In Legend Born

by Laura Resnick

  He laughed at her shrill voice and stunned expression. "Yes. Why not?"

  "Why not?" He must be going mad. "Because I already have a husband."

  Borell dismissed Ronall with a shrug. "Divorce him."

  "I..." Her jaw worked, her mind reeling. "I can't."

  He grinned, unperturbed. "Why not?"

  "We... Divorce is not our custom here," she said vaguely. She had never foreseen this danger when weaving her spell around Borell. Marriage!

  His grin broadened. "Our custom?" he teased. "Sileria is part of Valdania now. Our customs are your customs now." Elelar controlled her shudder of disgust as Borell continued, "You live under Valdani law, not some barbaric Silerian tradition."

  "My husband is half-Silerian," she protested, grasping at straws.

  "His family is Valdani."

  "But my family—"

  "Elelar, trust me. I'll make it worth Ronall's while to let you go. He may resist at first, but his father will make him see reason, as before. As for your family..." Borell shrugged. "You've always said you have only a few distant relatives anyhow, so what do they matter? Besides, if they object too much, you can just abandon your inheritance. Let them have it, and that will shut them up."

  "But I don't want to aban—"

  "I don't want your lands and estates. I want you." He kissed her fiercely. "And I'm a very rich man, my love. You'll want for nothing."

  "But.. it— it's not right for a torena to rely solely upon her husband for wealth. My... family honor demands that I—"

  "Do you think I would ever deny you anything you wanted? Do you think I could?" His hands were tender on her body, molding her, easing her into his plan. "If necessary, if nothing less will satisfy you, I will sign over some of my property and money to you, making it all your own."

  "Oh, Borell..." She tried to swallow her panic, afraid she might be suddenly sick. How could this be happening?

  "My love..." He took her speechlessness as a sign that she was deeply moved, and he embraced her.

  She tried one last time. "Ronall will never agree." She prayed that it was true. "No matter what his father says, he will never suffer the humiliation of—"

  "Shhh." He kissed her gently. "Leave that to me, sweetheart. I'll take care of him. I'll take care of everything."

  "But he won't—"

  "Shhh, don't worry. One way or another, I promise you'll be rid of him by the end of the year."

  Sweet Dar, would he murder Ronall to have her all to himself?

  "I'm the Imperial Advisor," he reminded her. "I can do whatever I want."

  Josarian, help! The arrogance of their Valdani overlord united her with the mountain rebel as closely as if they were brother and sister. She didn't like Josarian, but in this moment, as Borell bore her into the pillows with passionate fervor, her mind reached out to Josarian in kinship. He and she were one with this land, in their ambitions, and in their separate hells. He slept alone, missing his dead wife, living on the run, in constant danger. She spread her legs for the questing hand of the Valdan who murmured endearments in her ear, and she knew all the loneliness tonight that the shallah did, all the fervent longing for freedom, all the willingness to risk everything in the fight for Sileria.

  Borell's mouth was damp against her breast. "Let's start now."

  "Hmmm?" She pulled her thoughts back from those wild mountains, from the ally who liked her no better than she liked him, but who she hoped would understand and respect the strength of will she needed to smile into Borell's languid eyes and tighten her legs around his thick waist.

  "Let's start tonight." His hand moved over her belly, warm and caressing. "I want you to give me a son."

  Not a daughter. Not a child. A son.

  Not a Silerian. Not a toren. A Valdan.

  She hid her revulsion behind a slow, wet kiss.

  "A son..." She wrapped her fingers around his engorged penis. He would not use a sheathe, she realized; not now, not ever again with her. "Yes. Your son, Borell. Tonight."

  Lifting her hips to meet him, she silently begged Dar to make her womb as barren as the rocky rainbow cliffs of Liron.

  Heat and ecstasy melded together in his dreams. Fire engulfed him, melting his flesh, incinerating his soul, turning his bones into molten liquid. Agonizing pleasure. Glorious pain. Exquisite torment. The erotic churn and bubble of lava called out to him, luring him into its depths. The embrace of the explosive flames made him cry out, made him scream, his terror and his passion fusing into one single glorious sunburst of emotion. Exaltation. Rapture. Delirium. A joy beyond bearing.

