying to Shaljir, meeting with a torena who had introduced him to something called the Alliance, going to Zilar to meet Kiloran's son Srijan, and finally finding Kiloran himself. The story of that night strained Zimran's credulity: a palace of water beneath the surface of Lake Kandahar, a ball of fire plunging through the water and turning into a girl, the shade of Armian greeting them from the Otherworld, prophecies of destiny and freedom... The other men at Dalishar had swallowed it whole, though, letting this wild tale slide down as smoothly as ripe summer melon.

Remembering it now, Zimran shrugged. Exaggerated though it probably was, it was the most amazing story he'd ever heard, and it brought men to Josarian's cause by the hundreds. That was just as well, because as the Outlookers stepped up their efforts to suppress the rebellion, men were dying faster, too.

When will it end? When will Josarian be satisfied?

Driving out the Valdani was a nice dream, but Zimran was very skeptical that it could be accomplished. The Valdani ruled the world. They had ruled Sileria for two centuries. That was how it was. Could the fierce Moorland tribes drive them out of the Moorlands? No; and there were more Moorlanders than Silerians. Could the conquered Kintish states make them leave? No; and the Kintish were wealthier than the Silerians.

Zimran hated the Valdani, to. Of course he did! He'd been out risking his life and smuggling goods past the Outlookers for years while Josarian sat at home with his wife and urged his neighbors to keep the peace. They'd caught Zimran twice, too. The first time, he'd beggared himself paying bribes to stay out of the mines. The second time... Josarian had killed two of them.

One impulsive act of madness, and Josarian had run wild. Now Zimran could never go home—even if the Outlookers would let him, Emeldar's water was poisoned. So he and the others all lived like bandits in the mountains now, risking their lives every day, fighting the Valdani, killing, looting, burning, stealing... and then giving away whatever they stole.

All spring, even into summer, Zimran had prayed for peace. Even after Britar, he had continued to hope. The Valdani undoubtedly wanted this costly insanity to end. The mountain clans would soon grow tired of suffering in Josarian's name. The merchants and toreni would weary of the inconvenience of a rebellion in their backyard. The Society would eventually object to the increased numbers of Outlookers patrolling the mountains.

Someone would insist on a truce before long, and Josarian would come to his senses and agree. Bloodfeuds were started in anger and ended in the cold light of reason. Josarian himself bemoaned the way the Sirdari had destroyed themselves with their endless bloodfeuds. He knew that the season for violence must be a short one. Zimran had clung to this belief and, loyal to the cousin he loved, had fought by his side in the meantime.

Josarian had abandoned them at summer's birth to honor his bloodpact with Tansen. Much as Zimran loathed the roshah, he had to admit that his cousin had done what a man should. Humiliated by Josarian's betrayal—leaving Emelen in charge—he had nonetheless remained loyal in his cousin's absence. He and Emelen had inflicted vicious reprisals on the Outlookers for the massacres at Malthenar, Morven, and Garabar. They stood by those who stood by Josarian and brutally punished those who didn't. Zimran still felt nauseated when he remembered the way he and Emelen had killed Arlen; but they had to make sure no one would be tempted enough by Valdani gold to follow in Arlen's footsteps.

Zimran blamed Josarian for killing those first two Outlookers on the smuggling trail; but Josarian had saved him from capture that night. Zimran blamed Josarian for getting him and twenty other men thrown into prison; but Josarian had risked death to free him from the fortress at Britar. Zimran was a smuggler who didn't like being a rebel any better than he had liked being an outlaw. But he would stand by Josarian, just as Josarian had stood by him, for that was how a man lived.

The new moon lay on her back in the lush sky, ending the nights of total darkness. Zimran briefly recalled the widow he used to visit during the dark-moon. She was displaced, like everyone else now, her home abandoned, her life shattered. 

The first northern breezes crept through the mountains tonight to soothe the heat-cracked earth. The nights were becoming cooler, the days softer. The season was advancing, and Zimran knew they were running out of time to make peace. The Outlookers, who suffered under Sileria's summer sun, would find the days more bearable now. They would not tire so quickly now as they had in the heat of summer. They would not give up as easily now. The northern winds would give them heart, and the fighting would grow even worse.

Zimran hadn't been particularly surprised that the Guardians had joined Josarian, for his cousin was a persuasive man—and who could expect sense from a bunch of ghost-talking, fire-breathing sorcerers anyhow? But the Society... Zimran had never expected that. And now this thing called the Alliance, made up of merchants and city-dwellers and toreni!

