In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

Most buildings here in Shaljir were identified by writing placed over their doorways or on plaques hanging outside. However, to Josarian's relief, a number of establishments still respected tradition enough to also hang a jashar from the top of the doorframe, dangling down far enough to brush the ground, and identifying an establishment, its inhabitants, and its history in a honorable manner. By day, a jashar kept out insects, provided privacy from passers-by, and admitted visitors with informal ease. By night, everyone in Shaljir had a heavy wooden door which was closed and locked after dark, even though the climate was usually warm down here on the coast. Even on a twin-moon night, the streets of Shaljir were lined with shadows and paved with menace, and no one could be too careful.

  As night descended upon the city, Josarian finished another cup of excellent ale. It was some strange, smoky concoction Tansen had recommended upon leading him into this dark, low-ceilinged inn right in the heart of the twisting, crumbling, most ancient quarter of the city.

  They didn't wear their jashareen in the streets of Shaljir, where Josarian couldn't risk being identified; but upon entering this inn, Tansen had taken his jashar out of his satchel, handed it to the keeper, and said in common Silerian, "I would like to see our old friends. This will announce me." He had said almost nothing since then, had ignored all of Josarian's questions, and had scarcely touched the ale he had ordered while the sun was still high. Now, as night settled in, Tansen also refused the food the keeper brought them.

  "I am hungry," Josarian said, accepting the food Tansen had just rejected. Once it had been deposited on their simple wooden table by a window overlooking a narrow street, Josarian added, "And you should eat, whether you want to or not."

  Tansen absently accepted a little of the food Josarian thrust at him, but mostly he sat in unmoving silence, his expression telling Josarian more clearly than words that he was traveling through some place in the distant past, doing and witnessing things he never willingly spoke about.

  It was late by the time the keeper finally led them to a bedchamber. Though it was private and clean, it was lit only by a single sputtering candle, situated far below street level, and so small that Josarian had to crouch to keep his head from hitting the ceiling. The closeness of the room made him edgy, and Tansen's watchful silence did nothing to soothe him.

  There was no bed in here, only a few mats on the floor. Josarian eased himself down onto one to prepare for sleep. Tansen sat on the floor with his back to the door.

  "Aren't you going to sleep?" Josarian asked.

  "Not yet. You go ahead."

  "Tan—"

  "Not yet."

  Josarian sighed. Whatever demons chased his bloodbrother, they were fierce and long-fanged. If he was to help Tansen, then he, at least, would need rest. He lay down and settled in comfortably. He closed his eyes, thinking of Calidar, as he so often did during the last few moments of the day. He pulled her delicate scarf out of his tunic, where he usually wore it pressed against his skin. Eyes closed, he held it to his face and inhaled deeply, remembering her. Here, in this small, oppressive room in a strange city far from home, accompanied only by a haunted man who would not speak to him, memories of Calidar now embraced him, comforting him, warm and scented, soft as her whispers had been... She awaited him in the Otherworld, and perhaps, if his mind was relaxed and his heart open, tonight she would visit him briefly, giving him a taste of the eternal joy that awaited him when his work in this world was finally done.

  But the one who came to him in the dark this night, the one whose soft breath touched him in the thick blackness of the room, was not his wife. Awakening with a start, Josarian's hands closed upon the cool flesh of a tiny stranger, someone as small and frail as a sickly child, someone whose cries of fear were chattered in a language he had never heard before.

  "Josarian, no!"

  More strange, high-pitched voices were crying out now, and tiny little hands scrabbled at his forearms. Their strength was negligible, but their unseen quickness was as frightening as the monsters of his childhood nightmares.

  "Josarian, no, don't hurt them!" Tansen's voice pierced through his confusion.

  Josarian felt Tansen's strong hands grabbing him now, warm where the little ones were cold, calming and familiar where the others incited him to a confused and mindless violence.

  "Stop, Josarian, stop!" Tansen ordered.

  Realizing that he was choking his unseen captive, and that Tansen knew it and objected, Josarian slowly released his grip, breathing hard with startled animalistic fear and trying to get control of himself.