  Fire flooded him, pooling in his loins, roaring through his veins, spilling out of his mouth and ears and eyes.

  Fire was in him, of him, one with him, and he would bring it to them. He would bring them the Fire. Firebringer.

  "Josarian!"

  Water, the icy chill of another power, another domain, quenched his mad passion, destroyed the glory of this holy union... and woke him up.

  Sputtering and coughing, he blinked rapidly, shoving hair out of his eyes, shaking his head. He looked up in confusion. Tansen stood over him, his lean silhouette unmistakable against the light of the moons.

  "Are you all right?" Tansen's voice was tense, worried, taut. He held the waterskin in his hands like a weapon, clearly prepared to throw more water over his brother if he thought it necessary.

  "What do you think you're doing?" Josarian demanded.

  "You've been screaming in your sleep."

  "And you thought throwing water on me in the middle of the night was a reasonable response?"

  Hearing how normal Josarian sounded, Tansen dropped the bucket and sat down quite suddenly, without his usual grace. Josarian was surprised to see that Tan's hand trembled as it raked through tangles of black hair.

  "When you started screaming..." Tansen's voice was disturbed, a little breathless. "I spoke to you. Grabbed your shoulder. I shook you. I hit you...."

  "You hit me?" And he'd slept through that?

  "Three times, Josarian." He shook his head. "I... I thought you might even be dying. Terrible screams. I thought some kind of brain fever was upon you. Or you were being attacked."

  "Attacked?"

  "In other lands, there are wizards who can reach into the mind and..." Tansen shrugged. "I don't know quite what I thought."

  "I was dreaming..." Frowning in thought, Josarian rose to his feet. He grabbed the now-drenched tunic which had been lying beneath his head and hung it up on a tree branch to dry. Sensations started returning to him, memories as strange as they were stirring. "Fire, lava, heat, flames..."

  "A volcano?"

  He nodded. "I was inside it."

  "You've been... thinking about what people are saying about you?" Jalan wasn't the only zanar now demanding that Josarian prove himself by jumping into Darshon. And the shallaheen were listening. Listening and talking.

  "It was... pain like you can't imagine, not even with that brand you bear," said Josarian. "Pain such as I have no words for."

  "Yes, I suppose it would be."

  "But it was ecstasy, too."

  "Josarian..."

  "Ecstasy like... like a woman can give you. Only greater, much greater."

  "It was a dream."

  He heard the snap in Tansen's voice and looked at him in surprise. He came down from the heights of memory and realized with astonishment that Tansen was... afraid. For him.

  "I'm not losing my mind yet," Josarian assured him dryly. Perhaps he should keep his dreams to himself in future.

  "Have you..." Tansen cleared his throat. "Have you had this dream before?"

  "I'm not sure." He shrugged. "Probably not. You would have noticed, eh?"

  "Maybe you don't always scream." Tansen's voice was so soft Josarian had trouble hearing him.

  "And maybe I just shouldn't have drunk so much almond wine tonight." Before going to sleep, they had consumed a bottle of the stuff given to them by a villager. As usual, Tansen had drunk
very little, which meant that Josarian undoubtedly had drunk too much. He slapped Tansen on the back. "Let's get some sleep. It will be a long day of hard walking tomorrow, if we're to reach Baran before sundown." He added ruefully, "Do you know, there are some days I almost miss the torena's horse?"

  Tansen sat quietly in the late afternoon sunlight, waiting and watching, his mind troubled by these recurring dreams of Josarian's. They had come four times now, by his count, since that first night he'd doused Josarian with cold water. Mercifully, nothing unusual had happened during the night they had spent in Baran's lair, a crumbling old castle surrounded by a deadly, enchanted moat which could only be crossed with the waterlord's blessing.

