Chapter Twenty-Eight

 

 

For eleven days and nights, Elelar waited in her cell at the old Kintish prison. Waited to die. Waited to be tortured. Waited for something to end the agony of waiting.

To her surprise, an Outlooker had brought her clothing and toiletries from her own house on the third day of her imprisonment. On that same day, the Outlookers had stopped serving her their nauseatingly inedible prison food and started serving her meals prepared by her own cook and brought to the fortress in elegant baskets. The food, like the other items sent from home, was always thoroughly examined before being given to her.

Despite these comforts, however, she was not allowed visitors. That didn't surprise her, since Koroll undoubtedly feared she still had information to share and would try to find a way to communicate with her allies. She would not, in any event, have risked the safety of anyone important by trying to get messages to the Alliance now that she was exposed and condemned. Indeed, she prayed that no one had been foolish enough to ask to see her; such a request would undoubtedly condemn the petitioner to death, too.

It was the lack of news or action that she found most difficult to endure. After the painful and humiliating debacle at the Lion's Gate, she had been dragged here and thrown into this cell. Koroll had come here the following day. Not bothering to conceal his pleasure at her battered condition and humbled situation, he had questioned and threatened her for an entire morning, promising her that it would be "better" for her if she cooperated and told them what they wanted to know.

Better for me, she thought with a sneer. Yes, it was positively touching how concerned the Valdani were for the welfare of a condemned woman. 

They were desperate to find out—before they killed her—what information she had shared with whom. Once she was executed, there'd be no way to unlock the secrets which would die with her.

Hurry, hurry, hurry, she prayed to Death. She had already determined that escape was impossible. Dying with silence and dignity was her only goal. She focused on it as fiercely as she had focused on every other goal in her life.

Myrell, the one with the crooked nose, had come here on her second day in prison, sent by Koroll. The butcher of Malthenar, Morven, and Garabar lived up to his reputation for brutality. She had welcomed his blows, fighting back, taunting him, trying to manipulate him into drawing his sword and killing her in a blaze of fury. Her death would come quickly that way—and she would take one more Valdan down with her upon dying, since Myrell would surely be punished for murdering such a valuable prisoner without authorization.

She had nearly tricked him into doing it, too... but then he had hesitated and drawn back. Although the man was both a brute and a fool, even he apparently wasn't stupid enough to kill her without orders. What a pity.

If only her cook would poison her food, she thought morosely. If only someone would tell the woman to do it. She wondered what was happening at her house now. She worried about the safety of the servants who were loyal to the Alliance; about the secrets the house contained, wondering which—if any—had escaped discovery; and about the Beyah-Olvari. She also wondered why, ever since her third day in this dank hole, she was given the courtesy of food and clothing from home. Why hadn't Koroll and Myrell questioned her since then? She didn't like to think about it, but she knew that they had barely scratched the surface in terms of their attempts to make her to talk. If they were going to give up so quickly, then why hadn't they already executed her? Why hadn't she even been sentenced yet? Why was there no news? Did Borell simply intend to leave her alone in this cell until she went mad from boredom and inactivity?

She had too little to do or think about in here. Her mind was normally prone to planning, not introspection. She was a doer, not a dreamer. She knew what she wanted and concentrated on how to get it, letting others trouble themselves with more ponderous questions of honor and morality. As a torena, she knew her duty to the people who lived under her care, and she never shirked it. As a rebel, she knew her duty to Sileria and committed herself and her resources to it completely, without hesitation or reservation. As a woman, she used the tools Dar had given her to accomplish every duty placed upon her shoulders.

Dar had blessed (or cursed) Mirabar with gifts of fire and prophecy, gifts so rare that they set her apart from all others. Josarian had been born to lead men in battle, to be respected and admired by them. Kiloran had grasped the cold power of water magic in an apprenticeship granted only to men. Tansen had shaped his destiny out of the bitter ashes of his boyhood, carving a new fate in stone and steel—with skills which were taught only to men.