  "What... what is..." He couldn't think of what he wanted to ask.

  "It's all right," Tansen said, his own grip easing. "The candle went out when they came in. I should have warned you, but I wasn't sure they'd come, and I knew it would sound so crazy if I tried to tell you what I w—"

  "When who came in?" Josarian heard the soothing murmurs and relieved sighs of the little creatures who's been battling frantically with him only moments ago. "Who are they? What in the Fires is going on?"

  "Where's the candle?" Tansen muttered. "Please, one of you get the candle," he said to their visitors. "I can't find it."

  "You know them?" Josarian heard bodies scurrying and voices muttering.

  "We've met before," Tansen hedged.

  "Who are they?" Josarian repeated.

  "They're—Ah! Good. The candle. And the flint box."

  A moment later, the candle flickered back to life. Josarian squinted, his gaze catching glimpses of strange, improbable things as his eyes watered and adjusted to the light.

  "They are the Beyah-Olvari," Tansen said. "And they see much better in the dark than you or I do."

  Josarian blinked incredulously at the small, fragile blue beings who flinched away from the candle, shielding their eyes from it's glare. They were quite unmistakably the same creatures whose images decorated the walls in the cave paintings of Niran, Dalishar, and countless other sites in Sileria. They were also, as far as anybody knew, extinct.

  "I think," Josarian said slowly to Tansen, "that you had better explain."

  Koroll, Commander of Shaljir and High Commander of Sileria, cooled his heels in the counsel hall of Santorell Palace like some lowly servant awaiting his master's pleasure. Indeed, his master's pleasure was the cause of the delay. Although Advisor Borell was no fool, took his position seriously, and devoted considerable energy to his office, one could not deny that the man took his pleasures equally seriously.

  During their short association, Koroll had already learned that Borell loved good food, superior wine, excellent music, fine art, the best clothing, intelligent conversation, skillful performers, and brilliant poets. Borell considered these pleasures as important as his thorough knowledge of political intrigues or his surprisingly extensive understanding of military tactics. The Advisor had little respect for anyone who wasn't a discriminating connoisseur of the finest things in life, and no patience whatsoever with anyone who interfered with his own disciplined consumption of them.

  It was this discipline which Koroll respected in the Advisor. Borell was moderate in his habits, scheduling duty and pleasure with a precision seldom seen even on military training fields. Although he put his staff through considerable trouble to import the finest wines in the Empire, he never grew drunk. Although he hosted entertainments that could last half the night, he never slept through the following morning, but was always awake and pursuing his duties at the usual time. Although he wore the finest garments available in Sileria, he never spared them when practicing his horsemanship or swordplay, but demanded tough endurance of both his body and his splendid raiment.

  Indeed, despite the Advisor's reputation as the most hedonistic Valdan in Sileria, there was only one area of pleasure in which Koroll considered Borell to be completely out of control: his mistress, a Silerian aristocrat named Elelar. Although her nocturnal visits were fairly discreet, Koroll always knew when she had spent the night at the Palace, because Borell would i
nvariably still be abed the next morning long after he should have arisen. If the torena visited the Advisor during the daytime, Borell would often cancel all meetings without notice or explanation and give his servants strict instructions not to disturb him under any circumstances. And the gifts Borell gave that woman! Surely even a man as rich as Borell must feel the strain of such costly gifts to his strumpet.

  Yes, although he had learned to respect many things about Borell, when it came to that Silerian whore—whose husband apparently didn't care that all of Shaljir knew she was warming the Advisor's bed—Koroll considered his superior to be a besotted fool.

  Today, when Borell finally showed up in the counsel hall for the meeting they had planned, he dismissed Koroll's lengthy wait with a brief, absent-minded apology and listened with only half-hearted interest to Koroll's most recent reports on Josarian's known or suspected activities. Borell's pleasure-flushed face didn't surprise Koroll, nor did the scent of the Silerian woman still clinging to his skin, but it did disgust him. By the Three, it was disgraceful!