  Baran's behavior had, as always, matched his widespread reputation for both madness and shrewdness. Fortunately, as hoped, the mercurial waterlord had agreed to their plans for attacking Alizar. He had pledged his full support and assured them he could carry out his part of the scheme. Baran was much younger than Kiloran, but no less impressive. His participation would be a tremendous advantage in the battle for Alizar. But Baran was dangerously unpredictable. Although he was their ally in this, it would nonetheless be risky to evince weakness in his presence. So it was a relief that Josarian had slept peacefully in Baran's gloomy lair.

  However, the dreams had come again after they left Baran's abode, tormenting Josarian once every few days, ripping the nights open with fear. Normally the most cheerful and earthy of men, Josarian looked haunted and distracted in recent days, as if he saw visions similar to the demons girl's. Tansen kept an eye on him, worried and perplexed. Was this some sorcery? Some madness? Was it truly destiny?

  The Firebringer.

  If Tansen believed at all in the Firebringer, then he also believed he had murdered him. He awaited Dar's vengeance for this, as he awaited Her punishment for killing his own bloodfather. He doubted that any man since Marjan had so offended the goddess. He had already faced Armian's shade, though, and he could face Dar when She came for him. He could face anything after what he had faced in Mirabar's prophetic fire.

  Could he have been wrong about Armian, though? It had been easy enough for an ignorant boy to believe that the godlike figure of the celebrated assassin was the Firebringer. It was much harder for a worldly warrior to believe the mad ravings of the zanareen and the fervent whispers of hopeful shallaheen when they spoke of Josarian.

  Oh, there was no question that Josarian was a great man, whereas Armian had merely been a privileged one; or that Josarian was a courageous man, whereas Armian had primarily been a violent one. Josarian was worthy to be chosen by Dar to lead Sileria to freedom; whereas Tansen had willingly committed a heinous crime against Dar and all decency, so convinced was he that Armian would lead Sileria straight into the cruelest slavery it had ever known.

  Yes, if there was a Firebringer, then Dar would do well to choose Josarian rather than Armian. But mystical heroes of legend like the Firebringer were harder for an experienced man to believe in than they had been for a mere boy. Conversely, Tansen's heart couldn't easily relinquish any portion of the shame it had harbored for years, believing he had already slaughtered the Firebringer—though murdering one's own bloodfather would be shame enough to satisfy most men.

  Ah, but a shatai, he thought ruefully, is not most men. If his glory was greater, than so must be his burdens, to maintain balance and harmony... Not that Tansen had known much of either.

  Could a man really fling himself into Darshon and survive? Men had been jumping into the volcano for centuries, and they died one after another. The legend of the Firebringer was man-made and mountain-born. Some said it was goddess-inspired... but then, people said a lot of things. Who could possibly sort out the real from the imaginary among the people of Sileria, the greatest storytellers, liars, and myth-makers in the three corners of the world?

  After all, Tansen knew that people in these mountains already told the most extravagant, extraordinary tales about him. Who was to say that the legend of the Firebringer hadn't been born, as had Tan's own lesser legend, from the ridiculous boasts of an afternoon? Who was to say that the precious scriptures of the zanareen were founded on anything more than drunken, credulous gossip from a tavern which had crumbled into dust centuries ago? Was there really a single word of truth in the improbable prophecies with which wild-eyed fanatics and superstitious peasants now badgered Josarian? And these dreams that were taking hold of Josarian's mind... Couldn't they simply be the product of weariness, guilt over Calidar, and Josarian's own private fears?

  Tansen wished he knew. He wished someone knew. He wished there was someone he could ask.

  He was on sentry duty now, awaiting Elelar's arrival at the Sanctuary of Sister Basimar. They were closing in on their most ambitious target ever, and this meeting would confirm their final plans for the attack on Alizar. It was a terrible risk. Failure could cost them everything, destroying their rebellion in its infancy. Victory, however... He pushed away the temptation to dwell on such thoughts, focusing instead on the task at hand.

  It was late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows on the cliffs overlooking the road down which the torena and her escort would come. The fragrance of wild fennel sweetened the air, something he'd forgotten about during his years in exile. And now... the soft sounds of a woman's soft floated to him on the southern breeze.

