And now... Now another Lascari had come ashore, after all these years.
Searlon asked the obvious question: "Do you think this boy has come ashore seeking vengeance for her death?"
"The sea-born aren't like shallaheen. Vengeance is not a way of life for them, and I'm not at all convinced it would be reason enough for one of the sea-bound to set foot on land. Besides..." Kiloran thought it through. "Would the Lascari have waited so long to avenge her? Even if they somehow learned her fate, would they have wanted to avenge her?" They had shunned her once she came ashore. "And even if they did, would they have sent a mere boy to do a man's work?"
"I will learn whatever else there is to learn about this boy," Searlon promised. "I will do whatever I must."
"What's his name?"
"Zarien."
It meant nothing to Kiloran. "I'll look forward to hearing what you learn." He had no intention of telling Searlon more unless it was necessary. So many things in the past were best left undisturbed.
"Meanwhile," Searlon said, changing the subject and Kiloran's pensive mood, "there is troubling news from the east. Verlon claims you're trying to move in on his territory."
Kiloran frowned. "Why would he claim that?"
"One of your shir was found alongside more than ten of his assassins, all dead."
Kiloran felt an icy fury sweep through him. "Damn that insolent shallah!"
Searlon didn't have to ask whom he meant. Tansen had made very good use of the shir he'd collected from the bodies of Kiloran's assassins who had ambushed him after Josarian's death.
"And with Wyldon loudly claiming the same thing as Verlon," Searlon added, "they each give credibility to the other's story."
"You mean others are starting to listen," Kiloran surmised. "Meanwhile, Wyldon's assassins are attacking mine."
"I suggest a truce meeting with Wyldon."
Kiloran shook his head. "I've already tried that. While you were away. His refusal came yesterday—we found the body of my envoy, headless, with one of my shir sticking out of his belly. The shir, I assume, which Tansen left behind when he attacked Wyldon."
"That's discouraging," Searlon admitted.
"And annoying," Kiloran added. "It means we'll have to deal with Wyldon immediately."
"And Verlon?"
Kiloran thought it over. "He's a hot-headed fool who rarely listens to anything, let alone reason. However, he's powerful. It would be too much of a strain to fight him right now."
"So we must make sure that Wyldon's fate gives him pause."
Kiloran nodded. "So that he'll pause long enough for us to deal with the rest of our business, untroubled by him."
"How shall we draw Wyldon out?" Searlon asked.
"I've been considering that," Kiloran replied. He reached for the bracelet he had not, until forming this plan, touched in longer than he could remember. Kintish silver with jade inlays. A solid, elegant thing. Brought onto Silerian soil, years ago, by a Lascari. The bracelet was too small for a man's wrist, of course, but Kiloran believed Wyldon would recognize that it matched the necklace Baran always wore. "Wyldon wants Baran's friendship," Kiloran said. "Let's convince him he has it."
"Ah." Searlon took the bracelet and smiled, the scar on his cheek flowing down into the dimple that so unexpectedly suited him. "And then, siran?"
"Then we'll teach Wyldon the price of turning his back on my friendship."
Baran felt adrenaline flow through him, energizing his ever-weakening body, when Vinn entered the simple stone dwelling to tell him that Mirabar and her party had been sighted approaching Sister Velikar's Sanctuary and would be here momentarily.
"Get out of sight," Baran advised Vinn. "Najdan will be with her, and you know how jumpy he is." Kiloran's former assassin, who had slain so many of Baran's men over the years, was likely to kill Vinn before remembering that they were on Sanctuary grounds.
"I will be just behind that door," Vinn said, indicating his proposed hiding place. Then he paused awkwardly and made a few stumbling attempts to address Baran.
"Yes?" Baran prodded dryly. "Something on your mind?"
"Siran... Are you sure about this?"
"I admit," Baran replied blithely, "it's not really the done thing—"
"It's insane!" Vinn blurted.
"Then I'm living up to my reputation."
"Begging your pardon, siran."
"No, no," he said. "I'm not sensitive about it."
"What we're about to do—can this really be right, siran?"