Now men spoke of war instead of a bloodfeud. Now they spoke of making the Valdani leave Sileria forever, instead of just leaving the mountains alone. Now they spoke of freedom and glory and... now there was no end in sight for any of them. Would this mad dream of Josarian's would go on until they were all dead, slaughtered by Valdani swords?

Zimran, who had loved his life, wanted to weep for its loss.

 

 

A crazed zanar stumbled into Dalishar sometime after dawn. Sentries had already warned Josarian of his approach, as they had warned him of Outlookers patrolling all access routes to this site. As was bound to happen, someone had finally told the Valdani where Josarian was based. He'd had his men trying to find out who for nearly a twin-moon.

Wondering what had brought a zanar here, Josarian invited him to enter one of the sacred caves. His sister Jalilar, who had come to live here this summer after growing tired of sleeping without her husband, offered the man food and drink. Even a zanar probably wanted some refreshment after the long climb to Dalishar.

Skinny, unkempt, and shaking with fatigue, the zanar drank deeply but refused the food. Then he stared long and hard at Josarian. Finally he asked, "Are you the Firebringer?"

Jalilar burst out laughing. Josarian cleared his throat. The zanar looked like he had expected no better.

"You know that they're saying you are," the zanar said.

"They also say that I'm dead, that I'm a disinherited Valdani prince trying to get revenge, that I'm the ghost of Daurion..." Josarian shook his head. "They say a lot of things."

"What do you intend to do about it?"

Josarian shrugged. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" The zanar rose to his feet, sputtering. "You may be the Chosen One! The Awaited One! You may be the one destined to lead us out of bondage, to drive out the Conquerors—"

"The Kints drove out the Conquerors," Josarian pointed out as kindly as possible. The legend was very old.

"And he will lead the people to glory, making of them a warrior race once again, and drive out the foreigner, drive away the roshaheen... Surely you know the scriptures?"

"I can't read."

"Then I will recite them for you!"

Jalilar hopped to her feet. "If you'll excuse me, there is much work to be done in camp."

Josarian glared at her retreating back as she escaped from the cave. Before the zanar could do as threatened, he asked, "What is your name?"

"Jalan."

"Jalan, I have never claimed to be the Firebringer, and—"

"He will not claim his glory himself! That is for Dar to do. He will plunge into ecstatic union with the goddess and—"

"Yes, I understand. But I'm not the one."

"But you are... I look at you and I see the favor of the goddess."

What did Tansen always say? Men saw what they wanted to see. Josarian said courteously, "Then I am honored to be favored by the goddess, for I have been faithful and true all my life, but—"

"You must come back to Darshon with me."

"I can't," he said firmly. "We're fighting a rebellion."

"Yes!" Jalan cried. "And if you are the Firebringer come at last—at last!—all Sileria will flock to your banner, and our liberation shall come to pass!"

"And if I'm not the Firebringer, I'll die in the volcano," Josarian pointed out reasonably. "Wouldn't it be better if I just stayed here and fought until—"

"Your light cannot be mistaken! Has no one before ever asked you to come forth and embrace Dar?"

"Well, yes, but..." The zanareen were always seeking recruits.

"I knew it! Why did you not go?"

He almost laughed. "My mother wouldn't let me. I was only thirteen, and—"

"Yes, it would have shown by then. The light of Her favor! You were young, so young, but already a man by then... Your destiny has always been to embrace Her. You should have gone!"

Perhaps another argument would be more effective. "But surely Armian is the Firebringer?"

"He's dead," Jalan said dismissively. "The story of his shade bringing prophecy to you is all over the mountains."

In spreading the story, they had kept Tansen's relationship to Armian—as well as the murder—a secret, and had revealed only certain aspects of the extraordinary events at Kandahar. Even Kiloran honored their silence on certain subjects, for he was not eager to tell the world he had been defied and defeated by a boy nine years ago.

"Then you know," Josarian said, "that Armian  convinced the Society and the Guardians to join the shallaheen. Our union was born of Armian's—"

"The Firebringer can't be dead before the battle is even begun. The Firebringer will lead us against the foreign invaders, not spew prophecy from the Otherworld!"

The zanareen could be so single-minded. "Nonetheless, he—"

"And he was an assassin," Jalan spat. "Do you really think the goddess would embrace an assassin?"

Josarian held up his hands. "I claim no knowledge of what the goddess—" He stopped abruptly when Jalan seized his right hand.

"A marriage-mark." Jalan studied the scar made by Calidar years ago. "You have a wife?"

"I did. She died."

"Ahhh." Jalan's eyes gleamed with satisfaction. "Of course. The goddess took her."

Josarian prickled. He did not like casual talk of Calidar's death. "Childbirth took her."

"The goddess freed you from marital bondage—"

"No."

