In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  The young man in the crowd took advantage of her momentary distraction. His rock whizzed through the air and hit her soundly in the ribs. Mirabar gasped in pain and pressed her hand over the spot.

  "Demon!" he cried. Then others began shouting it, too.

  They meant to kill her. She saw it in their faces; she saw it in the yahr they swung as they surged toward her. Reacting instinctively, she used the only defense she had. She gritted her teeth and hissed at them, bringing forth fire to ward them off, then encircled herself with a protective glow of flame.

  "Stay back!" she shouted.

  They were startled enough by the sight of fire magic to stop and stare; but they didn't look any less angry or threatening.

  "Go back to your homes and let me leave in peace," Mirabar ordered.

  "No! Get her!" someone shouted. "Otherwise she'll return by night!"

  "I wouldn't come back here for all the diamonds in Alizar," she snapped. "Now go back to your houses and leave me alone!"

  Seeing that they weren't yet ready to give up, Mirabar called flame into her palms and flung bolts of fire in their general direction. That was finally enough to make them turn and run.

  She did the same.

  She only slowed down to a walk when the village was well behind her, and she kept traveling until it was nearly nightfall. Even so, when she finally stopped to camp deep in the woods, she was afraid to risk lighting a fire, lest someone from that village come hunting her in the night.

  For the love of Dar, how was she supposed to travel across Sileria and find Kiloran—or the warrior—if she couldn't let ordinary people see her?

  You are a Guardian.

  Mirabar jumped when the Beckoner's voice came out of nowhere. She looked around the grove and nearly flinched when she saw his golden eyes peering at her from between some almond blossoms.

  "Where in the Fires were you while I was being stoned out of that stinking village?" she snapped.

  You are a Guardian. Make them remember what they have lost. Make them remember why they need you.

  "Easy for you to say, but I can't make someone roll around on the ground, shrieking with pain and visions, whenever they don't feel like listening to me."

  Make them welcome your kind again.

  She drew in a sharp breath, shocked to feel her eyes sting with emotion. To be welcome? Her?

  "No," she said aloud. "I will never be welcome. Surely what happened today is proof enough of that."

  Make them welcome your kind again. It is the first step.

  "Toward what? Finding Kiloran? Finding the warrior? Freedom?" She sighed wearily. "Or just a good night's sleep?"

  When she looked up, seeking an answer, the Beckoner was gone.

  Tansen and Emelen hid among some rocky mountainside crevices above Emeldar, watching the activity in the village. More Outlookers had come riding into Emeldar today, no sooner than Tansen had expected. There were so many of them!

  "A hundred?" Emelen breathed. "No, more, wouldn't you say?"

  "A hundred and fifty," Tansen guessed.

  He had never seen so many Outlookers in one place. Having learned from their earlier mistake, this time the riders had all approached the village from the west, the route which was almost impossible for the villagers to defend. Outlooker corpses still littered the mountain pass leading into Emeldar from the east.

  "It makes my belly roll to see them in our streets, our main square, our homes," Emelen murmured.

  "I know." Tansen blocked out the memory of far worse things he had seen in Gamalan.

  "That one! He must be the commander."

  Tansen watched as an officer rode into the main square. He was surrounded by his private bodyguards and accompanied by the full trumpet-blasting, flag-waving pomp of a Valdani commanding officer—something one seldom saw in Sileria, though it was a common enough sight in Kinto and the Moorlands.

  "Who is he?" Emelen whispered.

  "I don't know." Tansen squinted. "Not Koroll, anyhow."

  They watched the confusion below, the sudden halt and shift of plans as the village was discovered to be deserted.

  "Oh, Dar," Emelen prayed, "as I have been faithful and true, please don't let them simply leave."

  "They'll think it's a trap," Tansen said. "They'll be wary."

  "But will they stay?"

  "I hope so," Tan said with feeling.

  "Please Dar, let it be so," Emelen murmured.