  Outlookers were discouraged from sleeping with Silerians. The Emperor provided thoroughly reliable, duly inspected, conveniently housed, specially imported women to fulfill the men's needs, after all. Silerians were treacherous, dishonest, disloyal, and ungovernable, no matter how subdued two centuries of severe poverty had made them appear. Permitting the men to form liaisons with the locals in this country would be unwise, to say the least.

  Koroll thought that Advisor Borell, as a government official, should set a better example for the men than taking a Silerian woman to his bed. Since coming to Shaljir, Koroll had taken a third-level Kintish courtesan as his mistress, a respectable choice worthy of the Commander of Shaljir. A man in Advisor Borell's position had a wide-ranging choice of suitable women, particularly considering his wealth. He could hire a first-level Kintish courtesan, bring a Valdani woman from the mainland to act as his official "hostess," or seek a liaison with a woman from one of the long-established Valdani families in Sileria.

  There was some intermarriage between Valdani and Silerian aristocrats. Throughout history, after all, the nobility of the world had always had a way of uniting that set them apart from the common people of their own individual races. Considering such practices, Koroll grudgingly supposed that Borell, a Valdani aristocrat, might be excused for publicly taking a full-blooded Silerian as his mistress—if only Borell weren't so clearly enamored of the woman. Koroll had met her several times by now, since she was either the hostess or a guest at virtually all of Borell's social festivities. Yes, she was lovely. Any normal man had to admit that. But she wasn't the ravishing beauty he had expected, having witnessed the evidence of her influence over Borell and having heard some of the Palace gossip about her. Oh, there was unquestionably something about her—the way she moved, the tone of her voice, a look, a smile, a sigh—that transfixed a man's attention. Yes, there was something beneath her grace and elegance which put hunger in a man's belly. Koroll had felt it himself, to his consternation.

  However, any man who let such women's weapons hold sway over his better judgment was a fool asking for grief; and Borell's normally sharp mind became as soft as over-ripe melon around Elelar. Perhaps the torena would be content with the gifts and privileges Borell showered upon her in exchange for her sexual favors... but she didn't strike Koroll as a simple woman, and he rather suspected that she would eventually want more. Additional land and titles? Borell's official recognition of the child she was bound to bear him sooner or later, even if she couldn't prove the brat was not her own husband's get? Even, Three forbid, a divorce from her own husband and marriage to the Imperial Advisor himself?

  As Koroll told Borell about the patrols currently out searching the mountains for Josarian and explained his plans for tightening security around all Valdani operations in the district of Cavasar, he idly wondered what grief would come to Borell as a result of his foolish passion for the torena.

  "And what about soliciting information?" Borell demanded, finally focusing his full attention on the conversation.

  "Ah, yes, as you know, sir, getting information out of the shallaheen remains our biggest challenge in tracking Josarian. I've recently put a new man onto the problem." He paused and added, "A man who, due to the disastrous consequences of following Commander Daroll's orders while in charge of the garrison at Britar, is now most eager to prove himself to you, Eminence: Captain Myrell."

  "Eight of the Empire's Outlookers were murdered here, and supplies and property belonging to the Valdani were stolen or destroyed!" Myrell paused and looked around at the people of Malthenar. He had their undivided attention. "The penalty for these crimes is death by slow torture!"

  He had ridden into Malthenar before dawn with two hundred Outlookers. They had dragged the villagers from their beds, hauled them out of their miserable stone hovels, and herded them into the main square. Commander Koroll, upon releasing Myrell from custody in Cavasar, had clearly explained the price of his life and freedom: secrecy and service. Since Myrell had no wish to advertise that the disaster at Britar had been his own doing, and since he burned day and night with the desire for vengeance, he had readily agreed to Koroll's conditions. He had also agreed with Koroll's assessment that they must launch a serious offensive against Josarian, taking his allies by surprise.

  Malthenar had been quiet ever since Josarian had destroyed the Outlooker outpost here shortly after the battle at Britar. With his band of outlaws busy elsewhere, it seemed certain that an assault on Malthenar now would take Josarian by surprise. The village would be defenseless, and Josarian would be revealed as a very poor protector against the Empire's fury. Above all, Myrell would make his own mission clear: terrible suffering for every peasant in these mountains until Josarian was delivered into his hands.