"—that you might be free to embrace Her at Darshon, to serve Her will and follow your destiny!"

"No," Josarian said firmly.

"Don't you see?"

"Many men lose wives, Jalan, and mine—"

"Yours was destined to die, to free you for a higher purpose."

"There was no higher purpose than loving Calidar," he snapped, smarting with anger, recoiling from this madman's suggestions.

"You see?" Jalan pounced. "Dar knew you would not leave your wife willingly, not as others have. Dar knew you must lose her before you would consecrate your life to the Fires."

Disgusted, Josarian pulled hard to get his hand away from Jalan. "You're wrong."

"You know I speak the truth. You feel it in your heart. You hear the call of the goddess!"

"I hear a madman gloating about my wife's death."

"In time, you will go to Her," said Jalan. "Even I feel her pull in your presence."

"Then you go to Her."

"She calls you, not me, to the Fires."

"How convenient," said Josarian.

"You will feel Her call, too. In time, you will go to Her, as is your destiny."

"In time, I will die on the point of a Valdani sword," Josarian said, rising to flee, eager to get away from this man. "Now, if you will excuse me..."

"And he will join with Her in ecstatic union, offering his flesh to the Fires as a man offers his flesh to a woman..."

Josarian escaped into the sunshine and kept walking until he was well away from the sound of that voice, the offense of that quavering, insistent proselytizing.

Falian, whose face was now scarred from Tansen's blade and the events of that first night at Dalishar, was outside. He paused in the practice of his swordplay, looked over his shoulder, and smiled sympathetically. "No one likes zanareen."

Josarian nodded and forced an answering smile, not wanting Falian and the other men here to see how disturbed he was by the encounter. Dar knew he had blamed himself often enough for Calidar's death. If he had not gotten her with child... He wanted her back, wanted her here now more than he wanted to fight the Valdani or be free. Without thinking, he drew her scarf out of his tunic and pressed it against his face. Sorrow and loss pricked him sharply, because he realized, for the first time, that the silky material no longer bore her scent. It smelled like him now, from the many months it had spent pressed against his heart.

Calidar... A small thing, in its way, the loss of her scent on a scarf which, he knew, probably hadn't really smelled of her for months and months. But it crushed his heart, all the same. Longing for her, he called up a hundred aching memories, rekindling her life in his mind.

She'd had a temper, his wife, as well as a deep, wicked laugh. Her waist was small, though the rest of her was generous; she hadn't minded losing that slender waist to bear a child. And strong, ah, that woman had been strong. Not as strong as he, but she could lift anything that Zimran could. She used to go barefoot all year, until the weather got too cold, disdaining the fine shoes he'd once brought her from Cavasar. She usually stood with her right hand on her hip, gesturing with her left, and her unruly dark hair was always tumbling down her back by the day's end. The marriage-mark on her right palm had grown inflamed after their wedding, making a fat, irregular scar when it finally healed. A sign of bad luck, some said, but she had loved her husband fiercely and merely laughed at such superstitions...

Calidar... Josarian turned away from his men so they wouldn't see the mist in his eyes.

By all the Fires, if he believed he had condemned her to death by marrying her, then he would gladly throw himself into Darshon—or off a cliff. But it was an insane suggestion, one he'd have to be more than half-mad to listen to.

Calidar...

Sick with longing, with a grief that hadn't been this sharp in months, he deserted camp to find solace in the lonely wildness of the mountains. Some memories, such as Tansen's, a man ran from; some memories, such as Josarian's, a man held dear and clung to. Some memories should never be profaned by the ravings of a wild-eyed fanatic.

Summer was dying now, the brutal heat of the days softening into glowing warmth. The land was stunned, withered, and brown from the blazing sun and dry skies of the cruelest season. Even up here at Dalishar, distant from the world, he could often smell brush fires on the wind.

Tansen was due back any day now to report on his progress in the east. Josarian was merely waiting for his bloodbrother before going out on another raid, another campaign to gain support, and more meetings with Guardians, assassins, waterlords, and the Alliance. Mirabar was busy further south. Giants like Kiloran and Baran understood what was at stake and had called a truce, but some of the lesser waterlords were a little harder to convince. Some simply did as they were told; but others, it had quickly become apparent, needed the sort of convincing spectacle that only Mirabar could provide. To the amazement of the other Guardians, she had developed such a strong bond with Armian that she could Call him even without the shir. That was just as well, too, since Kiloran had no intention of letting her have it.