  Perplexed, he turned to scan the forest behind him, trying to pinpoint the sound. Choosing a direction, he stalked silently through the woods, searching for the intruder. Basimar's Sanctuary was isolated. That's why they had chosen it for this meeting. There shouldn't be anyone around here today who was not one of them. If the weeping he heard was coming from some jilted girl crying over a broken heart, he'd have to warn the others to be careful. This spot was not far from the humble hut where some of the most-hunted rebels in Sileria were waiting to meet with a torena whose loyalty to them, if discovered and exposed, would cost her life.

  If the weeping were coming from a woman who was injured, ill, or abused and far from safety... Tansen repressed a sigh. His shatai-kaj had taught him well. He would have no choice but to assist her, whoever she was. But it would complicate things.

  He brushed past a gossamer tree, the leaves of which were still wrinkled and withered from the brutal summer; they wouldn't be soft and lush again until the long rains had soaked the soil. The weeping was coming from just up ahead now. Broken-hearted, desolate, steeped in sorrow. He paused, worried that he might be intruding on a mourner. There was always so much death in Sileria.

  He needed to be sure. He crept around an enormous tree—and found the demon girl sitting on the ground, weeping as if her heart would break. He gaped foolishly at her. He had seen her angry, tormented, annoyed, amused, frightened, and pensive, but he had never imagined her crippled with sorrow and sobbing like a child.

  Her head was bent, her face turned away from him. Even here in the late afternoon shadows of the forest, her hair glowed like fire. It was curly and, as usual, unkempt. He had noticed that the wind liked to toy with it, almost as if pulling at the girl, seeking her attention. It was the fanciful sort of thought that struck him in her presence. She seemed more elemental than other people, closer to the earth—or to the Otherworld, he supposed. Nature seemed to flow through her, even though the Guardians were not a nature cult; yet although the Sisters were, he had never met a Sister who seemed as close to the earth's heartbeat as Mirabar.

  She was wearing the ordinary shallah clothing she always wore, though she had apparently left her cloak back at the Sanctuary. She wouldn't need it until darkness fell—and perhaps not even then, not with southern winds this evening. The air ought to be soft and balmy all night, carrying the faint scent of distant jungles from across the Middle Sea.

  She was only a little thing, he noticed once again, smaller than Elelar or Basimar, and much smaller than Jalilar. But muscular and sturdy—and brave. Yes, he had seen that. They had all seen that. Indeed, he had seen few men with such courage. Really,
it was too bad she was so strange-looking, for she was a rare young woman, one that the best of men might have competed for had she been even passably pretty. Sad, too, that but for that hair and those eyes, she would have been pretty. Who knew? Perhaps some sophisticated city-dweller whose childhood had not been filled with fear of such creatures might want her someday—if she should ever leave the mountains and meet such a man.

  Or perhaps Cheylan will want her, he realized suddenly. Cheylan had asked Tansen about Mirabar several times during the summer, intrigued by the notion of another like him. A little jealous, too, Tansen thought, of her power, her growing stature.

  Ah, well. He almost smiled, considering how he had once felt upon hearing about a Moorlander woman who was now one of the most famous fighters in the world, a captured slave who entertained the Valdani in combat arenas throughout the Empire. She had even beaten a shatai or two, it was said, and none of them liked the sound of that rumor. A woman! So Tansen supposed that Cheylan could be excused a little jealousy over the shallah girl whom even Kiloran bowed to at times.

  He wondered if he should just leave now without disturbing her. Almost as if she had heard his thoughts or the whisper of his breath, she suddenly stiffened, sat up, and looked around. She choked on a gasp when she saw him.

  "What are you doing, sneaking up on me?" she snapped.

  "I heard you crying." He kept his voice even.

  She looked away again. "Oh."

  She scrubbed at her face. He realized he had embarrassed her.

  "Do you need help?" he asked.

  "N... N..." She shook her head. Her shoulders trembled with a fresh sob that she struggled to contain.

  Unlike many men, he was not made helpless by a weeping woman. A shatai's work often brought him into the realm of tears, always so close to the realm of bloodshed. He would leave if Mirabar wanted him to, but he could stay if she needed him here. He was not some boy afraid to be alone in the woods with a demon as the sun slowly set.