In Legend Born (78 page)

"Where
are
you, damn you?" Mirabar cried.

She had left the safety of Kiloran's camp and entered the woods, begging the Beckoner to come to her. The expression on Josarian's face ever since the departure of the lowlanders and the sea-born folk terrified her. 

He's thinking of doing it!

He had sought her alone several times since then. Questioning her, probing her understanding of the Otherworld, seeking guidance. And she couldn't give it to him! She had no answers, no hints, no visions about this. She knew only the panic of any ordinary person when confronted with the extraordinary. Josarian was thinking of throwing himself into Darshon to prove, once and for all, whether or not he was the Firebringer.

"What can I tell him?" she begged the silent void. "Answer me! I know you hear me!"

But the Beckoner always Called her, she had never Called him. He came only when it suited him, never when it suited her. He came for his purposes, not hers.

"I
must
know what to tell Josarian..."

Tears stung her eyes. She felt helpless, frightened, frustrated. Josarian had confided his dreams to her, cataclysmic and mysterious dreams about painful yet ecstatic union with fire and lava. It could mean anything, though. He said that Tansen—the only other person who knew about the dreams—thought his mind was just reflecting the fears and feelings inspired by the constant rumors and Jalan's mad ravings. Mirabar thought the dreams might mean that Josarian was destined to become a Guardian. Such dreams and visions sometimes afflicted someone being called to serve Dar and the Otherworld.

She supposed it could even be some nasty form of Valdani sorcery. Mirabar knew very little about their wizards and their magic, since the cult of the Three had risen to eclipse more ancient Valdani religions in recent centuries, and the Valdani now placed their trust in the might of their arms and the wealth of their treasury, rather than in mysterious and unpredictable arts. But who could say for sure that these dreams were not being fed to Josarian by some powerful enemy? Mirabar had heard of such things, and she had seen enough strange sorcery in her own short life to know better than to ignore the possibilities of things she hadn't yet seen.

She had never believed in the Firebringer, mostly because the
zanareen
who awaited him were so patently mad. What if she had been wrong, though? If the Firebringer was real, then surely there had never been a more likely candidate than Josarian.

So many choices. So many possibilities... If only she knew what to do! Josarian sought guidance from her, and she sought guidance from the Beckoner—and, so far, they were both disappointed by the lack of answers.

Burning with helpless fear, she shouted into the empty woods, "I have done everything you have asked of me!
Everything.
Now I want an answer!"

She rent the night with fire and fury, flinging her will against the locked doors of the Otherworld, trying to force her way through the barriers between this world and the Other one. Her failure was as sharp as physical pain. Exhausted and despairing, she slumped onto the rain-softened ground and lay there weeping, lost in her misery, oblivious to the world.

There was a chill in the air, due to the season as much as to Kiloran's nearby presence. The harvest would soon begin in full measure, and then the long rains would come. The earth would sleep and renew itself, preparing for another long year under Sileria's merciless sun. The
shallaheen
would know no rest, though. They would keep on fighting until every Valdan was gone or every rebel was dead. Would the lowlanders and sea-born folk join them? Mirabar sighed wearily, having no answers...

She felt his presence well before she heard his footsteps or the unfamiliar sound of his voice. There was a faint touch, almost like a caress, along senses sharply attuned to visions no one else saw, voices no one else heard. There was a melding, a warmth, a subtle vibration. It was so unfamiliar that it should have frightened her, especially out here alone and unprotected. There was nothing threatening about it, though; on the contrary, she was drawn to it the way she had always been drawn to fire, even before she had understood what she was. Like fire, she sensed that this was something powerful that could be terribly dangerous, but she felt a communion with it which overruled any sense of caution. She sensed, too, that it had found her by following her violent Call to the Beckoner.

He approached quietly and was very close before she heard him. She had no doubt those were a man's footsteps, no matter how soft and subtle. She had grown up wild in these mountains and knew the sound of every creature that roamed them. She stood up and looked through the trees, waiting for his shape to separate itself from the thick shadows. It was nearly dark out. She had stayed away from camp a long time.

