However, as Tansen learned, the Beyah-Olvari were real, and so was their story, their sad tale of being driven to near-extinction by the New Race—Tansen's kind—the tall, strong, dark people from the little known lands south of the Middle Sea, their origins so far from Sirkara that no one knew who they had once been, eons ago, or where their original home was. The New Race were an aggressive, land-hungry people who brought war, violence, and fire magic to Sileria, and nothing had ever been the same since their arrival.
Strong emotion distressed the Beyah-Olvari, and violence terrified them. Armian, a violent man of strong emotions, stirred them to chattering fear and endless chanting in these dank, underground tunnels. So, at Elelar's insistence, the assassin had retreated to an isolated chamber far from the Beyah-Olvari until the young torena could arrange for his escape from Shaljir after his impetuous murder of a beggar in the city's streets. Armian was bored and restless, and he counted on Tansen to keep him company. Tansen, however, was intrigued by these strange, gentle creatures living in secret below the densely populated capital city, so he had frequently abandoned Armian, during their brief exile down here, to befriend the Beyah-Olvari.
The original practitioners of water magic in Sileria, the Beyah-Olvari used their power very differently than the waterlords did. Indeed, the very mention of waterlords distressed them, causing them to wail banishing prayers to dispel the evil that they believed threatened them just by hearing the name of a sorcerer like Kiloran, Harlon, or Verlon.
Using their gentle magic all those years ago, they had healed the coldly burning pain in Tansen's hand where he had grabbed Armian's shir to pry open the secret trap door to the underground tunnels. Then they had taught him about Sileria's past, including the dark conquering history of his own oft-vanquished people.
Tansen had fled Sileria only a few months after meeting the Beyah-Olvari, but they remembered him—and still treated him as a friend—when he returned from exile years later. Now he sought them again, venturing down into the earth's ancient passageways, down to the secret world of another people, down to the dark, dank, hidden existence of Sileria's oldest race.
And he brought a boy with him, just as Armian had. A lad who was grieving, just as Tansen had been grieving all those years ago. They weren't hiding or seeking escape this time, though. Tansen needed answers, and he thought Zarien needed a distraction. The boy's somber, heartbroken mourning was relieved only by sudden outbursts of fury against Dar and Sharifar. Tansen, who was distressed by the minor wounds Zarien had inflicted on himself in mourning, didn't know how to comfort him—not when his own bitterly burning question remained unanswered: Why did You let Josarian die, Dar? Why did You let Kiloran kill the Firebringer?
"What made these tunnels?" Zarien now asked Tansen, who was pleased to hear the boy's voice energized by curiosity.
"Lava flows," Tansen replied. "From Mount Shaljir."
Zarien paused. "Um, there's lava in Mount Shaljir?"
"Not anymore. Very long ago."
"Oh." A moment later, Zarien asked, "What's all this glowing stuff?"
Tansen studied the phosphorescent life forms which dimly illuminated the tunnels. "Plants. Molds. Insects. Slugs." He shrugged. "Everything that lives down here with the Beyah-Olvari." He made sure he could see Zarien's face when he added, "It's what they eat."
He wasn't disappointed. Zarien's surprised disgust was comical. "They eat these things?"
"Yes," Tansen replied innocently.
"You're lying," Zarien said with certainty.
Tansen grinned. "No, and they'll offer you a bite, too."
"Not really!"
"Yes. It's good manners to accept."
"Will you?" Zarien asked pointedly.
"I've done it before, so I'm excused. But Josarian had to, when I brought him here."
"I'm not going to—"
"Try the mushrooms," Tansen advised. "They're not nearly as revolting as the worms."
"Ugh."
"To be honest, I suspect the Olvar invites visitors to eat just because he finds it amusing."
"What's that noise?" Zarien asked now.
"That's them. They chant and pray and sing and wail almost all of the..." He paused, listening.
"What's wrong?" Zarien asked, bumping into him.
"I'm not sure. They sound..." Not upset. Not even scared.
"Excited?" Zarien ventured.
"Yes," Tansen agreed slowly. "Excited."
"They're awfully loud, aren't they? Or is it just the way the sound bounces off the walls down here?"
"We should have met with an escort by now," Tansen realized. Formality, courtesy, blessings, rituals... You could never enter the domain of the Beyah-Olvari without enduring all of these things, no matter how tiresome or inconvenient it was. Yet no one was greeting them or proclaiming Tansen's name and deeds as he approached the Chamber of the Sacred Pool, where the Olvar could always be found.
"Something's wrong," Tansen murmured. He didn't draw his swords. He didn't hear anything indicative of violence or mayhem. Besides, the Beyah-Olvari would probably keel over in a collective faint if he came upon them with his blades unsheathed.
"Wrong? Maybe not," Zarien opined. "It sounds like a celebration to me."
He was right, Tansen realized. Now doubly eager to reach their destination, he picked up his pace, ignoring how the boy stumbled behind him in the poorly lighted passages. When they arrived at the Chamber of the Sacred Pool, which was easy to find due to all the noise the Beyah-Olvari were making, they stopped and stared.
"I've never seen so many of them all in one place," Tansen said to Zarien, raising his voice to be heard above the echoing cacophony of the wild singing and chanting.