And I, born a woman, smarter and braver than most men... Bitterness flooded her, for what man did not look upon her and see only what Koroll had seen, and desire only what Borell had desired? The same attributes that were respected in a man—courage and intelligence—were considered mere ornaments, or even flaws, in a woman, whose role was only to be a vessel of men's pleasure and a breeder of more men. Elelar was not the right sex to be a warrior, statesman, assassin, or waterlord, and she had no gifts such as Mirabar's. But she had a woman's gifts; some were taught to her by her mother, and others were simply born into her flesh. So she had coupled those gifts with a cold mind and a brave heart to pursue a dream she would now never live to see. And because of this, men who slept with many women and who broke their marriage vows with impunity would call her a whore when she died.

She prayed now only for a death that would honor her, such as any man might pray. Even more than she feared death by slow torture, she feared the humiliation of a woman's death, the sort of sentence the Valdani inflicted on the female Moorlanders they imprisoned in their brothels. If the Outlookers disemboweled her before vast crowds in Shaljir, she would bear it with more courage than any mere man would show, despite her fear and her pain. Only, please, Dar, don't let Borell give her to a hundred Outlookers who would rape her until she was dead and then leave her lying face-down in the mud until she rotted.

Please, Dar, as I have been faithful and true—in my way—let my death honor me.

Elelar was surprised to hear someone unlocking the door to her private cell. No one came here anymore unless it was mealtime, and she had been served a meal not long ago. Her heart pounded with mingled anticipation and fear, wondering who had come to see her and what news—or torment—he brought. She brushed back a stray wisp of hair and composed herself as the door opened.

"Ronall?" she blurted.

She didn't bother to hide her astonishment as her husband was admitted to her cell. She hadn't thought about him since the day the Outlookers had brought her here. Two Outlookers stood in the open doorway now, witnesses to the meeting. Elelar was used to them after eleven days, and Ronall had apparently drunk just enough not to care that they were there.

He came forward, took Elelar's hand, then held it uncertainly for a moment, trying to decide whether to kiss her mouth, kiss her hand, or just forget the whole thing. After an awkward moment, he dropped her hand and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"You are well?" he asked, his gaze searching her face.

Leave it to Ronall to be banal at a moment like this. "As well as can be expected under the circumstances."

The ice in her tone made his cheeks darken. He whirled away from her in an explosive move, only coming to rest when he reached the barred window. He gripped the ancient ironwork there, as if he were the prisoner, and looked down into the courtyard far below. Some prisoners were exercised in that yard, but not Elelar. Her captors were afraid to risk her making contact with anyone, even another prisoner or an Outlooker who hadn't been personally selected by Koroll for the task of guarding her.

"What are you doing here?" Elelar asked at last, realizing that Ronall wasn't going to say anything without prompting.

"I am still your husband." His voice was bitter.

"Not for long," she said. "Presumably they've told you they intend to—"

"They've told me a remarkable number of things." He didn't look at her, just kept clinging to the prison bars and staring out of the tiny window. "Before you returned to Shaljir, I was imprisoned and questioned for two days. Allowed no sleep or food during that time. Beaten unconscious at some point." He inhaled deeply. "I didn't know why. I didn't understand their questions."

"Ronall..." She made a helpless gesture. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. No one told me."

"At first I thought it was because I had refused to give you a divorce. I thought Borell must have ordered the Outlookers to convince me to agree to it."

"So Borell asked you to divorce me?" she asked, though it didn't matter now.

"Asked isn't quite how I would phrase it."

Ronall looked at her briefly. His wounded expression startled her. Male pride, she thought derisively. In a moment like this, as I await death in prison, he resents a blow to his pride.

He looked away again. "When they showed me things they'd found in the house, I was sure at first that there'd been a misunderstanding. I thought they must have found those things in someone else's house. The Outlookers are such fools, it seemed like a mistake they could make."

"No, it was my house," she said wearily.

"Yes. So I learned."

"Since they've allowed you to see me," said Elelar, "I assume they know you were never involved."

"I don't think Koroll ever really thought I was. But he wanted to be sure."

She nodded, wishing he would leave. She shouldn't have to put up with Ronall anymore. "No, why would they suspect you? You're half-Valdan, after all."

His brief laugh was quite humorless. "To you, I'm half-Valdan. To them, I'm half-Silerian. A half-caste man belongs to no one in this country, Elelar."

