"Ow!"
She felt as if her arm would fall off. Perhaps it should have occurred to her that banging into solid granite would be bone-jarring.
"Having trouble?" a familiar voice asked.
Mirabar's gaze flew to where Tansen stood on the ground directly below her. His humble clothes, unkempt from all the pulling and tugging of the crowd, were those of an ordinary shallah; but no one would ever take him for an ordinary man. Her heart flooded with life as she met his gaze. His dark eyes were alight with rare happiness and laughter. His long black hair absorbed the brilliant sunlight, and his bronzed skin glowed with inner fire.
Mirabar waved the hammer. "It's harder than it looks," she called back, trying to be heard above the shouting and chanting.
"Well, you're only a little thing," he replied.
She arched her brows at him and proffered the hammer. "Care to try it yourself?"
The crowd loved it. A roar of laughter and encouragement followed Tansen as he scrambled up to join her atop the monument. Before Mirabar handed him the hammer, she warned, "Don't ever call me 'a little thing' again. I don't like it."
He grinned, took the hammer, and warned, "Stand back."
With muscles which were, admittedly, a lot bigger than hers, he took a heavy swing, brought the hammer smashing against a corner of the monument, and chipped a piece off.
While hundreds cheered the first piece of rubble to fly off the Sign of the Three, Tansen winced and admitted, "That does hurt."
She laughed. "Perhaps we should leave the rest to people who've had too much wine to care."
He nodded and gazed out across the crowd. "Perhaps we should take advantage of their attention while we have it, and their spirits while they're still high."
Mirabar looked at the countless people gathered here. Their faces were full of triumph. Even the shadow of Josarian's death couldn't stifle their joy in the wake of the news from Shaljir. She supposed that even the thought of opposing the Society wouldn't daunt them right now. Not at this moment.
"Yes," she agreed. "Better not wait until they're too drunk to listen, or until they're calm enough to think and get scared. It's best to speak now, when they feel ready for anything... and believe that you can achieve anything."
Tansen's expression revealed mingled amusement and consternation at this assessment, but he nodded his agreement and raised his hands to ask for quiet. When he had it, he addressed his people in a strong, confident voice.
"Until now, we've thought only of driving the roshaheen from our land. Only of freedom!" He paused as the crowd responded, then continued, "Now we must consider what kind of nation we want to be. Josarian might have led us, but he is dead, murdered by Kiloran..." He waited again, but when the crowd started chanting his name, he stopped them. "I'm a warrior, not a ruler!"
"Tansen! Tansen! Tansen!"
"But a new ruler is coming! The first Yahrdan in a thousand years will soon take his place at the head of this nation, to rule us in freedom and prosperity." This startling news quieted them again.
Under his breath, he said to Mirabar, "I am telling the truth, aren't I?"
"I hope so."
"I was counting on a more positive answer."
"I only repeat—"
"Forget I asked." Addressing the crowd again in a full voice, he announced, "Mirabar, who foresaw the coming of the Firebringer, has envisioned a new ruler, chosen by Dar, who will soon take his place among us!"
Tansen turned and gave her a piercing look. Recognizing her cue, Mirabar blew flame into her palms then raised her hands, creating an impressive arc of fire overhead. "He is coming!" she proclaimed. Sensing that Tansen wanted a little more, she added, "He is coming in a blaze of glory, in a river of Dar-blessed fire, to rule this land in peace and prosperity!"
"But he's young," Tansen added, "and we must shield him." Mirabar was momentarily surprised that he announced this, but then understood when he continued, "We must shield him from Kiloran, who betrayed and slaughtered the Firebringer!"
Ah.
"Our freedom, our ruler, our nation's future depends on destroying Kiloran, who has sworn to oppose the Yahrdan as he opposed the Firebringer!"
Kiloran didn't even know yet about Mirabar's visions of the Yahrdan, but she supposed the minor lie was reasonable. Kiloran certainly would oppose him, whoever he was, when he appeared among them.