  It was nearly sunset by the time it was clear that the Valdani had decided to remain in Emeldar. Sentries were posted everywhere, every road and path into the village was blockaded, and search parties scoured the surrounding hills and cliffs. Tansen and Emelen hid in the shadowed crevices, scarcely daring to breathe as patrols passed them at regular intervals. They slept in their hiding places, cramped and uncomfortable, then renewed their vigil over Emeldar the next morning. By midday, they saw what they had been waiting for, but they couldn't safely slip away until after dark.

  Cramped and stiff from spending two whole days in their hiding places, they were nonetheless elated as they stole out of Emeldar that night.

  "I wonder how things went in Garabar," Emelen said, after they were well away from the Outlookers.

  "We'll find out tomorrow night," Tansen replied.

  Realizing that her red hair and burning eyes were so shocking that people either didn't notice or didn't care about the Guardian insignia she wore, Mirabar wore her cloak as she entered the village of Islanar, even though the increasingly warm weather made it a burden. She kept the hood pulled over her hair, its hem shading her eyes from view. With luck, people would take her for an old, stooped, and eccentric crone rather than a demon. She unfastened her Guardian insignia and held it in her hand, thrusting it out in front of her as she walked slowly down the main street of the village and praying that there were no Outlookers present.

  Peeking out from the shadowed depths of her hood, she waited until she had the attention of what appeared to be most of the village. Then she waved her insignia around and cried, "I am hungry! I am homeless! This is the fate of the Guardians of the Otherworld under Valdani rule! Please! As you are good men and women, as you are faithful and true to Dar, I offer you my services for food!"

  As she'd expected, everyone was too stunned to respond immediately. Most of them had probably never even seen a Guardian, and at least half of them probably didn't believe in her talents. They all knew it was against Valdani law to deal with her. Hoping she could speed up events with a little show of strength, Mirabar stood upon the smooth cobbles of the main square, spread her arms in a big circle, filled her lungs, then slowly blew a circle of flame into life all around her.

  It was gratifying to hear the way the crowd gasped, but she didn't intend to use her fire to frighten anyone today.

  Make them remember what they have lost, the Beckoner had advised her. Make them remember why they need you.

  "I am the gateway to the Otherworld," she cried, keeping her head bent, wondering just how ridiculous she must look at the moment, and hoping her cloak didn't catch fire. "I will risk the fire for whosoever asks, for I come to serve."

  Come on, come on, she thought. Won't even one of you show a little courage?

  Finally, to her relief, someone stepped forward and spoke. Mirabar didn't dare risk looking up far enough to see the face, but she could plainly see the long, plain gown of a Sister as the petitioner approached her.

  "Sirana, my husband died in the Year of Bitter Harvests," the woman said. "I... I think this is the anniversary. Near enough, anyhow, I hope. I have his knife here."

  Mirabar held out her hand, subduing her flamboyant circle of flames so the Sister could come close enough to give her the knife. Swords and daggers were forbidden by law, but even the Valdani understood that no one could get through life without ordinary tools like this. Mirabar held the cold, rusted thing in her palm and groped for the gateway to the Otherworld. It had been so long since she had been permitted to participate i
n Callings, she knew a sudden, terrifying moment of doubt, afraid that she could no longer do it. Bluffing her way, she circled her hand in the air and made a fist, hearing the crowd gasp and chatter as her ring of flames now re-shaped itself and tightened into a small circle of fire at her side.

  Praying that she wasn't about to be slaughtered by the audience she had so recklessly attracted today, she began chanting. She tossed the knife into the flames and Called... "Goran," she said at last. "His name is Goran, and he is coming." She could have keeled over with relief, but she stood her ground and kept Calling. Naturally, no one but the Sister saw Goran, but most of the village seemed suitably impressed, nonetheless.

  Someone fed her afterwards, though she kept her head bowed and had to be very firm about refusing repeated suggestions that she take off her cloak before the sun got any higher. Feeling her energy return, she offered to do more Callings. By now, others were eager to accept the invitation. She performed three more Callings before her strength gave out. There were several more petitioners, and one of them suggested she remain in Islanar for another day, offering her food and shelter for the night.