"These are very difficult times, and we must be innovative about solving our problems, Vinn." Baran smiled cynically. "You surely don't imagine Kiloran is sitting around just doing the same old thing these days, do you?"
"No..." Vinn shrugged and looked around the Sanctuary. "But this is nothing I ever thought we would do."
"Me, neither," Baran admitted. "Yet if the world persists in giving me unpleasant surprises, then I must keep returning the favor."
"This is more than an unpleasant surprise." Vinn's voice dropped to a whisper. "This has never been done."
"Yes," Baran agreed. "That's what I like best about it."
"Do you think—" Vinn stopped speaking, listened, and then met Baran's eyes. "I hear them," he said, before disappearing out the back door of the Sanctuary to eavesdrop and make sure his master's plan went smoothly.
Baran stood up and waited, briefly concerned about not having heard the new arrivals when Vinn did. The world, once so full of vivid sensation, was fading with every passing day, almost as if he now lived at a distance from it.
However, he felt Mirabar's power now, felt that pleasingly disturbing presence which so few had, that intangible signature of extraordinary sorcery which identified only the best—the most skilled, the most innately powerful—to each other. He had once had it, but he suspected it was now fading, too, like everything else about him.
Their voices came to him a moment later. Mirabar's voice, warm and feminine, so different from that of Sister Velikar, the only woman Baran had spoken to lately. Najdan's voice, deep, dark, a little rough, revealing all the sharp violence of the man. Another man's voice, too—energetic, facetious, saying something about Josarian's almond wine at Dalishar.
It was this second man, the one Baran didn't know, who pushed open the door to the Sanctuary and called, "Sister Velikar? Oh, Velikarrrrrr?"
"She's not here," Baran said.
The man's head turned in startled surprise, and their eyes met. "Oh! Hello. We didn't reali... Uh... Ah! Hah!" His face contorted into a comical expression of fear as he recognized Baran. The man staggered backwards, speaking over his shoulder to someone else, "It's—It's—"
Mirabar's voice came faintly from outside, irritated now. "What? Oh, Pyron, just get out of the way, will you?"
"Sirana... wait!" Najdan's voice.
Baran saw the bright cloud of Mirabar's volcanic hair as she reached the open door, then she grunted as Najdan elbowed her aside and entered the Sanctuary.
Najdan saw Baran, made a wordlessly vicious noise, drew his shir, and leaped forward.
"We're in Sanctuary," Baran protested mildly.
Najdan stopped as if he'd been frozen on the spot. He stared at Baran with a fierce, glowering expression. "What are you doing here?"
Mirabar saw Baran and gasped. He looked from Najdan to her. Those eerie Dar-blessed eyes were wide open in her sun-kissed face. She was, as he recalled, rather pretty in her Otherworldly way. A little small, perhaps, but then many shallaheen were; they usually didn't get much to eat as children, and she had probably gotten less than most.
"What a pleasure to see you again," Baran said politely. "Was your journey successful?"
"No," she answered absently, staring at him. Then she realized what she had said and blinked. "I mean—"
"Too late," he chided.
"What are you doing here?" Najdan repeated, still poised for attack.
"Tansen sent Velikar to me as an emissary," said Baran. "But
I thought to myself, really, why should we all speak through intermediaries?"
"Because we don't trust each other?" Mirabar suggested.
"And how can we foster trust if we don't speak face to face?" Baran countered.
"Where's Velikar?" Najdan growled. "What have you done with her?"
"I don't think I like your tone," Baran pouted. "Surely you're not suggesting that I would harm a Sister?"
"Where's Velikar?" Mirabar snapped.
"Out gathering... something or other," Baran replied. "We only arrived yesterday, so there's a great deal for her to catch up on."
"Velikar only got back... We?" Mirabar frowned. "She's been with you at Belitar all this time?"
"I'm every bit as capable of hospitality as the next murderous sorcerer, you know."
The one they called Pyron hesitantly approached the door again, armed with a Valdani sword now. From the far side of the threshold, he asked his companions, "Has he killed you? Has he killed Velikar? Is he alone? What should we do?"
