Ronall's family was powerless to help him. They had championed Elelar, a prisoner charged with treason, and she had fled custody after being granted the honor of a trial. So now Ronall's family was disgraced. They were also in danger of having their property and assets seized by the Emperor in retaliation for Elelar's violent escape from prison. Consequently, their faint protests on Ronall's behalf soon faded into silence. Elelar's husband was all alone, completely at Koroll's mercy. It seemed clear that the torena wasn't fond of Ronall, but the drunkard was nonetheless the only leverage Koroll had, so he intended to find a way to use him.
Consequently, Koroll had instructed the new prison chief to watch Ronall and report anything of interest.
"What do you mean he's sick?" Koroll demanded, upon receiving the prison chief's full report. "I told you to take care that nothing happens to him! He's our hostage for his rebel wife."
"Sir, we have taken care," the chief said. "But he's vomiting, sweating, feverish, and shaking. He seems to be having visions and delusions and..." The man made a helpless gesture. "It's not our fault. It's the liquor and the Kintish dreamweed and the Moorlander cloud syrup."
"You've been giving a prisoner liquor and dreamweed and—"
"No, sir." The chief explained, "I mean, it's the lack of those things that's making him ill."
Koroll stared at him. "That's ridiculous. A man gets sick from too much of those things. A man like Ronall no doubt misses them when he's deprived of them, but—"
"According to the priest who I had examine him, deprivation is the problem, sir. Toren Ronall's body is so accustomed to regular and large quantities of these things that the lack of them is making him ill."
Koroll shook his head. "And Elelar is married to that," he mused.
"Sir, he's been asking for... begging for something—anything."
Koroll frowned. "Does the priest say he'll die without it?"
"He's still young and relatively strong, so the priest doubts it, but—"
"Then the answer is no."
The chief warned, "But there's no guarantee, sir. He could die."
"If we give him something to soothe him now, what about tomorrow?" Koroll demanded. "I've barely got enough money in my treasury right now to feed my men, and we're trying to fight a war. Do you really think I can spare you the money to acquire imported dreamweed and cloud syrup for one useless half-Silerian prisoner?"
"Then perhaps some liquor, sir, or at least some—"
"No!" Koroll snapped. "Just tell that sot to be a man and pull himself together."
"Commander, you warned me not to let him die. If he—"
"The warning still stands," Koroll said coldly. "So I suggest you tell that priest to get to work keeping Ronall alive." As an afterthought, he added, "And get a Sister to treat him, too. He's half-Silerian, after all, and they put great faith in the Sisters' healing powers."
Looking resigned, the prison chief said, "Yes, sir."
The chanting of the zanareen rolled through Mirabar's aching head, echoing, thundering, growing faint, then growing strong again. They had been at it for days, and she had reached the point where it took all her self-control not to throw some of them into the volcano while they all waited for Josarian to take the fiery leap.
She hadn't known much about the zanareen before coming to Darshon with Josarian. She'd been aware that they were all crazy, and spending the past few days among them had only served to confirm that view. As a Guardian living in remote mountain hideouts, she'd had little contact with the madmen who seldom left the snow-capped peak of Darshon. Any zanareen who did leave here were usually searching for new recruits, which they knew they wouldn't find among the Guardians. And now that Mirabar was here, she wished she could have remained ignorant of their ways.
She had hoped that after she and Josarian ascended to the volcano's rim, he'd take one look at the churning lava lake, change his mind, and suggest they get back to the war with all due haste. Yes, she had hoped—but she hadn't counted on it. From the moment he'd announced he was setting out for Darshon, she had seen the resolution in his face.
Mirabar didn't know how to talk him out of it. She had tried repeatedly on the way here, but without as much conviction as such arguments needed. After all, she had been right there when his wife, speaking through her from the Otherworld, had urged him to go to Dar's embrace.
The Otherworld was a strange place, of course, and the dead could be frustratingly vague, their messages laced with symbols every bit as incomprehensible as those offered by the Beckoner. There were many possible explanations for Calidar's message to Josarian that night at Idalar, as Mirabar had tried to tell him several times since then. However, she didn't really believe it herself, so she hadn't been persuasive enough when arguing with Josarian.