  That, she decided, was her cue. "You may not want me to stay, my friends, when—"

  "Oh, we're not worried about Outlookers, sirana," an old man assured her. "They're all out searching for Josarian."

  "Josarian?" she said on a choked breath. "Has he been here?"

  "No, but two days ago he stole an entire shipment of grain outside of Garabar. Every Outlooker in the vicinity rode out of here yesterday in search of him."

  "And Emeldar! Tell the sirana about Emeldar!" someone urged.

  "Yes, there are many Valdani dead there, sirana. Hundreds!"

  "It is not a thing to brag about," said the Sister—Mirabar recognized her voice by now.

  "I'm sorry, Sister," someone else said, "but you're wrong."

  "They were men," said the Sister. "The same as—"

  "They were Outlookers."

  "Friends, surely hospitality for the sirana is what we should be discussing," a woman intervened.

  Reeling from this information, Mirabar tried to pull her attention back to her own problems. "Uh, yes..."

  "Honor my home, sirana, eat at my table, sleep beneath my roof."

  "I appreciate your courtesy, friend," Mirabar said. "But there is something you must know about me first."

  "Are you sought by the Valdani, sirana? They will not find you here. I promise!"

  "Actually..."

  "The Society?"

  This notion provoked some uneasy murmurs, but then the Sister stepped forward. "Even an assassin would not violate a Sanctuary. Please, sirana, honor the Sisterhood."

  Sanctuary sounded like a good idea to Mirabar, since the Society would certainly be looking for her by morning. They heard everything; if they didn't already know about her misadventure the other day, they would unquestionably hear about her demonstration in Islanar today. "I will only accept your kind invitation if you repeat it after I lower my hood, Sister."

  There was a long silence, then some confused whispers. Finally the Sister said, "After you lower your hood? Are you... disfigured, sirana? Surely you know that the Sisterhood—"

  "I am not disfigured," Mirabar interrupted. "But some might call me a demon, accursed and damned by Dar."

  Having warned them, Mirabar lowered her hood, exposing flame-red hair and glowing fire-orange eyes to the astonished crowd, hearing their gasps, whispers, and protestations begin even as her first curly lock appeared beneath the blazing Silerian sun.

  "I am no demon, but many are afraid of me. For no good reason," she added firmly. "I was born a shallah, the same as you. I am a Guardian and offer service to all who ask. I am blessed by Dar and sworn to uphold Her will, so long as I live."

  Some people backed away. Others stared uncertainly. She saw one or two men seize their yahr. "The shades of the dead do not flinch from me. Your ancestors do not fear me. There are no demons, save those in your own hearts," Mirabar said. "But the Valdani would like nothing better than to see you kill me. If you would do their bidding, then kill me now." She watched their faces. "I will not fight you," she added for good measure. She was lying, of course, but it sounded good.

  For a long, painful moment, things hung in the balance. Then, to her surprise, a child stepped forward, a scrawny, barefoot boy. Looking both confused and impatient, he said, "Sirana, can you Call my father? Can you? Can you? I won't let anyone hurt you. Can you Call my father?"

  "Yes," she said, hoping she was telling the truth. "If I live till dawn, I will Call your father for you tomorrow."

  "Live till dawn?" a young woman with three children clinging to her long tunic exclaimed. "Sirana, are we barbarians to believe the superstitious tales we heard as children?"

  Mirabar eyed the yahr that an adolescent boy was slowly twirling at the edge of the crowd. "I don't know. Are you?"

  To her surprise, a stoop-backed man clobbered the boy. "Save your blustering for the Valdani, as Josarian does, you fool! Would you do the their bidding, as the sirana accuses?"

  "She's a demon! Look at her!" an old woman screamed. "A demon!"

  "Has she not shown us the Otherworld today?" the Sister shouted back. "Would Goran and the others so embrace the fire of a demon, you silly old woman?"

  "She is well-spoken for a demon," a fat man pointed out dryly. He had fine clothes; perhaps he was a merchant or skilled craftsmen.

  The barefoot little boy pressed his scrawny body against Mirabar's legs, apparently intending to protect her as he had sworn to do. "She is not a demon! Demons wear gray tunics and ride dust-blowing monsters!"