"Who will be brave and stand with me," Tansen asked, "in defense of the new Yahrdan?" When he got the response he had hoped for, he added, "Who will avenge Josarian?" They were Silerians, so they liked this notion even better, and the sheer volume of their voices proved it. "Who will help me fight Kiloran and the Society for ultimate rule of Sileria?"
In the glow of victory against the Valdani, their response suggested they could do anything.
Zarien had never been squashed among so many people in his life. Their ebullience was inspiring, but the noise, the jostling, the press of strangers' bodies, and, above all, the smell of all these flesh-eating drylanders in one place, under the hot sun... He felt dizzy and overwhelmed as enthusiastic rebels and loyalists responded to Tansen's and Mirabar's appearance atop the Sign of the Three—a monument that was kind of pretty, actually, though Zarien knew it had to come down.
"Avenge Josarian!"
"Fight for the Yahrdan!"
"Free water for all!"
The people were whipped into a warlike frenzy, emboldened by victory against the Valdani and incited by their fury over Josarian's murder. A year ago, Zarien could well guess, opposing Kiloran would have been unthinkable among the landfolk. Now, though, these people—and many thousands of others like them, all across Sileria—were the people who had fought Valdania and won, and that changed everything. Perhaps the Honored Society looked like a worthy opponent when you had brought the greatest empire in history to its knees.
Sooner or later it would occur to them that the Honored Society had been an important part of Sileria's victory against the Valdani. However, Tansen had chosen his moment well, so no one seemed to be questioning his plans right now. The wind was at his back, the current in his favor, the waves melting before his bow.
And when Sharifar embraced him and the sea-born recognized him as their king...
Maybe he can really do it, Zarien thought. Maybe he can bring down Kiloran and the Society.
The sooner he convinced Tansen to go to sea, the better.
"Radyan! Galian!" cried a vaguely familiar voice.
Zarien searched the crowd to see who had recognized them. He spotted Pyron even as the shallah blurted, "Darfire! Zarien? You're not dead."
"Of course I'm not dead," he replied, the shallah dialect coming to his tongue with increasing ease.
Pyron shrugged. "We were worried. A sea-born boy disappearing into the night like that, and all the strange activity at Darshon..."
"What strange activity?" Radyan demanded.
"Of course!" Pyron said, slapping his forehead. "You left Dalishar before it started. We haven't seen it either since we came down from the summit of—"
"Pyron," Galian interrupted. "Seen what?"
He described lightning, whirling clouds, rising and falling plumes of colored smoke and steam...
"What did Mirabar say?" Galian asked.
"She was vague—"
"Imagine that," Radyan murmured.
"And Cheylan was even vaguer."
"So they don't know?"
Pyron shrugged. "Could be Dar is angry about Josarian."
"Could it," Galian asked, "have something to do with the coming of the new Yahrdan?"
"Don't ask me," Pyron said. "But Mirabar says that the vision we saw that same night—"
"What vision?" Galian demanded.
"Oh, I didn't tell you already?"
"Pyron," Radyan prodded impatiently.
"Glowing golden eyes in the sky over Darshon."
"Really?" Zarien asked, fascinated.
"You mean this was another vision that everyone saw, n
ot just the sirana?" Galian asked.
"Yes," said Pyron. "I tell you, things are getting very strange aroun—"
"Just the glowing golden eyes?" said Radyan.
"And a voice inside my head," said Pyron. "Inside everyone's head."
"What did it say?" Galian asked.
"'He is coming.'"
"He, who?" Zarien asked.
"Mirabar says it's a sign of this Yahrdan she has promised." Pyron glanced uncertainly at Radyan. "Do you think that sounds right?"
"Listen," Radyan said suddenly, directing their attention back to the speakers atop the Sign of the Three. "Tan's calling for a bloodvow."
"A bloodvow?" Zarien knew about this custom and had seen the many scars on his companions' palms, but he had never witnessed anyone actually making a bloodvow before. It was almost exclusively a shallah custom.
Now he watched in mingled awe and distaste as Tansen convinced the countless people here today to swear a bloodvow with him against Kiloran and the Society. Guardians blew fires into life all around the thickly-peopled main square of the town, and one even did so up on the gold-tiled roof of the Kintish temple.