"You'll forgive me if your self-pity doesn't move me to tears at this particular point in my life."

He winced. Closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the bars of the window. "Of course. I've forgiven you far worse, haven't I?"

She folded her arms across her chest. "I recall resentment, anger, accusations, blame, and quarrels. I recall a beating. A few rapes." His head seemed to lower with each word she uttered. "But I don't recall a single word of forgiveness from you, not once in five years of marriage."

"Marriage?"

His shoulders started shaking. She heard him gasping unevenly and making a strange, choked sound. To her astonishment, she realized he was laughing. After a few moments, he tilted his head back and gazed at the ceiling. She saw tears gleaming in his dark eyes.

"Marriage?" he repeated. "We weren't married, Elelar. We were locked in combat, like two caged mountain cats, neither of us able to escape."

"Then why did you refuse to divorce me when Borell ordered you to?" she said impatiently.

He laughed again. It unsettled her that laughter could sound so unhappy. "Because I still loved you."

Her shocked expression made him laugh even harder. She gaped at him, watching him laugh while tears slipped from his eyes. "You're going mad," she surmised.

"Oh, Elelar..." He gasped again for air, wiping at his eyes. "Surely I've been doing that for years."

"I won't dispute that."

"Ah, my dear wife, your contempt seems to be the one constant in my life, even when everything else has been turned upside down."

"You've earned it," she snapped. "And I am free of the need to pretend to be your wife any longer."

"You are my wife," he pointed out. The vehemence in his tone and the possessive expression on his face were more familiar to her than the sad, strangely giddy man he had been a moment ago. "And I might add that it's the only reason you're still alive."

Elelar frowned. "What do you mean?"

"As the wife of a Valdan—half-Valdan, that is—you are entitled to certain rights not granted to Silerians, no matter how high-born."

"I rather doubt that Borell and Koroll care about such distinctions now," she said. 

"My father, who is not without influence, made them care. After I was released, I insisted that no matter what you had done, you were my wife and therefore entitled to courteous treatment after your arrest. Considering the charge of high treason, you are also entitled to a trial before three members of the Imperial Council."

She blinked. "Your father agreed to this?"

"I... convinced him that Borell had arrested you and made these claims because you wouldn't divorce me."

"And your father believed you," she breathed, stunned that Ronall would lie to protect her.

"Since I had been dragged before Borell, ordered to divorce you, and then imprisoned after refusing, it was a rather convincing story," Ronall said dryly.

"Are you telling me that Borell agreed to your father's demands?" she asked incredulously. Borell, who would lose everything if Elelar had a chance to reveal to the Imperial Council how arrogantly careless he had been around his Silerian mistress?

"Not at first. But his accusations against you were so... slanderous that my father became convinced of his treachery. Borell did not seem to be in control of himself." Ronall smiled bitterly before continuing, "So Father sent his own messenger to Valda two days after you were arrested, then warned Borell that he had done so. It will look very bad for Borell if anything happens to you before the Council decides whether to grant my father's request that you be tried as the wife of a Valdani aristocrat."

Elelar sat down on her cot. "So after your father sent a messenger to Valda, Borell agreed to let you to send me some of my things and some decent food."

"Yes." Ronall studied her. "I assume that Borell's accusations were, in fact, all true?"

"Probably," she admitted, seeing the knowledge in his face.

After a long pause, he asked quietly, "Were there really that many other men?"

"Oh, is that all you can think about?" she snapped.

"Well, it—"

"You, who've had so many other women these past five years?"

"I, who was never welcome in my wife's bed," he shot back.

"Did you really think I would ever welcome you again, after our wedding night?" she said angrily.

He stepped back as if she had hit him. He closed his eyes as if in pain, then reached for the cold iron bars and rested his cheek against one. "No," he whispered. "I really never thought so."

Fury bubbled up in her now, because she might have even bothered to be a good wife to this sot, if he had made any effort at all to be a decent husband. "Coming to my bedchamber stinking drunk, grabbing at me, tearing my clothes..."

"I... don't remember that very well..." His voice was the barest of whispers. His eyes were still squeezed shut.

"Do you remember how you hurt me?" she snarled. "How I begged you to stop, to wait, to be gentle?"