Like Armian, Calidar had answered the Calling when she shouldn't have been able to come. And she came to answer Josarian's questions. Surely she would have given some indication, if she were urging him to go to someone besides Dar Herself.
The dreams, the visions, the prophecy, the Calling...
Josarian had followed his destiny all the way to Darshon, as Mirabar had once followed hers to the icy waters of Kandahar. If only she could be sure now! If only the Otherworld or the Beckoner would answer her questions or give her a sign. And ever since arriving at Darshon, Mirabar had been as useless and powerless as any ordinary peasant girl. She couldn't even read the scriptures which the zanareen were probably thrusting under Josarian's equally illiterate gaze.
The roar of Dar's power was so loud and strong up here, there was no room for anything else. Waterlords, one of the zanareen had told Mirabar, were just as powerless at Darshon as she now was. She couldn't even conjure a small fire to keep herself warm up here at the icy, windblown summit of the mountain. She had never been so out of touch with her power in her whole life, not even as a savage child.
Where was the Beckoner? Why had he abandoned her? Who was he, and what did he expect of her now? Why didn't he come? She had never felt so helpless or lost.
She had also never expected to spend such a long time up here. She had thought that Josarian would simply arrive at Darshon, look down into the bubbling womb of the goddess, and jump. She'd been wrong.
The zanareen had been awaiting the Firebringer for centuries. During that time, they had developed many rituals around the testing of the Awaited One. Josarian's claim to the title required even more purification ceremonies than usual, since he wasn't a zanar—in fact, he was the first outsider ever to claim the right to jump, a controversy over which the zanareen were now bitterly divided. Some believed that Josarian was unquestionably the Firebringer and were already preparing for his predicted triumph, but others violently rejected his claim. With her powers stripped from her in Dar's presence, Mirabar knew she couldn't protect Josarian from another physical attack, and she was afraid for him.
Where in the Fires is Tansen when we need him? Off rescuing his damned torena from a fate she probably deserves.
At Mirabar's insistence, Najdan awaited them in a Sanctuary at the base of Darshon. The gateway to Dar's womb was no place for an assassin, and Mirabar would not commit sacrilege by bringing him here, no matter how reluctant he was to let her go without him.
He had startled her after leaving Idalar by asking her about Cheylan's intentions toward her, as if he were her father and she an ordinary shallah girl. Head reeling and chest aching, she almost smiled even now. At least the subject seemed less embarrassing here before Dar, on the brink of disaster or destiny. She'd been mortified, at the time, by Najdan's questions. Particularly since she had no answers for him.
Cheylan... A man unlike any other. She recalled his kisses with a toe-curling shiver. She had resented his offer to Call Calidar for Josarian, but perhaps he had only suggested it because she was so obviously reluctant to do it herself. Still, she didn't want another Guardian to serve Josarian; that was her right. She had not been jealous, however, when Josarian ordered Cheylan t
o leave Idalar with Kiloran. That would normally have been Mirabar's duty, and it wasn't one she regretted abdicating. Now she wondered how Cheylan was faring with the deadly waterlord. She supposed she should have warned Cheylan to guard his tongue—and his back—around Searlon, the sleek and shrewd assassin who seemed almost as dangerous as Kiloran himself. But she had been so distraught upon departing from Idalar with Josarian, and then when Cheylan had taken her in his arms to say goodbye...
After that, she fended off Najdan's questions like an errant girl lying to her father. Now, waiting for Josarian to seek the goddess, it all seemed long ago and unimportant.
As a mere woman, Mirabar was kept far away from Josarian now, since he mustn't be "contaminated" by her presence before his leap into destiny. The zanareen insisted that every ritual, like every word of the ancient scripture, was goddess-inspired. Mirabar thought it just as likely that a few madmen had thought it all up one night, centuries ago, after too many sips of smuggled cloud syrup.