When she saw him approaching, she knew who he was even before he spoke. She had heard him described so many times; had
demanded
his description so often from Josarian, Zimran, and Tansen. He was taller than Tansen. Not so broad as Josarian. Better dressed than any of them, with a silver broach as his Guardian insignia. A series of elaborate braids kept his dark hair off his face; seven long, gleaming curls fell from the knot at the nape of his neck. He was... rather handsome, really.

And his eyes glowed like the Fires of Dar.

"Cheylan," she breathed.

He stared back, taking in the glowing red of her hair and her flame-hot eyes. No one in her life had ever looked at her this way, before. Hungry, eager... pleased. Warmth fluttered in her stomach, spread through her limbs, and heated her cheeks.

"I thought..." He smiled slowly, almost self-deprecatingly. "Ah, but they did say you were young." He was perhaps Josarian's age. "I just didn't..." He shrugged.

He spoke common Silerian. Hers was not particularly good. She had never cared until now. Now she did not want this man to think her some ignorant peasant girl—even though she was.

"I... I don't know how old I am," she said haltingly.

He smiled again and, to her surprise, gently pushed her hair off her face. "I'm sorry, I don't speak
shallah
very well."

She flushed. "My Silerian is not
so
bad." 

"No, it's not," he agreed. "And it will improve as we talk, Mirabar."

"What are you doing here?" she asked. "You're supposed to be in—"

"I came to tell Josarian that there's been an uprising in Liron."

"Really? Have you seen him? He's down—"

"Yes, he and I have already talked."

"Has Liron fallen?" she asked eagerly.

"Not yet." He took her hand and suggested they find some place to sit down. They settled down on a couple of boulders, and Cheylan blew a small fire into life to light the night. Then, at her insistence, he recounted events in the east to her.

"The Outlookers have killed many people and regained control of the city. For now. But they're short of men and money, and their overland supply routes have been destroyed, leaving them only those supplies which arrive by sea. And Kintish pirates are now taking about one out of every three Valdani supply ships bound for Liron—with the blessing of the Palace of Heaven, now that Kinto and Valdania are at war." He stopped, at her request, to repeat something she had not understood. Recognizing her embarrassment, he spoke more slowly as he continued, "The Outlooker commander in Liron has written to Koroll twice to request more men, but we've intercepted his couriers. He doesn't yet know that his reinforcements will never arrive."

"Liron will fall," she murmured.

"Does the Beckoner tell you that?" he probed.

"Common sense tells me that." When his brows rose, she said, "The
torena
is right about one thing. The arrogance of the Valdani will be their undoing."

"
Torena
Elelar?"

"Yes."

"I hear she's been captured."

Mirabar nodded and, in response to his questions, told him what she knew about Elelar's capture and Tansen's intention to rescue her.

"A brave man," Cheylan surmised, his voice smooth, rich, and cultured.

"He's very fond of the
torena
," Mirabar replied with all the tact she could muster.

"You are not," he gathered.

"Fortunately, I don't need to be."

He grinned at that. Then he asked her about herself. Following the path set by his questions, Mirabar told Cheylan how little she knew about her birth and recounted some of her childhood. Embarrassed about her youthful savagery, her responses were halting at first. She would have found pity as appalling as contempt. Cheylan, however,
understood
; and the simple, unfamiliar beauty of that loosened her tongue until she was speaking freely, with scarcely any prompting from him. She told him about her loneliness and ignorant fear, cast out from society and hunted as a demon, haunted by visions, dreams, and powers which convinced her that she was as evil as people claimed. She told him about being found by Tashinar, who captured her, tamed her, and taught her what she truly was. Told him about her initiation and her training as a Guardian.

Born into an ancient family of
toreni
, Cheylan's life, as he described it to her, had been very different from hers. His family was wealthy, ensuring that he was well-fed, educated, and protected. Yet his loneliness had been identical to hers, his sense of isolation remarkably similar. Like Mirabar, he had been an object of scorn and superstition.