A tear crept out of the corner of his eye. Elelar was only sorry it wasn't blood. 

"I think I remember," he whispered. "But was it that time or another time?"

"You were always drunk." Her voice vibrated with disgust. "Once in a red moon you'd claim the rights of a husband, and you were always drunk."

Ronall opened his eyes. He met her gaze briefly, then looked away. "I don't remember those times very well. But I do remember drinking a lot before coming to you." His breath came out on a soft puff of derisive laughter. "For courage." He sighed deeply. "I remember being afraid beforehand, and afterward feeling..." He shook his head. "I don't know. I only know that enough time had to pass for me to forget the feeling, and then I had to empty enough liquor bottles to risk coming to you again."

"Risk?" Elelar practically spat the word. "You can speak of risk when I was the one who got hurt?"

"Yes, I hurt you." He nodded and repeated, "I hurt you. I wanted to make you love me, but..." He shook his head. "The part of me that rules my life and makes me what I am... That part wanted to hurt you. That part always wanted to hurt you back."

"Hurt me back?" she repeated, outraged.

"For never loving me. For despising me. For making me feel small and pathetic and foolish. For making me afraid of my own wife's bed."

"I did nothing—"

"Didn't you?" He smiled sadly and looked out the window again. "I'm no scholar, like your grandfather was. I'm no poet, no warrior, no statesman, no... I'm nothing." He pressed his forehead against the bars. "And you always let me know it. From the moment we met."

"You were drunk the moment we met," she reminded him. "You were a drunkard long before we met. You're drunk now."

"Not drunk exactly... I had just enough to get me here. Get me through that door. Get me to face my wife." The self-disgust in his tone surprised her.

"If facing me is always such a trial, why on earth did you marry me?" she asked irritably.

To her surprise, he laughed again. "At least I no longer have to wonder why you married me. What an awful lot of my money is missing, Elelar." He sounded more weary than angry. "Koroll's men discovered that. I never would have, of course. And you counted on that."

"I gambled on it," she corrected.

"Then there were all those people you met through me, people who probably wouldn't have associated with a Silerian torena unless she were allied to a Valdani family." He gave her a hard look. "Advisor Borell, for example."

She returned his gaze, her own expression equally hard. "I was a woman alone after Gaborian died. I needed a husband. You had money, Valdani connections, and you were too interested in liquor and dreamweed and wenching to pay any attention to my activities."

His mouth worked for a moment. Then his sigh was like a surrender. "So. In my own way, I was the perfect husband."

"I would have preferred one who never hit me."

"I know." He was quiet for a long time before asking, "Did you mean to marry him?"

"Borell? No. It was his idea. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. No man cares what a woman wants, when he wants her."

"You never... cared for him, either, did you?"

"A Valdan?" The loathing in her voice was answer enough.

Ronall idly rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, I daresay this has all been harder on him than on me, in a way, even though I'm the one who got locked up and beaten."

"I've been locked up and beaten, too," Elelar pointed out impatiently.

Ronall's heavy-lidded eyes flashed wide open at that. "What? When? Who beat you?"

"What do you care? You've beat—"

"I'm your husband, damn you! Of course I care if someone has beaten my wife!"

"Myrell," she said, surprised to hear herself confide anything to Ronall. "My second day here. Trying to make me talk. And..."

"Yes?" he prodded.

"Borell." Ah, it felt good to tell someone, even if it was only Ronall. "He assaulted me when he arrested me."

"Borell." Ronall seemed less surprised than she would have supposed. "Did he—"

"He hurt me badly." She didn't want to go into details. The expression on her husband's face made it plain that he needed none.

"He, uh..." Ronall nodded and looked at the floor. "As I said, this is harder for him than for me. He believed that you loved him. I always knew that you despised me."

She stared. "Are you making excuses for Borell?"

"No." His smile was wry. "I'm not even making excuses for myself today, though I'm sure this state of mind won't last long." He came closer to her, studying her face intently. "I'm not even making excuses for you, Elelar." He looked at her as if trying to memorize her features. "We are what we are, I suppose."