Tansen set the example by slicing open his own palm with one of his swords and letting the blood flow freely, holding it up for the crowd to see. Then, to Zarien's astonishment, Mirabar held out her hand, and Tansen cut her, too. A woman! The shatai didn't even hesitate, just ran his blade across her flesh. They let the blood drip into the magical fire at Mirabar's feet as they recited their pledge, Tansen's voice carrying far, Mirabar's barely audible.
"I swear by Dar, by the memory of the slain Firebringer, and on behalf of the Yahrdan foretold in prophecy," Tansen vowed. "Their enemies are my enemies, and I will not rest until the blood of Kiloran, his friends, and the friends of his friends flows as mine flows now!"
There was a moment of solemnity as Mirabar prayed to Dar, asking for Her blessing.
Then someone cried, "Avenge the Firebringer!"
"Avenge Josarian!"
Radyan nudged Pyron. "Give me your knife."
"Where's yours?"
"I lost it at Wyldon's stronghold."
"How did you lose—"
"I don't want to talk about it," Radyan replied impatiently. "Give me your knife."
"I'll do it, I'll do it." Pyron evaded Radyan's grasp and pushed his way through the passionate crowd to thrust his blade into the nearest Guardian fire.
People around them were already bleeding, vowing, swearing vengeance against Kiloran and the Society in loud, emotional voices while the Guardians prayed for Dar's blessing. When Pyron returned with his fired-blessed blade, he sliced his palm open first, then handed the knife to Radyan. Radyan cut himself, then gave it to another man. None of the shallaheen even winced, though Zarien knew it had to hurt. However, this was their way, so he supposed they were used to it.
When the knife had come full circle in their little group, Galian handed the blade to Zarien.
He frowned at it and shook his head.
They all looked stunned.
"Zarien..." Pyron prodded.
"No," he said.
Galian said, "I don't know why you travel with Tansen, but as long as you do—"
"No," Zarien repeated. "I am sea-born."
"Even so..."
"We do not need to shed blood for our promises to be binding."
"But—"
"Let him be," Radyan said.
"Radyan, he can't just—"
"He's sea-born, he's... a little unusual, and he's, well, young," Radyan reasoned.
That smarted. Zarien protested, "I am a ma—"
"He's also," Radyan continued, "Tansen's responsibility. So let Tan deal with this. It's..." He shrugged and concluded. "It's not our place."
The others considered this and then agreed. But it made a difference. Zarien's refusal to open his palm like a shallah had set him apart and created a renewed distance between him and these men.
He realized he might have made a mistake by refusing. Then again, what did it matter what these shallaheen thought of him? He was not of their world. He intended to return to sea as soon as possible. He wanted to go home. What did he care about the bloodfeuds of the landfolk?
Ah, but the sea-born had sworn loyalty to Josarian, as Tansen had pointed out to him.
But against the Valdani.
In the end, though, the Society had proven to be every bit as inimical to Josarian as the Valdani had. And now Sharifar wanted to unite the sea-born under the leadership of her consort, who would be chosen by Dar... So perhaps the sea-born were meant to take sides in the current struggle. Indeed, he realized, they must be, for it would be the first thing Tansen asked of them after Sharifar embraced him.
Maybe Zarien should accept this primitive shallah custom, after all, as a show of good faith with Tansen's people. Maybe he should let them cut his palm and then swear by Dar...
But it was too late. The other men had turned away and were gathered around the magical Guardian flames, reciting their vows. He was forgotten. A sea-born stranger. An outsider. A roshah who had rejected their demand for a gesture of loyalty.
Zarien sighed and wished, yet again, that he could just go home.
Chapter Twenty-Two
It's lucky to be smart,
but it's smarter to be lucky.
—Zimran shah Emeldari
Tansen established his temporary headquarters inside Zilar's famous Kintish temple. It was noisy, since a dozen Guardians were busily destroying everything inside the temple which related to the Three. But it was convenient, since it stood in the center of Zilar.