Hoping Jalan had finally gone away, Josarian returned to camp that afternoon with a stag slung over his shoulders, slain for his sister. Jalilar had come to Dalishar to be with Emelen who, to her consternation, wasn't even here. After clobbering her brother for turning her into a widow while her husband still lived, she had decided to stay here anyhow—and Jalilar really knew how to dress meat and feed a man. He'd miss her when she left, as she surely would before long; tired of sleeping alone, she intended to go east with the next runner he sent from Dalishar to Emelen. Meanwhile, he and his men enjoyed her cooking.

He recognized a familiar figure when he approached the caves. Tansen was there, lean, quick, and sharp as a blade, instructing half a dozen men in the use of their swords. Josarian grinned, glad to see him. As always, Tansen was more reserved than he, but plainly glad to see him, too.

They went into Josarian's cave and sat down together over a bottle of smuggled Kintish spirits that Tan had brought back from Liron, exchanging news and information. The rebellion was already spreading in the east, and they had struck the Outlookers hard several times over the summer. Josarian had heard about some—but not all—of the raids.

"The Outlookers weren't expecting trouble in the east," Tansen said, taking off his harness and relaxing into cushions stolen from a Valdani estate. "They thought the rebellion would stay confined to the west."

"It's the same in the district of Shaljir. They were unprepared for attack. Their losses were heavy at first."

"I know. People talked of little else as I came through there on my way here." Tansen eyed Josarian and added, "There is one other thing they talk of, though."

"What's that?"

"The Firebringer."

Josarian rolled his eyes. "Don't you start."

"I met Jalan when I got here." Tansen's mouth quirked. "His conversation is limited, but very interesting."

"I thought you thought the Firebringer was dead."

"Well... the Valdani are still here, so I guess I was wrong."

Josarian sighed. "This will be a long night, if you're going to start siding with Jalan."

Tansen looked at him in surprise. "I didn't think it would bother you so much."

"Then he hasn't told you all his theories."

Tansen stripped off his tunic. "You can tell me while I wash. I'm carrying half of Sileria's dirt around with me."

So he told him. Tansen had shared far more horrifying things with him, after all, than the insulting ravings of a madman.

Soaking wet and shivering a little from the cold water, Tansen wrapped himself in a blanket and sat by the woodless fire. He was silent for a long time, which made Josarian uneasy; he was accustomed to Tan's skepticism and didn't like the thoughtful expression on his face.

"You don't think it's true, do you?" Josarian challenged at last.

"Actually... no." Tansen stared into the flames. "But I know what is it to feel you've caused the death of someone you love." He met Josarian's gaze at last. "Did everyone in Gamalan die because I found and sheltered Armian? Would they have died even if I had not helped him? Would I have died, too, if I had been there, instead of on the coast that night? Even if I had never seen him? What part did I play in what happened to my mother, my sister, my grandfather..."

"Tan..."

"I'll never know." He leaned forward. "And neither will you."

"I..." Josarian looked away. "Jalan was right about one thing. I wouldn't be here if Calidar were still alive. I wouldn't have started smuggling with Zim. I would never..." He shifted restlessly. "And if I hadn't... would any of this be happening?"

Tansen shrugged, frowning in thought. "The demon girl's visions were of me, not you."

"Mirabar?" When Tansen nodded, he asked, "Then would you have led the shallah rebellion?"

"I don't know what I would be doing if you were safely tucked in bed in Emeldar right now," Tansen admitted. "I wanted vengeance when I came home. I wanted Valdani blood. But... I had no plan, no purpose, no goal. And I didn't have your vision." He put his hand on Josarian's shoulder, doing the comforting for a change. "You looked into the future and saw rebellion. War. Maybe even freedom. You saw something that would outlive both of us, something much bigger than personal vengeance or private hatred. I never saw any of that until you showed it to me. I can't be sure that I ever would have seen it, without you."

Josarian stared into the flames. "Then if I must be here for all of this to happen..." He sighed, wishing the ache would ease. "I would have rather died a hundred times than be the cause of Calidar's death, but..."

"But?"

"She would have rather died for something than for nothing. For a reason, rather than sheer chance."

Tansen inhaled deeply and leaned back, staring into the sacred flames. "To see shallaheen drive Valdani tribute collectors out of their villages," he said slowly, "rather than cower and let them take whatever they want. To see Silerians put aside their bloodfeuds to pick up swords, standing side by side against the Outlookers. To see the dust of mounted riders fleeing from us in fear, and to dream of them someday fleeing Sileria and leaving it forever. To claim our land, our cities, our pride after a thousand years of serving foreign rulers..." He nodded, his voice warming well beyond its usual measure of laconism. "Josarian, I want to live more than you do, and I think it's worth dying for. Maybe she would have, too."

"Maybe she would have, too," he echoed softly. "I just wish I could have asked her."