She felt uncomfortable under that sad, hungry scrutiny. For the first time, she wanted to make excuses. "I would have been a good wife to you, if only you'd—"

"No, you wouldn't have." He didn't sound resentful. Just weary and sad. "Even if I'd been..." He gestured vaguely. "A man. Sober. Tender on our wedding night. Even if I had been brave enough to be your husband, to stare down the contempt that was in your eyes from the moment we met..." He shrugged and concluded, "Even if I had been someone else, you wouldn't have been a good wife, Elelar."

"Oh, you are hardly in a position to lecture me about being a good—"

"No, I'm not," he agreed. "And perhaps I deserved you."

Elelar choked on her outrage. "You deserved one of your serving wenches or farm girls or foreign acrobats, not—"

"And it was a relief to you when I went to them."

"Yes." She arched her brows and reminded him, "And you warned me never to interfere."

"It was bad enough that you thought I wasn't good enough for you." Ronall grimaced at the memories. "It was more than I could stand when you thought I wasn't even good enough for a kitchen girl."

"One who wanted to be left alone!"

That silenced him. He looked away again, his skin flushing. "Well," he said at last. "You're quite right. I'd have been a bad husband to any woman. And you'd have slept with the Imperial Advisor and the Kintish High King's Ambassador no matter who your husband was."

She couldn't deny that, so she said, "I had a duty to perform, and..." She clenched her hands in helpless frustration. "I may not carry a sword! I may not enter government service or run a fleet of trading ships. I could never be recognized as a scholar. I had to marry or join the Sisterhood!" She shook her fists, pouring out her anger on Ronall. "I am allowed only a woman's weapons to fight the Valdani. Borell took another's man wife to his bed and revealed hundreds of imperial secrets to her! But is he in prison now? No, only I am!"

Ronall's expression softened as she raged at him. To her surprise, he reached out to lightly stroke her hair, as if trying to soothe her. He had been gentle enough in bed recently, but there had never been any simple gestures of affection between them before.

"I always thought it was just me that you hated," he said. "I never realized it was all men."

Feeling sheepish, she said, "I don't hate all men." Seeing his doubtful expression in the wake of her outburst, she added more honestly, "Well, not always, anyhow."

He grinned. For a moment, the years of dissipation faded away, and he looked young again. He was a handsome man. Elelar was so used to despising him, she often forgot that he was rather fine-looking when he wasn't bloated and pale or greenish and withered from the abuse he heaped on his body. Her personal revulsion had made her often overlook the most obvious reason that various women opened their arms to him.

He sat down next to her on the cot. She stiffened. He felt it. The Outlookers in the door suddenly seemed less like furniture and more like an audience. She and Ronall had been speaking common Silerian, so the Outlookers were unlikely to have understood a word they said. Still, she realized that the dramatics between her and her husband must have been keeping them entertained.

"So I'm to be held here without being harmed until the Imperial Council announces a decision?" she asked politely, discouraging any more emotional confrontations.

"Yes. Father and I will speak to Borell again and warn him that we know you've been... handled roughly by both him and Myrell, and that we intend to report this. It should discourage them from attempting anything else. They would be suspects in your murder should you happen to fall off the roof of the prison one night." He tried to match her cool tone, but she was better at it than he was.

"Borell wants me dead," she said. "He needs me dead to protect himself."

"Yes, I've grasped that," Ronall assured her dryly.

"If the Council refuses your petition, I will be dead within an hour of Borell learning about it."

"They won't refuse. They can't refuse." His voice was fierce.

Elelar looked at him, curious and baffled. "Ronall, even if... politics don't interest you, I've betrayed you in every way possible, and I've dragged you and your family into public humiliation. Why don't you want me dead just as much as Borell does? How can you possibly care what happens to me now?"

He shrugged. "Caring about you is my curse to bear, I suppose. Perhaps it will never leave me until I learn to bear it like a man." He leaned forward and held his head in his hands as if it ached. "Dar and the Three know I've borne nothing else like a man."

 

 

The rebels separated into smaller, more efficient groups and moved fast after Alizar, sweeping through the countryside, sacking Outlooker outposts, burning down Valdani estates, seizing hostages for ransom, and flooding major Valdani roads. Kiloran had succeeded in making the mines of Alizar inaccessible to the Valdani—or anyone else. Now the Society held the rebellion's valuable hostages in watery prisons until ransoms were paid, and they urged lowlanders and city-dwellers to join the cause. The shallaheen provided Guardians with safe escort into the lowlands to bring Sileria's ancient religion back to her people—and to use the influence of the Otherworld to draw them into the fold.