  Myrell studied the crowd, then selected a young man who looked at him with open hatred. Myrell had him hauled into the center of the square.

  "What is your name?" Myrell asked.

  The young man merely glared in stony silence. Myrell called Arlen to his side, a shallah criminal who served him in exchange for staying out of the mines. Arlen wore the shorn hair and tailored clothing of a city-dweller, but he still had the dark skin and scarred palms of a shallah, and the villagers instantly recognized him for what he was.

  "What is this man's name?" Myrell demanded.

  Arlen glanced at the villager's jashar. "He is Corenten mar Sarshen shah Emeldari," he answered, his voice wooden.

  "Corenten?" Myrell said. "Well, you match the description we have of one of Josarian's men." So, of course, did most of the other men in the village; but this one would do for now. "I hereby arrest you in the name of the Emperor and charge you with the murder of eight Outlookers. Sentence to be carried out immediately."

  Fear flashed in Corenten's eyes and he tried to break away from the Outlookers who had seized him.

  "Ah," Myrell said, "then you do understand Valdan?"

  The shallah said nothing, simply kept glaring.

  "Just in case his Valdan is not as good as it should be," Myrell said to Arlen, "I want you to translate everything I say. Make sure the rest of the villagers hear it well."

  Arlen nodded, his expression sullen. When he began translating, angry grumbles and murmurs filled the air, and the word sriliah was borne on the wind to swirl around Arlen, whose shoulders hunched against the shame.

  "Corenten," Myrell said, "I will give you one chance to save yourself from what, I promise you, will be a truly horrible death. I want information about Josarian."

  Corenten spat in his face.

  Myrell pulled out his sword and slashed Corenten diagonally from shoulder to hip. The young man's knees briefly buckled as his face contorted with pain. A woman screamed. The crowd surged forward. Myrell gave the signal, and archers fired into the crowd. Screams of agony and outrage rent the air. A baby fell to the ancient cobblestones as its mother collapsed, blood pouring from her mouth as she tore weakly at th
e arrow piercing her chest. A brawny man broke through the crowd and flew straight at Myrell, his weapon of sticks-and-rope—his yahr, as Myrell had learned they called it—swinging wildly. One Outlooker tripped him, and another killed him as he fell. Milling in desperate, noisy panic, many shallaheen tried to break past the mounted Outlookers guarding the perimeter of the main square. They were driven back, some of them injured in the process, several killed.

  It wasn't until the crowd was subdued that Myrell spoke again. "You had one chance, Corenten, and now you have lost it." He nodded to the men who held the bleeding shallah. "Prepare him for the executioner."

  Corenten's pain-clouded eyes widened with shock, and Myrell could see that he hadn't truly expected to die. He struggled wildly, cursing in his guttural mountain tongue, until one of the Outlookers clubbed him over the head. Then, dazed and helpless, he was tied spread-eagle between two posts. As the hooded executioner approached, flanked by his two apprentices, Myrell spoke again to the horrified crowd while Arlen translated for him.

  "There is one last chance to save this boy's life. If someone steps forward now with information leading to Josarian's capture, I will spare this brave young man."

  People in the crowd shifted uncertainly, glances flashing back and forth, heads lowering in sorrow or in shame. Finally, a woman stepped forward. She was big-boned, strong, voluptuous, and desirable even in poverty and middle-age. Her face was streaked with tears, her pale clothing smeared with dust and splotched with someone else's blood. Emotion twisted her features with pain beyond measure. Her voice, when she spoke, was low and strained.

  "This woman is his mother," Arlen translated for Myrell, since the woman spoke no Valdan.

  Hope surged through Myrell. "Ask her what she knows."

  The woman responded to Arlen's question without ever taking her watery gaze from her son. Arlen hesitated, staring at the woman when she was done speaking.

  "Well?" Myrell prodded. "What did she say?"