In Legend Born (20 page)

"I've managed for nine years without—"

"But you're
here
now. You cannot be one of us again with no relations at all."

"You know that Kiloran is after me," Tansen warned. "How safe will any new relation of mine be?"

"About as safe as any relation of mine." Josarian added, "I do have a family, but they don't know where I am. I may die in Britar and never see them again. I would rather die with a brother at my side."

"And if we both live," Tansen said, "you'll be stuck with a bloodbrother you scarcely know."

Josarian smiled. "I know you, Tansen. I don't know what you've done, why Kiloran wants your life, or what you fear from Dar, but I know
you
. Some men's honor is in their faces, and their courage is like a banner." He nodded. "I know you well enough to swear a bloodpact with you."

A
shatai
didn't need anyone after his teacher had sent him out into the world; but a
shallah
couldn't exist without belonging to the complex web of commitments that defined who was to be trusted and who was not. A
shallah
was nothing without his kin.

Tansen looked across the fire at the man whose throat still bore the painful cut he'd made with the
shir
the night they'd met. Josarian was a little fairer than Tan's people had been, his build taller and heavier. His dialect, like that of everyone in these parts, sounded a little drawling to Tansen's eastern ears. Had either of their lives been normal, they would never even have met.

"If I am really to come home," Tansen said slowly, "then I will need a brother, won't I?"

"Yes."

Their eyes held until Tansen made his decision.

"Then will you honor me, Josarian?" he asked formally.

Josarian grinned, but he responded with equal formality, "It is I who am honored."

When both of their blades were blessed by fire and glowing with heat, Tansen drew his across his left palm in a deep, curved line following his lifeline; one cut for the two vows he would swear tonight. A
shallah
who could not do this to his own flesh without crying out was not considered a man. He held his hand over the fire, watching the blood drip down to sizzle on the hot coals and become one with the flames.

"I swear by Dar, by my honor, and by the memory of my slain kin," Tansen began, reciting the traditional words of a bloodfeud, "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."

Josarian carved a similar deep, curved line into his own left palm, then held it out to Tansen. Golden light flickered on their faces as their hands joined above the fire in a tight grip. Their blood mingled, then spilled out of their tight clasp to drip into the fire, marking them before Dar and the Otherworld as being of one blood.

Having already removed their
jashareen
, they now wrapped them around their joined hands, binding them together. Their mingled blood seeped from their handclasp to stain some of the strands of each man's
jashar
, a permanent alteration in his identity, another sign of the lifelong brotherhood he now swore.

"I swear by the souls of my dead parents and by Dar Herself," Josarian vowed, "to trust you as a brother born of my own mother. I swear by my honor and by the memory of my wife that you may trust me and rely on me as a brother of your own mother's womb."

Tansen swore his vows in the same steady, clear voice, promising trust and absolute loyalty. They each recited their own family lines as far back as they could, then vowed to protect each other's families, should the need ever arise.

At the end of the ceremony, Josarian prayed to Dar, asking for Her blessing. They couldn't see Darshon on such a dark night, but they knew which way to face. Unable to pray, Tansen bowed his head respectfully and listened to his new brother in silence.

Tansen approached the fire where Josarian sat. He held out his left hand. "I don't suppose you brought anything from Malthenar I can wrap around this until it stops bleeding?"

"We'll shred your clothing and use that," Josarian said.

Tansen eyed him skeptically. "And what am I supposed to wear?"

"Something that won't stand out so much." Fumbling one-handed with the bundle he'd begun unpacking earlier, Josarian pulled out a simple tunic, oft-mended but clean. "With the weather getting warmer, you'll only be hot in those Moorlander clothes, anyhow."

"Yes, but shredding my clothes? The weather will get cold again, you know."

"Ah, but who knows if we'll live long enough for that?" Josarian grinned at him. "And if we do, I'm sure someone will give us more clothes."

"These clothes were made to last," Tansen protested. "Do you have any idea what they cost me?"

"I thought you said that money came easily to a
shatai
," Josarian reminded him, thrusting the old garment at him.

Tansen accepted the bundle with a resigned expression. "It does. But my money was all stolen by a Valdan, if you recall."

"One who will be alert for any description of you when you fail to show up with my head."

"True enough," Tansen admitted. He eyed the traditional
shallah
clothing with some disfavor. He had grown accustomed to finer things. The material was rough homespun, and the design was such that it would fit a variety of men—and fit them all rather badly. However, he knew that Josarian was right. It was no longer desirable to be so noticeable; here in the mountains, he stood out as much as Koroll's horse would have. "All right," he agreed, "I'll wear them." He removed his harness, unlaced his tailored, embroidered tunic, and pulled it over his head.

Josarian drew in a sharp breath. "By all the Fires! Who did
that
to you?"

Seeing the direction of his bloodbrother's horrified gaze, Tansen looked down at his chest. "Kaja did it. My
shatai-kaj
." Since Josarian still looked appalled, he added, "It's just my brand."

"Someone
branded
you?"