Najdan snapped over his shoulder, "You could start by calming down."
"Good advice," Baran agreed.
"Shut up," said Najdan.
"I thought you wanted my friendship," Baran admonished.
Najdan's jaw worked. He took a steadying breath and said, "Sirana?"
Mirabar took a deep breath, too. It delighted Baran to see how afraid of him they were. Ah, there were still some good things left in life.
"Yes," Mirabar said, composing herself. "We want to talk to you face to face, and we want your friendship. We're just a little... surprised to come upon you so suddenly, without warning."
"I'd have written," Baran said, "but you're all illiterate."
"And we'd be more polite," Pyron said, "but you're crazy."
"Wait outside," Mirabar ordered Pyron.
"I am outside."
Baran shook his head in wonder. "These are the forces that hope to defeat Kiloran?"
Najdan's expression got darker. "Sirana, if we kill him n—"
"This is Sanctuary!" she reminded the assassin.
Najdan looked ashamed, but Baran said, "There's a first time for everything."
"Not for this," Mirabar said.
She approached the assassin and placed a hand on his arm. Baran noticed how Najdan's shir, already trembling from Mirabar's presence, shook even harder when she got that close to it. Najdan, however, seemed quite accustomed to the phenomenon.
"Najdan," she murmured, "I'd like to speak alone with him."
Baran said apologetically to Mirabar, "I'm making him agitated, aren't I? I seem to have that effect on some people."
"You have that effect on everyone," Najdan said, his tone unflattering.
Baran shrugged. "I can't understand it, myself."
Mirabar ignored him and said, "Najdan, please."
"No," the assassin replied.
"It's Sanctuary," she reminded him again. "What can he do?"
"I don't know," Najdan said. "But I know him."
Baran objected, "I hardly think that your killing a number of my men over the years qualifies as a social acquaintance."
Mirabar said to Najdan, "I'm not helpless, and he knows it."
Baran added, "In fact, I find it your most enchanting quality, sirana."
Najdan stepped forward, raised his shaking shir, and touched the fine fabric of Baran's clothing with it. Baran clenched his teeth but gave no outward sign of how powerfully, bitterly cold he found the shir which Kiloran had made so long ago for the assassin whom he would one day lose to Mirabar.
Najdan's voice was low and deadly as he ordered, "You will show the sirana respect."
"Always," Baran assured him.
"If you even insult her, never mind hurt her—"
"Yes, yes," Baran said, steeling himself to show no pain when he placed a hand on Najdan's wavy-edged blade and pushed it aside. Damn, that would hurt for days. But it was worth it. Najdan looked surprised and Mirabar looked impressed. "I understand the terms. Now, can I be left alone with the sirana? I have a matter of some delicacy to discuss with her."
He watched Najdan and Mirabar exchange a glance, and he recognized what he suspected Kiloran would never realize, because Kiloran could never accept it: There was great devotion between those two; an assassin and a Guardian.
Baran pondered the ramifications of the relationship as he watched the assassin head for the door to wait outside. Thinking of Vinn, he realized that this could make things even stickier; the prospect amused him.
When the door closed behind Najdan, Mirabar turned to face Baran, her glowing eyes wary and watchful. He didn't know her well, but he had met with her often enough to know she was a direct woman, impatient with implication and inference, so he got right to the point.
"To oppose Kiloran is unhealthy," he said.
"Yet you've survived this long."
"Longer than Josarian, certainly, who was even betrayed by his own."
She flinched. "You mean Zimran?"
His interest sharpened. "Who else might I mean, sirana?"
She recovered. "I can never tell, with you."
He smiled, very interested now. "Ah. So Zimran wasn't the only one of Josarian's people plotting against him."
"Did you come here just to discuss Josarian's death?" But her face darkened, and he knew he was right.
"Let me guess: the Alliance?" He watched her sink slowly onto a bench, staring at him as if he were the demonic one. Seeing that he was right, but also that she wouldn't supply the specifics, Baran shook his head. "Well, what did you expect? Toreni, wealthy merchants—people with something to lose. People who had dealt with Kiloran for years before Josarian came along to steal everyone's thunder." He considered this and mused aloud, "And who in the Alliance had the most influence over Zimran? Could it be the torena who was sharing his bed?" He grinned when Mirabar's expression revealed he'd guessed the truth. "Ahhhh... She is an interesting woman, isn't she, sirana?"