The Outlookers retaliated by razing whole villages without warning. The price on Josarian's head went up again. Myrell the Butcher stormed through the Amalidar Mountains on a brutal rampage of torture and destruction, trying to force information out of the shallaheen. One woman gave in and told Myrell what little she knew in order to save her son. In this harsh land where betrayal was regarded as a worse crime than murder, she was thereafter shunned by the other villagers and had to leave the mountains. Another man broke down and talked when the Outlookers started torturing him. Someone slaughtered him that very night, leaving behind a message that left no doubt about the motive: So die all who betray Josarian. Tansen and Josarian heard about it, but never knew who had done it. The assassination was attributed to Tansen, though he had been halfway across Sileria at the time.

After Alizar, Josarian decided it was time to take control of the territory around Dalishar. He'd left men and his sister up there, not to mention Jalan the mad zanar. It was a good base, one he didn't intend to give up. The landscape around it was rough, hard country for Outlookers and roshaheen. He had so many men under his command now, he didn't even know quite how many there were—several thousand, anyhow. The rebellion was starting to spread out of the mountains, infecting the lowlands and inciting the city-dwellers. News of the victory at Alizar made people understand that things could be different. The Valdani were numerous and powerful, but not invincible.

They die just as easily as we do, Josarian thought once again, remembering the moment he had first realized it, and remembering how hard it had been, at first, to convince others.

Now Cavasar, the first city to hear of his exploits and strain against the harsh reins of Valdani rule, was in a state of constant turmoil. Five hundred more Outlookers had just been shipped in from Valdania to keep the "peace" in Sileria's westernmost city. Emelen had sent a runner to Josarian from the east saying that there'd been riots in Liron, too. The runner had had trouble finding Josarian because he was moving so fast; the news, which was nine days old, had only reached him this morning.

Armian had been right. Bit by bit, piece by piece, the tapestry of a new Sileria was starting to weave together, and the resultant canvas would be far stronger than any of its individual strands.

The rebels destroyed Valdani supply lines around Dalishar, then destroyed their supplies. They attacked Chandar and took it from the Outlookers in their bloodiest encounter since Alizar. Afterwards, Josarian paid a fortune to some Moorlander horse traders to get them to haul fifty Outlooker bodies to Adalian and abandon them right outside the city's main gate one night. Let the Valdani in Adalian think about that for a while.

Josarian was limping when he finally climbed up to Dalishar again, since he hadn't given his wound from Alizar time to heal. He greeted his sister and let her fuss over him while Jalan ranted about prophecy and portents and the fiery mating between Dar and the Firebringer. Sitting on a rock overlooking the surrounding region, Josarian reveled in the knowledge that, astonishingly, all the land he could see was now controlled by rebel forces.

It was a realization that took him far beyond his original dream. Yet it was still a long way, he acknowledged, from the dream instilled in him by a red-haired Guardian one night in Kiloran's underwater palace.

Zimran arrived the next day bearing messages from various allies and news about events west of here.

"There are three Valdani estates that have been abandoned right here in our territory," Josarian told his cousin as they relaxed together that evening and drank some chestnut wine. "We got this, among many other selections, out of their wine cellars."

Zimran wrinkled his nose. "A bit sweet for my taste." He sighed. "Ah, but the Kints like this stuff. I could have gotten such a good price for this, before the war."

"It is a war, isn't it?" Josarian mused.

"It was a war for us even before Alizar." Zimran added with a sneer, "But I hear that the Commander of Cavasar still refers to it as 'the mountain uprising' in his dispatches."

"I wonder what's happening in Shaljir?"

"Still no word from the torena?"

"No. Has there been any word from Derlen yet?"

Zimran shook his head. "Not that I know of. But ever since Alizar, Shaljir has been locked up more securely than a houseful of virgin daughters after dark. We haven't been able to risk sending anyone in, and it seems that the Alliance hasn't been able to risk sending anyone out."