As the sun set over Sileria, people gathered around the enchanted Guardian fires blazing throughout Zilar. Sharing food and wine and laughter, they exchanged stories of the war—tales which often grew taller in the telling—and shared their sorrows as well as their victories. Inside the old temple, glowing lantern-light flickered off the richly elaborate mosaics depicting Kintish gods, idols, and myths, elegant and mysterious figures that danced in the shifting light almost as if they had come back to life to celebrate along with the Silerians.
Tansen had issued instructions that anyone present in Zilar who was a clan leader or who commanded a rebel group should come speak with him. As twilight turned into night, he discussed with these men, singly and in groups, plans for opposing the Society in their villages and cities. These men had come from all over Sileria, from as far away as Liron and Adalian in some cases, and were eager to return home and celebrate Sileria's freedom with their own families and clans.
Some of them, Tansen saw, understood what was coming. They acknowledged and accepted the hardships they were bound to face as they challenged the Society in its attempt to fill the power void left by the Valdani. Others, Tansen knew, were just riding high on victory and wine, flushed with excitement and triumph. They would sober up soon enough, in more ways than one, and quiver in their boots when they realized what Tansen had asked of them. It was a good thing he'd made them swear a bloodvow while their spirits were still bold.
As Josarian had once observed, once men had sworn a bloodvow, they could be relentless, fearless, even brutal in pursuit of its fulfillment. Now, with fresh cuts on their palms and fresh vows in their hearts, the honor of all these men—and more than a few women, too—depended on them heeding their commitment, no matter what the cost.
There were ways in which organizing opposition to the Society was easier than starting the rebellion had been. During the time Josarian had waged war against the Valdani, rebels throughout Sileria had gradually created bases of operation and chains of command. Now Tansen's task was to redirect these established systems, created for the rebellion, toward their new enemy.
The waterlords not only commanded life's most essential resource, but also many well-trained killers. The assassins, like their masters, knew the structure and methods which supported the rebellion, because they had been part of it. They spoke the common language and various dialects of Siler
ia, they were born to its customs, and they knew its terrain as well as Tansen himself did. They had relatives and bloodpact relations among the very people now pledged to wage war against them. And no one was harder to defeat than an enemy who knew you so well—an enemy who was, in fact, one of you.
Nothing was worse than a civil war. And Tansen knew he must win this one quickly. The Valdani were surrendering Shaljir and withdrawing their remaining forces from Sileria, but there was no doubt that they deeply resented losing the jewel of the Middle Sea. They might try to get it back, if the mainland wars favored them, their economy recovered, and they thought they saw their chance. Or if not them, then some other conquering power would arise from the ashes of the mainland wars, see Sileria's independence as a brief anomaly in its long history of foreign domination, and attack. When that happened, if Sileria was weakened and depleted by a long and destructive civil war, then all that Josarian had won might be lost.
The very best way to fight an enemy, Tansen's kaj had taught him, was to avoid conflict by making it unnecessary. If Tansen could foil Kiloran's plots and ruin his alliances, there would be less need for battle, bloodshed, and suffering.
"Take this home with you," Tansen instructed Kiman shah Moynari, a clan leader from the east. He held up one of the five shir of Kiloran's which he still possessed. It glittered with cold sorcery in the flickering golden light of the Kintish temple. "No, don't try to touch it," he cautioned Kiman. "I'll wrap it and put it in your satchel."
"What am I to do with it?" Kiman asked.
Kiman somehow reminded Tansen of Zimran, though he was a few years older. He didn't wear the fine clothes Zimran had always favored, but he was every bit as handsome in his own way. Tansen noticed the marriage mark on the man's palm and briefly wondered if a wife might have changed Zimran's philandering ways. Tansen thought not, but perhaps he was wrong.
In any event, there were at least two important ways in which Kiman was completely unlike Zimran: He was a leader, and he had been totally committed to the rebellion. Now he seemed equally committed to war against the Society; the cloth wrapped around his left hand was dark with blood from the fresh cut on his palm.
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