There were hundreds of zanareen at Darshon, most of them living in caves, tents, and tiny stone huts. It was bitterly cold this high up. Mirabar wore two cloaks all of the time—hers and Josarian's—but she still shivered day and night. Thick wrappings covered her feet and hands now, which were always numb with cold. Though she had lived in the mountains her whole life, she had never touched snow before, since Sileria was a warm country. She had also never before been so high up that it was hard to breathe. The air was thin and weak here, and even a brief walk left her gasping like a pudgy merchant trying to scramble up the side of a mountain. Her head ached all of the time, and she was perpetually dizzy. Her body rebelled by rejecting every mouthful she tried to eat. All in all, she'd never felt so close to death in her life.
The rim of the volcano was free of snow, since the heat melted it down to bare lava stone. Sometimes Mirabar went closer to the volcano to get warm, but the intense heat rendered her nausea and her headache even worse, so she couldn't stay there long. Besides, she didn't like looking down into the caldera where Josarian was about to risk his life. It was vast, bigger than a village. Streams of bubbling lava, orange and spotted with leaping flames, flowed around expanses of newly-hardened lava. Mirabar watched in awe as the flowing lava slowly engulfed and swallowed the black rock. How could Josarian's flesh withstand that? Sometimes the rock itself moved, shifted, and heaved in response to the surge of red lava beneath it. The zanareen were excited by this activity and said that Dar was growing impatient, that She wanted Josarian.
In the center of the caldera was the seething, bubbling, fire-spewing lake of molten lava wherein dwelled Dar, goddess of fire, ultimate ruler of Sileria. It was said She had been born from a union of earth and sky. She had traveled the three corners of the world in search of a home before finally coming to rest at Darshon, the mightiest of mountains in the most beautiful of nations. She was a destroyer, wiping out whole villages on a whim. Her cruelty had shaped Her people, making them ruthless, unforgiving, and violent. However, it was She, too, who had made them the strongest, fiercest, bravest people in the world.
Prophecy foretold that it was the Firebringer who would make them once again the proudest people in the world. With the coming of the Firebringer, the people would drive out the roshaheen. The conquerors would leave Sileria, and the island would belong once again to Silerians.
Mirabar let her aching head drop between her knees and covered herself with her cloaks, trying to get warm. The zanareen had been quoting non-stop from the scriptures ever since Josarian's arrival. The prophecy was vague, self-contradictory, and open to interpretation. Josarian's supporters found material in the scriptures to support his claim; his detractors found material therein to refute it. She herself had begged Dar for an answer. Right here, at the very gateway to Dar's womb, she had been ignored.
Someone brought her water, which she accepted half-heartedly, hoping she wouldn't bring it right back up. Water was plentiful at Darshon, for the goddess lived right beneath the skin of the mountain. Hot rocks and small lava pools melted the snow, sometimes creating waterfalls and fast-moving streams. Boiling geysers erupted from the earth further down the mountain, creating warm pools of water in which the zanareen bathed. Mirabar might consider going down to one of those pools herself to get warm, but for two things: She didn't think she could face the climb back up with no air, and no one could tell her when Josarian would jump. She didn't intend to be bathing when it happened.
The water she drank went down smoothly and seemed like it intended to stay in her belly. Mirabar smiled her thanks at the man who had offered it to her, relieved that he didn't shy away from her lava-red hair and fiery gaze. He wasn't a zanar, but rather one of the local shallaheen who had come to witness the event. Hundreds of them were at Darshon by now. Word was spreading fast that Josarian had come at last to embrace the goddess.
How long before the Valdani hear about his presence here and come looking for him? How long before he jumps?
Practical and spiritual fears plagued Mirabar until she worried she was becoming as demented as the zanareen. She alternately dreaded the event and longed to get it over with. She was utterly exhausted and didn't know how much more of this she could stand. She felt sick every time she remembered the screams of the man who had thrown himself into the volcano when she and Josarian had first arrived. She supposed it was better than death by slow torture—but not much.
There wasn't even any relief in sleep up here, since the non-stop chanting of the zanareen made slumber almost impossible. Day and night, night and day. The lack of air, the lack of sleep, the bone-numbing cold, the deadly heat of the volcano, the poor food, the nausea and headaches... No wonder the zanareen were all crazy. Mirabar soon would be, too, if she stayed here much longer.