Josarian considered this. "I suppose all the violence in the countryside would make it hard for Elelar to reasonably explain more trips out of the city, especially at this season. The harvest festivals will begin soon... Perhaps she'll be able to leave then." The festivals would be fewer and leaner this year, due to the rebellion, but Silerians wouldn't entirely forego their social pleasures and banned religious observances.

"You think something's happened, don't you?" Zimran guessed.

Josarian frowned. "I don't know. Dalishar was inaccessible until yesterday. Zilar has too many Outlookers stationed there now for a meeting to be safe. Elelar probably doesn't know how to reach the caves on Niran, and we've been covering a lot of ground almost every day. If she has somehow managed to get out of Shaljir when no one else can, she could be trying to reach us and just doesn't known where to look." He met his cousin's eyes and added, "But the long silence bothers me. No word at all from Shaljir. Not from her or anyone else." He nodded. "It bothers me."

Turning his attention to something that was more within their control, Zimran said, "I told Sister Basimar about your wound. She sent some salve back with me."

Josarian rolled his eyes. "Jalilar has fussed with it enough already today."

Zimran grinned. "And nagged you the whole time about how you've neglected it, I'm sure."

"And nagged me about giving her an escort to go to her husband. I must have told her twenty times today, I'm not sending her anywhere until I'm sure it's safe for my sister to travel that distance." He sighed. "Dar alone knows how Emelen puts up with her."

Zimran nodded his agreement, but replied, "He must be missing her, though. That's a long time for a man to be without a woman. And while he may have been tempted in the east, he values his parts too much to risk what would happen if Jalilar found out he'd used them on another woman."

Josarian laughed but said, "Ah, he loves her. You wouldn't know about this, not yet, but when the right woman comes into a man's life, he still enjoys looking at others, but he needs no more than the one he's got."

"Plenty of men want more than the one woman they've g—"

"Plenty of men live their whole lives without finding the right woman."

"Or finding the right woman twice?" Zimran guessed, his expression softening.

Josarian lost his smile. "I still miss her."

"I know."

"Everything is so different now, too. It's been so long since I've seen the village we lived in, the house we shared, or the bed we slept in together. All I have left of her is her scarf," he said, briefly touching the place where he kept it pressed against his skin. "And my memories."

"For a woman like that, memories should serve a man well enough."

It was good to talk to someone who had known her, even though Calidar and Zimran hadn't gotten along well. Tansen listened with sympathy, with empathy, for he had lost loved ones, too, but he hadn't known Calidar. And no words could sufficiently conjure up the vibrancy of the woman who had been Josarian's wife.

"Do you remember the cow she bought the year after you were married?" Zimran said.

Josarian chuckled. "The meanest cow in all of Sileria."

"Even it's milk was sour."

"And how many people did it attack?"

Zimran laughed. "I could never keep count. Calidar's legendary attack cow, more dangerous than any mountain cat!"

"And Calidar, the only creature in Sileria more stubborn than that beast. Sweet Dar, how I begged that woman to give up her vicious cow!"

"Begged her? I remember the time you gave Lann money to try to buy the damn thing from her. And she wouldn't sell. She was so determined to turn it into a good, docile milk cow, no matter how long it took."

"Oh, and the cost of a cow." Josarian rubbed his forehead, smiling wryly as he remembered their fights about it. "It took everything we had to buy that worthless animal."

"Even so, you tried to set it free one night while Calidar was visiting her mother."

"And nearly got gored for my efforts," Josarian recalled.

"Which was nothing compared to what your wife would have done to you for driving away her precious cow."

"Thank Dar, the tribute collectors finally took it."

"Ahhh, so the Valdani did have their uses, eh?" Zimran said.

"Only that once."

They grinned at each other and fell into reminiscing about earlier, happier days. It felt good to spend this time with Zimran, to feel close to him again. They had grown up almost as brothers together, and they'd been loyal to each other throughout their lives, from their first boyhood fibs all the way through the dangerous days of Josarian's outlawry. But a rift had grown between them ever since the start of the rebellion, ever since Josarian had chosen a different path in life. Ever since other men had chosen to join him.

