In Legend Born (19 page)

"She waits for me there." Josarian's heart filled with a sudden loneliness.

"If you believe that—"

"It's true," Josarian said. "I've seen her." Seeing Tansen's skeptical expression, he repeated, "It's true." He told him about the Guardians on Mount Niran, and the old woman who had summoned Calidar's shade from the Otherworld. "It was my wife. I saw her."

Tansen rose to his feet and resumed their trek. "A year after my brother threw himself into the volcano, my mother took me with her to a Guardian encampment where we offered them smuggled Kintish cloth in exchange for a Calling."

This was the first voluntary comment the
shatai
had made about his family since the night they'd met. Josarian prodded, "And?"

"My mother claimed she saw my brother in the circle of fire. But I saw nothing."

"Not everyone sees the shade in a Calling," Josarian pointed out. "Only the person who—"

"Perhaps some see exactly what they
want
to see."

"And perhaps some want to see nothing there," Josarian countered.

Tansen glanced at him. "The Guardians are powerful."

"Indeed they are."

"Perhaps powerful enough to make a man believe he sees—"

"I
did
see—"

"But the
Guardian
spoke to you, not the shade. Yes?"

"Yes, but they were Calidar's words, and I
saw
—"

"Sorcerers who can blow flames from their mouths and pour fire from their hands... Who's to say they can't control what you think you see in the fire?"

"Tashinar never knew Calidar. She couldn't have spoken so much like her. Those were my wife's words that night."

Tansen relented. "Then may Calidar welcome you when you journey to the Otherworld."

"She will." Josarian's eyes scanned a mountain pass far below them, keeping an eye out for Outlookers. "And then we will be together again." Satisfied that there were no riders in the pass, he glanced again at Tansen. "But you don't believe that, do you?"

Tansen shrugged. His long, gleaming, black braid hung down the middle of his back as he turned away and kept walking. If nothing else, Josarian reflected, the still-mysterious
roshah
no longer expected an attack from his companion. Tansen had returned Josarian's
yahr
the morning after they'd met; it was now tucked securely into Josarian's
jashar
. He followed Tansen along the precarious path skirting the side of the jagged mountain.

"The Guardians can't explain why not everyone goes to the Otherworld," Tansen finally responded.

"The journey is long and arduous."

"I've heard of weak, old, lecherous
sriliaheen
being Called every single year by some relative," Tansen pointed out, "while there are strong young men who died in a rockslide and have never once appeared in the circle of fire."

"Maybe the bodies weren't burned." Everyone knew that a corpse must be purified through fire. "Maybe that's why—"

"No." Tansen shook his head. "If it were that simple, that consistent, we would know."

"So do you believe everyone goes into oblivion?" Josarian asked curiously. Being a mercenary who regularly risked his life in combat must be frightening for one who didn't believe in the Otherworld.

Tansen slowed his pace and looked down at the scars on his right palm, the ones made by relatives when a baby was named and when a child became an adult. "I don't know," he said at last. "I hope not."

"Where do you think
you'll
go?" Josarian persisted.

"I think..." Tansen glanced into the distance, to where Darshon rose majestically above all other mountains. "I think Dar may want me for Herself."

It wasn't a boast, Josarian realized. "For punishment?" He would have asked what Tansen had done, but he knew the warrior wouldn't answer him.

The moment was over. Tansen shrugged again, then turned away and increased his pace until even Josarian would have been hard pressed to find breath for more conversation.

Tansen watched the road outside of Malthenar while Josarian descended into the village's narrow, winding streets to get food and information from the home of some bloodpact relations. After four years of traveling alone, Tansen found the outlaw surprisingly easy company, despite his frequent questions about things Tansen had no intention of discussing with anyone. Josarian's comments also showed a quick mind and an intuitive understanding of human nature. He was intensely curious about the world beyond these mountains, too, and those were questions which Tansen didn't mind answering. It was useful for a
shatai
to be able to put clients and potential allies at ease with a ready supply of good stories, and although he wasn't a talkative man by nature, Tansen nonetheless had a
shallah
's natural ability to tell a tale.

Although he had learned a lot about Josarian while pursuing him, he was still surprised by the qualities of the man with whom he had now joined forces. He hadn't expected to like him so well. He'd been quite prepared to put up with an embittered, headstrong, and willfully ignorant sheep herder if necessary, as long as the man continued harassing and terrifying the Valdani and encouraging others to do likewise. While looking for Josarian, Tansen had simply thought of him as an effective outlaw in a land of hopeless slaves. He had not expected what he found: a visionary.

It was in Josarian's voice whenever he spoke of Sileria, his village, his family, the injustices he had seen, and the moment he had chosen a path of violence and rebellion. He wasn't just raiding supply posts and murdering careless Outlookers. No, he had sworn a bloodfeud against the Valdani. He had shown Tansen the fresh scar on his left palm.

A bloodfeud could last for generations, and whole clans could be wiped out. It was the sort of custom that had made Sileria so easy for the Valdani to conquer. Yet it was, conversely, also a source of immense strength. Men who had declared a bloodfeud could be fearless, merciless, committed beyond all sense and reason to slaying their enemies.