  This outburst silenced the bickering crowd for a moment.

  "Outlookers?" Mirabar smiled wryly. "He has a point. What could I do to you that they have not already done?"

  "That's what Josarian would say," someone said.

  "Yes, those would be his words!"

  "Josarian would tell you that she is not the enemy! They are! I have heard him say so in Malthenar!"

  "Josarian's cousin was wounded at Britar, and Josarian left him in the care of another so-called demon," the Sister said.

  That got everyone's attention, including Mirabar's.

  "Another... like me?" Mirabar asked in astonishment.

  "He was dark-haired. A toren. A Guardian." The Sister looked around at the crowd. "But his eyes glowed like the heart of Darshon, and he was forced to flee Liron because Verlon, an eastern waterlord, sought to kill him."

  "How do you know this, Basimar?" someone challenged.

  The Sister colored ever so faintly, faltering for a moment. Then she rallied. "After Garabar, Zimran came to my Sanctuary for healing. He said that he had learned that those like the sirana here are not demons, but blessed by Dar and feared by the Society, the Conquerors, and the Valdani because they are too hard to enslave."

  It was a stunning announcement, one which went against the popular misconceptions passed down for centuries in Sileria and traditionally embraced by the shallaheen.

  "Cheylan, the fire-eyed Guardian, cared for Zimran, protected him, and kept him safe until Josarian could return for him. Are those the acts of a demon?" Sister Basimar said.

  "Cheylan," Mirabar breathed. "Another like me."

  "Would Guardians have taken in, sheltered, and initiated demons for centuries?" Basimar demanded of the villagers. "Would a demon stand before your now and offer her life for your trust?"

  "Who knows what a demon would do?" a villager said with open suspicion.

  "I know," snapped the stoop-backed old man. "I spent ten years in the mines, where demons rule the never-ending night. Do not speak to me of demons until you have lived day after day under the lash of their whips in the caverns of hell!"

  That seemed to end the discussion. While it was clear that not everyone was comfortable with her presence, Mirabar was invited to remain in the village and was shown the gracious hospitality which even the poorest of shallaheen traditiona
lly offered to a welcome guest.

  Make them welcome your kind again, the Beckoner had said. It is the first step...

  But only the first step, Mirabar knew.

  Three days later, hiding in Sanctuary, she decided it was time to give a carefully-worded explanation of her quest to her small handful of new friends from Islanar. She told them that messages from the Otherworld told her she must find a great warrior who would drive out the Valdani. Since half the folktales told in these mountains were about someday getting rid of the Valdani, this news didn't raise many eyebrows.

  "You've seen how difficult it is for people to trust me," she said. "So I need your help: introductions in other villages, places where you have relations."

  "But this great warrior you seek, sirana... Surely it must be Josarian?"

  Mirabar shook her head. "I've met Josarian. A great man, truly. But he is not the one I seek."

  "Then who, sirana? Who else could it be?"

  "I don't know."

  "Is it the Firebringer?"

  "I don't know," Mirabar repeated. "I only know that..."

  "What? Please, you are among friends. We wish to serve you as you have served us."

  "To find him..."

  "Yes?"

  She took the plunge. "I must first find Kiloran."

  There was a long, shocked silence. Finally Basimar said, "For that, sirana, you will need more than the Fires of Dar and the blessing of the Otherworld to shield you."

  Mirabar nodded wearily. "I had a feeling you'd say that."

  Koroll estimated that he had been locked in his cell in Shaljir's old Kintish fortress for nineteen days when four Outlookers appeared to release and escort him—to his utter astonishment—to the Imperial Advisor's Palace in Santorell Square. He had been there several times before, for Valdani religious festivities, celebrations of important victories against the Emperor's enemies abroad, or extravagant events staged to welcome dignitaries. He had never before arrived filthy, stinking, and ungroomed, and he was well aware of the curious stares he drew as his armed escort led him to the Imperial Advisor's counsel hall. A vast room of polished marble, luxuriant furniture, and imported tapestries, it seemed a place of utter chaos at the moment.