He knew that Zim didn't like Tansen and positively hated Josarian's friendship with the shatai. Josarian had chosen to make Tan his closest male relative when he swore the bloodpact with him, and he knew that Zimran felt betrayed. Nonetheless, if he could go back, he would do it again without hesitation. Not only was he proud to call a man like Tansen his bloodbrother, but he now needed Tansen in a way that... he would never need Zimran again. Tansen had been the first man to join Josarian's bloodfeud against the Valdani, and he had never wavered. He was a man of courage, intelligence, commitment, and extensive experience. No other man could support Josarian's leadership as Tansen could. He was invaluable. Without him, there wouldn't have been a rebellion. In fact, without Tansen, Josarian would have died with twenty other shallaheen at Britar, long ago, and life in Sileria would have soon erased even the memory of his bloodfeud against the Valdani.

He trusted no one the way he trusted Tansen, the man who guarded his back, the man whom he consulted on every move, every plan, every idea. Of course, Josarian still loved Zimran, his lifelong friend and companion. He would go back into the fortress at Britar all over again to free him. But Zimran, he knew, was only a rebel because he had no choice. Josarian and the Valdani had forced him into a life he hadn't wanted and didn't believe in; and his lack of commitment meant he couldn't lead men in this cause. Josarian knew that Zimran also felt betrayed when he made leaders of Emelen and others while Zim simply protected Mirabar or Tashinar, intercepted Valdani couriers, and carried messages between Josarian and the Guardians.

Zimran was a brave fighter and a loyal cousin, but even now, he still didn't truly believe in their cause. Even now, he would like nothing better than to make peace with the Valdani so that he could go back to his lucrative smuggling trade and his easy seductions.

Sometimes, if he weren't my cousin, I even wonder if he would...

Josarian chose not to complete the thought. It was far too ugly and dishonorable a thing to consider, even in the silence of his mind. Especially tonight, when he and Zimran felt close again, as they had throughout the long years before Josarian had killed those two Outlookers on a moonlit smuggling trail. Tonight, for a little while, the rebellion was somewhere out there, a thing to be escaped for a few hours. Here, in the glowing light of ancient Guardian fires, he and Zimran laughed and talked, once again as close as brothers.

When morning dawned over Dalishar, Josarian awoke from fiery dreams of agony and ecstasy. Sweating with mingled desire and terror, gasping for air like a drowning man, he looked across the cave at Zimran. His cousin slept peacefully. Josarian sighed and closed his eyes, grateful that he hadn't shouted and howled in his sleep. So far only Tansen had seen him in that state. And considering how much it disturbed Tansen, he dreaded the thought of Zimran, Jalilar, Jalan, and the others finding out about it. About the dreams. About the madness and mystery claiming his mind.

He rose silently to his feet, pulled on his tunic, and went out into the fresh air, trying to calm his ruffled nerves and reeling senses. Dalishar was high enough to afford him an excellent view of Darshon. The volcano was peaceful, as it had been all year. Only a slender wisp of smoke rose from the belly of Darshon today. The mountain stood vast and majestic against the dawn sky, its snowcapped summit piercing a thin, fragile cloud.

She called him, as insistently as the Beckoner called Mirabar.

"Dar," he whispered, as he used to whisper Calidar's name.

Was he mad? Or insanely egotistic? Or doomed by the superstitions of his people? He knew what they said about him: Josarian, the Firebringer. He'd have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to know. But he didn't even believe in the Firebringer. And Tansen believed he himself had killed the Firebringer. Mirabar, blessed by Dar Herself and gifted with visions of prophecy, said nothing about his being the Firebringer—and almost seemed to sneer at anyone who did.

Dar, are You really calling to me? Or am I drunk on power and victory?

No answer came. He concentrated so fiercely that he didn't hear the footsteps approaching him until they were practically right behind him. He jumped as if he'd been stung and whirled round, swinging the yahr he had seized instinctively. He stopped when confronted by a shrieking young woman.

"Don't do that!" she snapped in common Silerian.

She was pretty and nicely dressed, but dirty and very unkempt. Then he recognized her: Elelar's maid.

"Faradar?" he said in surprise.

"They've taken the torena! Days and days ago!" she cried. "I've been looking everywhere for you!"