A bloodfeud against the Valdani.
It was an extraordinary idea, one that went beyond anything Tansen had considered while watching a nervous Valdani commander sweat in Cavasar. Upon seeing how one lowly
shallah
had managed to strike terror into the hearts of the Valdani and encourage the citizens of Cavasar to riots, unrest, and civil disobedience, Tansen had thought only of joining the outlaw, of keeping him alive as long as possible. The Outlookers would commit their immense resources to destroying Josarian, but a man protected by a
shatai
was hard to kill. The longer Josarian stayed alive and active, the more damage he would do to the Valdani in this district.

Tansen had mostly been thinking in terms of finding a role for himself now that he had returned home. He couldn't fulfill the role his youth had prepared him for. He had changed too much for that, and too much had happened since those days. Besides, a
shallah
was nothing without his family—a mere outcast, a
roshah
—and his people were all dead. So, after all these years, he had also seen an opportunity for revenge. No matter how much he had changed, he was
shallah
enough to still want revenge for what the Valdani had done to his family.
Shallaheen
treasured revenge.

Yet even so, until he'd met Josarian, Tansen had never glimpsed the scope of what Josarian saw.
A bloodfeud against the Valdani.
Something never-ending, something that would last for generations. Something which would survive even after their two heads decorated the spiked gate of some Outlooker fortress. A dream wherein
shallaheen
would still be shedding Valdani blood long after he and Josarian were dead.

It was a dream worth coming home for, worth living for, and it would be worth dying for when the time came—as it surely would. They were only two men, whereas Koroll had thousands of Outlookers under his command. But at least Tansen and Josarian might be able to live for a while, do considerable damage to their oppressors, and leave a legacy for others to follow after their deaths.

A
bloodfeud
. He had never expected to swear one again, but tonight he would slice a Kintish blade across his left palm and bind himself to Josarian's cause.

Josarian returned with food, wine, clean clothes, information about Outlooker movements, and an extra
yahr
that his late father's bloodbrother had given him.

"Kintish petrified wood," Tansen noted, examining the
yahr
. "This blood-uncle of yours is an assassin?"

Josarian shook his head. "His son. Killed ten years ago in a bloodvow."

A bloodvow was sworn against an individual rather than a whole family, clan, village, or sect. Bloodvows were usually the provenance of the Society and the work of its assassins.

"Kiloran offered to apprentice him—the assassin—to water magic, in exchange for betraying Baran," Josarian said. "Baran found out about his betrayal and killed him."

"Who's Baran?"

"Ten years ago he was just another waterlord. Now he's Kiloran's greatest rival." Josarian nodded towards the north and added, "They've been fighting for control of the Idalar River since before my wife died."

"That was always Kiloran's," Tansen said, surprised.

"Not anymore. Nor is it Baran's yet." Josarian led Tansen away from the village, treading more carefully now that it was nearly dark. "Last year, Baran froze the river all the way from Illan to Shaljir."

"The city must have been frantic," Tansen said. The large, dense population of Shaljir relied heavily upon the Idalar River for its water supply.

"The
toreni
and merchants of the city sent tribute to Kiloran, which he kept, even though he couldn't do anything about the river."

"Naturally." 

"Then Kiloran flooded Baran's native village in retaliation." Josarian described how the flood water had simply stopped flowing when it reached the edge of the cliff upon which the village was perched, halting as if it had run up against a wall. "Water as high as a man's waist, enough of it to cover the entire village, and it just... stopped at the cliff's edge. Stayed there for nearly a whole season before both waterlords moved on to other methods of battle."

"Imagine how much Kiloran must want to see Baran dead," Tansen said.

"As much as he wants to see you dead?" Josarian prodded.

"Well, at least he can't flood my village. It's gone."

"Have you any family left anywhere?"

"No. They were depleted pretty thoroughly by the bloodfeud that killed my father."

"Calidar's family, too," Josarian murmured. "I knew some of them. A waste of good men."

"Yes," Tansen agreed. "By the time I was born, I don't think any of them even remembered why it had started."

"And now we're starting another one," Josarian pointed out.

"This one should have started long ago."

"Yes." After a moment, Josarian said, "I can never go back, Tansen, but you—"

"I can never go back, either."

"Then...."

"Together we will go forward." He looked down at his left palm. "I'm ready."

They found a place to camp. Josarian built a small fire while Tansen ate the food Josarian had brought back from Malthenar for him. Then Josarian pulled out his small skinning knife.

"No, I'll use this," Tansen said, unsheathing a sword and holding its blade over the fire.

"All right, but I'll use my own knife."

"What for?"

Josarian met his gaze. "I would like to ask you to become my brother. Will you honor me, Tansen?"

"Bloodbrothers?
Us?
" Tansen didn't even try to conceal his surprise. It was not a commitment to be undertaken by men who'd only known each other a few days, and Josarian knew it.

His companion nodded without hesitation, despite Tansen's less-than-flattering response to his proposal. "You have no family at all. No one to trust. No one even to burn your corpse when you're dead."