"What do you want?" Mirabar asked suspiciously.
"Oh, what everyone wants, of course," he said, letting her change the subject. "To resurrect my loved ones, to correct the mistakes that blighted my youth, to—"
"To drink Kiloran's blood from his own skull."
He made a face. "Do you take me for some Moorlander savage? I'd be quite content just to see him dead."
"No," she said. "I think you want to see him suffer first."
Baran shook his head. "I've seen him suffer. The satisfaction is modest and fleeting. He doesn't suffer like other people. You might say he's just not good at it."
"And do you suffer well?" she asked, watching him with those glowing eyes.
"Sirana, I suffer so well, they say it drove me mad."
"And he's the one who made you suffer," Mirabar guessed. When Baran didn't deny it, she asked, "So you will join us now? Because you want him dead and believe this is the way to accomplish it?"
"Yes," he said. "But only if I get what I want, in return."
"Kiloran's death is not enough?"
"It would be," said Baran. "But you can't guarantee it."
"What can I guarantee that will satisfy you?" Something about the way she said it gave him hope, made him believe that she was willing to do almost anything to win him to her cause.
He sat down next to her and felt her go tense. When he took her hand, she tried to pull it away. He held onto it, and her eyes glowed almost yellow with astonishment as she realized what he wanted even before he said it.
"You could guarantee me the future, in case we fail now," said Baran. "Give me a child."
She looked ready to jump out of her own skin. "A child?" she repeated, her voice scarcely audible.
"Think of it, Mirabar—may I call you Mirabar?" he asked solicitously.
"Oh, stop it." Her reply was too breathless to carry the snap she had intended.
"Think how strong, how powerful a child of ours would be," he said. "If we don't survive, then this child would be Sil
eria's future, Sileria's hope—"
"Your hope. For vengeance." But her protest sounded weak.
"Which, as it happens, coincides with your hope of freeing Sileria from Kiloran."
"But you are of the Honored Society, and I'm—"
"Times change," he said philosophically.
"How do I know times won't changes back as soon as Kiloran is dead?"
"Marriage means something even to me, Mirabar. I wouldn't kill my own—"
"Marriage?" she blurted.
"Surely you don't imagine I was proposing to dishonor you? Or that I want our child to be a bastard?"
She looked dizzy. "You want me to marry you and give you—"
"A child of fire," he whispered. "A child of water."
Tears welled up in her eyes, surprising him.
Baran asked gently, "Is the thought that repellent to you?"
"Fire and water..." She kept staring at him, those golden eyes dazed and glistening.
"Yes. You and I can do what no one in Sileria has ever done, what no one has even thought of doing."
"Belitar..."
He nodded. "There are things there that you should know about. That perhaps only you can fully appreciate." Baran paused and then added, enjoying the tumult he envisioned, "Najdan can come with you."
"A child of water. A child of fire." Mirabar looked at him, waiting, as if expecting him to say more.
"I can shield you from Kiloran."
"Shield me..." She placed her hand over her belly and held it there, her face lost in thought.
"Yes. We can shield each other."
"Shield him," she murmured. "Welcome him. Welcome your fate."
"I beg your pardon?" he said.
She came to a decision. Banished the dazed look from her face. Met his gaze. And vowed, "I'll do it."
Chapter Thirty-Eight
All joy is born in sorrow and suffering.
—Silerian Proverb
As Tansen made his way down to the dark underground world of the Beyah-Olvari, so far beneath the streets of Shaljir that hardly anyone in the city even knew they were there, he remembered the first time he had ever come here. Ten years ago, with Armian.
His bloodfather had been as stunned as he to see the small, fragile, blue-skinned beings living so deep in the bowels of the earth. Like almost everyone in Sileria, Tansen had believed they were extinct—or perhaps that they had never existed at all. Perhaps they were just another Silerian legend.
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