Suddenly the chanting stopped. Just like that.
Mirabar fumbled her way out of the folds of her cloaks and lifted her throbbing head. They had been chanting without mercy for days. Now, all at once, without warning... silence. There was no noise except for the sound of the wind whipping across the summit of Darshon and the unsteady rumble of the volcano itself. Mirabar looked around, trying to figure out what had stilled the voices of the zanareen.
Then a huge crowd of ragged fanatics parted as smoothly as if separated by the hand of Dar. They fell back silently. Appearing among them, Josarian came forward. He was naked. Mirabar averted her eyes, momentarily shocked. Then practical considerations overcame modesty. He would freeze out here! She rose to her feet and started forward, intending to give him his cloak. Her path was immediately blocked by four zanareen.
She swallowed, understanding. "He's ready, isn't he?" Her voice came out as a dry croak.
"He is ready."
She looked at Josarian again, but he didn't seem to see her. She wanted to call out to him, but her voice wouldn't work. Mirabar watched in helpless silence as he walked to the far side of the volcano rim. Once there, he approached a slab of smooth, glossy, black stone, a cliff overhanging the lava pit. He was too far away for Mirabar to see his face as he walked to its very edge and stood there, poised high above the rumbling lava lake which led to the very heart of the goddess.
"Josarian." Mirabar tried to shout, but it came out as the barest of whispers. Even so, someone slapped her for speaking. She didn't even bother to glare at her assailant. Her gaze was riveted on Josarian.
He raised his arms overhead. The chanting began again. Mirabar's head throbbed in time to the frantic, atonal wailing. She thought that Josarian's bare feet must be burning on that hot rock. His flesh must be protesting against the fierce heat rising from the caldera. Yet he simply stood there.
Tears of exhaustion, dread, and helpless confusion streamed down Mirabar's face as she waited for him to jump.
The trail was long, uneven, and rough. Tansen had come to Darshon once before, during his childhood. In the succeeding years, he had forgotten what a hard climb this was. Pink, peach, brown, and black lava flows, the remnants of Dar's many tan
trums, coiled, curled, rolled, and braided into a thousand tangled shapes, and he had to pick his way through or climb over them all.
Tansen passed through what had once been a forest. The trees had been incinerated, their trunks covered by flying chunks of lava. Now they squatted beneath Darshon's snowy summit like great, lumpy trolls. As a child, he had believed every story inspired by these monstrous shapes crouching on the mountainside.
There were no trees higher up. Higher still, even the shrubs and plants grew scarce. The lava took on fantastic and incredible shapes as thick clouds slid down the mountain's slopes to greet Tansen's ascent. He passed geysers of boiling water shooting angrily into the air, warning him away from the goddess's domain. The warm rock pools where the zanareen liked to bathe were completely deserted, as were all the huts, tents, and caves that he passed.
The zanareen were all up there. At the volcano's rim. With Josarian.
Fear churned in Tansen's belly. Fear for his bloodbrother, who was about to jump to his death. Fear for himself, because Dar would not welcome him here.
Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of what Dar could do on an angry rampage. She was the destroyer goddess, not some soft-hearted foreign deity who could be placated with a few generous bribes. She was a goddess of fire and fury, and he had offended Her sorely by murdering his own bloodfather, slaying the man he had believed to be the Firebringer. And now Tansen was coming to deny Dar the one man whom many believed She wanted more than any other.
He climbed past rocks shaped like crescent moons, like loaves of bread, like dancing girls frozen in time. He climbed past lava flows which hideously suggested gigantic parts of human bodies. He passed bubbling lava pools, rocks glowing with heat, and streams created by melted snow. Tansen's once-fine Moorlander boots sank ankle-deep as he climbed powdery cinder cones. He fell several times in his haste, cutting himself on sharp fragments as the ground crumbled beneath him. Blood from a cut on his forehead temporarily blinded him, but he wiped it away and kept on going. Higher up, great splits in the earth revealed gooey-looking purple and yellow innards, rich and bristly with crystals sharp enough to drive through a man's heart.
In Legend Born Page 56