"It's a mark of honor, Josarian." He held up his scarred right palm. "Like these."

"What does it honor?" Josarian peered at the symbol that had been burned into Tansen's chest.

"When I had passed my test and my teacher declared me a
shatai
, he marked me as one." Tansen traced the symbol with his forefinger. "These two crescents are for the new moons. The sorcerers of the Stone Forest, who made my swords, are said to be most powerful when Abayara and Ejara are both ascending. The marks symbolize the power achieved by the union of mind and body, spirit and flesh, intention and deed."

"What's the mark between the crescents?"

"It's a Kintish hieroglyph."

"A what?"

Tansen smiled. "It's like a Kintish
jashar
, in a way."

"Then what does it say?"

"That I'm a
shatai
."

Josarian considered this. "The
shatai
must be very brave," he said at last, "to agree to have this burned into their flesh."

"They all have five years to get used to the idea." Tansen added blandly, "Assuming they survive the training, that is."

He removed his boots, then pulled off the finely made Moorlander leggings that fit like a second skin. With regret, he handed the garments to Josarian, who thriftily packed away the tunic for possible future use before ripping into the leggings with his skinning knife. Tansen pulled on the mended tunic Josarian had given him. He settled it over his torso, hips, and thighs, then dragged his braid through the neck of the garment.

As he did so, he realized he'd need to get rid of the braid, too, if he was to disappear into the hills as an ordinary
shallah
now. The oiled braid that fell past his waist was common enough in most of the Kintish Kingdoms, but it looked strange here. Wryly remembering how strict his
kaj
had been about personal grooming, considering him an untidy barbarian when he'd first arrived, Tan made a silent apology to the old man, then cut off the braid just past his shoulders.

Josarian watched him toss the gleaming rope of woven hair into the fire, then wrap his throbbing hand in strips of soft material from his shredded leggings.

"Now you look like a
shallah
," Josarian said with approval. "Now you've come home.

Chapter Eight

The
shallah
who walked down the long, dusty road leading to the old fortress outside of Britar that evening looked disappointingly ordinary, at least in the opinion of Myrell, the Valdani captain who'd had the initiative to imprison twenty of Josarian's friends and relatives a few days ago. The approaching stranger didn't look like someone who could kill two Outlookers with his bare hands, and he certainly didn't look like a man who couldn't be killed. If this was Josarian, then he seemed like any other Silerian peasant, despite all the stories spreading about his courage and prowess.

Toren
Porsall, a Valdan despite the ridiculous Silerian title, had come to Myrell with a complaint about the murdering, thieving villain. So Myrell—who understood these barbarians better than his thin-blooded superiors in Cavasar and Shaljir ever would—had taken immediate and ruthless measures to deal with the situation.

If the Outlookers couldn't find Josarian, then they could at least turn his own people against him by making them suffer because of him. Once the Valdani started executing these prisoners because Josarian wouldn't turn himself in, the
shallaheen
wouldn't continue being so loyal to him. No, indeed. Myrell had seen the way these peasants turned on each other with only the slightest provocation. He'd seen the lust with which they pursued their bloodfeuds and the reverence they showed to assassins. Savages like these would need only a nudge to turn them against Josarian, and then they'd be so eager to kill him that the Outlookers wouldn't need to keep trying.

If Josarian didn't turn himself in, that was. Myrell stood on the parapet walk above the main gate, watching with immense satisfaction as a lone
shallah
approached the fortress. Surely this had to be Josarian. Time was running out for the outlaw if he wanted to die a martyr rather than be hounded by his own kind. The sun was setting, and tonight would be the last dark-moon before Abayara renewed herself and appeared again as a glowing sliver in the sky. Tomorrow night, the Outlookers would begin slaughtering their prisoners, one per day, if Josarian didn't turn himself in.

Capturing Josarian would be an even better outcome for Myrell than getting him murdered by other
shallaheen
. Even if Myrell's commanders knew that his bold strategy had been the seed of Josarian's destruction, they would still take the credit themselves if the outlaw were slaughtered by his own kind. But if Myrell captured the outlaw, if he could bring Josarian's head to Cavasar, or even to Shaljir.... Who knew what kind of glory would be his as a result?

Myrell made the Sign of the Three and prayed that the approaching stranger was indeed Josarian, come to save his friends and relatives from certain death. It seemed an unlikely sacrifice for a
shallah
to make, but there was no denying that they could be as blindly loyal as they were bloodthirsty and vengeful.

The stranger stopped perhaps two hundred paces from the main gate. His shaggy black hair hung past his shoulders, unkempt and ungroomed. He wore the rough, homespun clothing of most
shallaheen
, and his left hand was lightly bound, as if he'd cut it—or sliced it open for one of those barbaric Silerian blood rituals. Myrell could see he was a young man, tall, slim, and straight-backed. He seemed to match the description they had of Josarian.

The stranger looked up at the ramparts where, in anticipation of his approach, some thirty archers stood at attention. He called out, in lightly accented Valdan, "Who is the commanding officer here?"

"I am. Captain Myrell. Who asks?"