"I was kept inside during most of my childhood," he said, speaking more fluidly as her ears grew more accustomed to his speech. "Either in our house in Liron, or else at my family's country estate. I'd stay with my tutor at one house for a while, usually without my parents, who didn't like to look at me. Sooner or later, there would always be trouble: a frightened servant, a superstitious merchant, a bad harvest in the country, a terrible accident in the city... Then there would be talk and threats. And so, keeping me concealed, my family would move me to the other house."

Mirabar understood, too. She didn't suppose the luxuries of his life had made up for being an outcast. Even as a rag-clad starving child, she had longed for affection and acceptance far more than she had ever longed for wealth or comfort. She had cherished private fantasies wherein people loved her and begged her forgiveness, not fantasies wherein she became richer than the rest of them.

"In the end, though," he said, "I found my path in life with the Guardians."

"Have you ever... seen another like us?" she asked.

"Two," he answered promptly. "The Guardian who initiated me was very much like you. I never got to know him well. The Society assassinated him."

"I'm sorry."

He nodded in acknowledgement. "And there is a boy somewhere near Liron. Guardians keep him hidden, of course."

They talked easily about the mystery of who and what they were, about the dangers and difficulties, and about whether or not there were more and how they came to be.

"There were once many," she told him. "I've seen it, in my visions."

He took her hand again, making her blood move a little faster. "Tell me about the visions. The Beckoner."

"I, uh..."

His gaze held hers in the firelight. His hand was very warm. Hard, like a
shallah
's hand, despite his birth and the lack of scars. Guardians led hard lives, after all, as did rebels. Something unfamiliar danced in her belly, a mingling of danger and excitement. Cheylan was one of the few men who had ever looked at her with no hint of fear or revulsion, without even surprise. He was sophisticated like Elelar, worldly like Tansen, and kind like Josarian. He was the first person she had ever met who could truly understand her life. And he was appealing enough to incite feelings she recognized but didn't know how to act on.

So she wasn't quite sure why something warned her not to discuss the Beckoner with him now. She didn't understand the reluctance she felt, but she had stayed alive this long by obeying her instincts.

"Kiloran is here," she said at last, feeling the chill in the air.
That must be why
. "I do not want to tell you about the Beckoner near him."

He accepted her response. "Of course." He'd had plenty of trouble with the Society, too, after all. "Another time?"

"You have seen, Kiloran?" she asked.

"Not yet. But he makes his presence known, doesn't he?"

She smiled at his dry tone. "Oh, yes. Very much so."

"You're shivering," he said , standing up and drawing her to her feet. "And you have no cloak. Here, take mine."

She nestled into the cloak's body-warmed folds as Cheylan wrapped it around her shoulders. It was finer than anything she had ever worn, though not so fine as Elelar's things.

Cheylan's arms stayed around her, his body close and strangely tense. His gaze was hooded, the bright glitter of his eyes shielded by dark lashes. He smelled of the wind and the woods. He was so close, she could even smell the wine he had recently drunk; Josarian must have offered him some. She could feel his breath on her face, slower than her own—which was suddenly very fast.

He was staring at her mouth, she realized. She had seen men look at Elelar like this, but never at her. Mirabar's heart banged hard against her chest, beating out a rhythm that thundered through her head. She suddenly felt small and weak. Even in Kiloran's watery palace at Kandahar, she had not felt as vulnerable as she felt now. She'd been more sure of herself when facing the waterlord and his assassins that she was now, facing one man who looked at her... the way a man sometimes looked at a woman.

She suddenly remembered how Tansen had looked at her at Kandahar, the sudden flash of revulsion after all she had gone through to find him. She remembered how wounded she had felt. Now, remembering that moment, rebelling against all the moments like it, something inside her unfurled and unfolded, responding to the expression on Cheylan's face, quivering in answer to the tension in his body. She wanted to be wanted; she suddenly wanted that more than anything.