Zarien stood gaping, his mouth hanging open, his dark eyes wide with wonder. "I've never seen..." He watched the small, delicate, blue-skinned creatures dancing, prancing, running about, embracing each other, singing, weeping and laughing all at once. "I've never seen anything like this."
"Let's find the Olvar."
"What's that language? It's not any Silerian dialect, is it?"
"No." Tansen took Zarien's arm and led him through the jubilant throng. Some individuals noticed them and tried to greet them, but the Followers of the Olvar seemed so overwhelmed with emotion that their usual abundant courtesy deserted them, and they could do little more than chatter at Tansen in their own language and steer him towards the Olvar.
"So you can't understand them?" Zarien asked, starting to look a little edgy as the crowd pressed in on them.
"The Olvar speaks archaic High Silerian."
"So?"
"It's close to shallah," Tansen explained. "We'll be able to understand him." A moment later he added, "There he is."
"That's the Olvar?" Zarien asked.
"Yes." Tansen glanced at the boy. "What's wrong?"
Zarien shrugged, looking at the small, slim, wizened old being bent over the Sacred Pool, the glowing waters of which he continually stirred with his small hands. "Nothing's wrong," the boy said. "I guess, after what you told me about him, I just thought he would be... grander."
Tansen smiled. "You'll see." He approached the Olvar, crossed his fists and bowed his head respectfully. "Siran." He searched the heavily lined blue face and was astonished to see tears in those ancient eyes. "What's happened here, siran?"
"Welcome, my friend," the Olvar said. His voice was thick with emotion, and it was hard for Tansen to hear him above the din of wildly excited Beyah-Olvari all around them. "All our blessings be upon you. We humbly beg your pardon for not having—"
"There's no need," Tansen assured him. "I can see that something... um..."
"Something tremendous," the Olvar assured him. "Something I never thought..." He blinked, his heavy lids moving slowly over his watery eyes, and then he looked at Zarien. "Who is this one?" His tone was strange, like his expression. Tansen couldn't tell if it indicated curiosity or fear—or both.
"This is Zarien of the sea-bound Lasca
ri." Tansen glanced at the boy, who greeted the Olvar with respectful courtesy. Seeing that the Olvar was still staring strangely at Zarien, instead of blessing him, Tansen added, "He can be trusted, siran."
The Olvar looked directly at Zarien. "Can you?"
Zarien blinked. "Be trusted? Yes."
The Olvar stared at Zarien for such a long time that the boy started shifting restlessly under that intense gaze.
Tansen decided to intervene. "Siran, this boy—"
"Is very special," the Olvar said slowly.
"Yes," Tansen agreed. "And he—"
"He will be more than you imagine," said the Olvar, looking at Tansen now. "Perhaps more than you can accept."
The sea king?
As soon as the thought occurred to Tansen, he glanced sharply at Zarien. Had Sharifar sent Zarien ashore not to find the sea king, but rather to become him—to mature into the man she sought?
"I will accept whatever he becomes," Tansen said with certainty. "And y—"
"Will you?" the Olvar asked. "Or will you see the mirror of your sorrows when you gaze upon him?"
Aware of Zarien's barely suppressed irritation at these cryptically dark comments, Tansen replied, "I will always see a strong boy with a good heart."
"May his heart always be worthy of your esteem," the Olvar murmured. "Because he is indeed very strong."
Tansen wondered how Elelar had gotten anything as intelligible as a specific prophecy about her destiny from the Olvar, who was being just as vague and bewildering as Tansen had always found him. He wanted to ask about Elelar and Mirabar, but first he felt compelled to ensure smooth relations between Zarien, who looked ready to leave, and the Olvar—who still studied the boy with an unfathomable expression.
So Tansen said, "Zarien is trustworthy and won't tell anyone about the Beyah-Olvari, siran. I've explained to him how your safety depends on your existence remaining secret."
The Olvar shook his head. "No. That will change now."
"I'm not going to tell." Zarien sounded offended.
"We no longer wish to remain secret."
"Fine. Then you tell people," Zarien snapped at the Olvar.
"Zarien," Tansen chided.
Zarien pressed his lips together and looked away.
Tansen asked the Olvar, "Why don't you want to remain secret anymore?"
The Olvar stirred the Sacred Pool with his hands, staring into its shimmering water. The glow lit his face with the cool fire of his water magic. "Because I have found another secret. Here in the water. Where it must have been for centuries. And now I know. Now we know what we never imagined."
Tansen studied the exultant glow on the Olvar's face, then looked around at the joyful Beyah-Olvari, making such a racket he could hardly hear his own voice as he asked, "What do you know?"
Tears streamed down the Olvar's face. "We are not alone."
"What?" Tansen asked sharply.
"Others have survived the long years. The eons of darkness and secrecy. Others have lived through the centuries of waiting to enter the sunlight again."
"Others?" Zarien said, looking from the Olvar to Tansen.
Now Tansen understood. "There are other Beyah-Olvari," he said slowly.
The Olvar nodded, still crying. "Others like us. Alive. Somewhere in Sileria."
And like the rest of his kind, he started singing with joy.
Time was hard to measure in the tunnels beneath the city, but Tansen guessed that they only spent a few days with the Beyah-Olvari before Elelar devised a way for them to escape Shaljir—and escape the Outlookers searching everywhere for them. Although Tansen had found this sojourn in the secret world of another race fascinating, he wasn't sorry to leave. In fact, he was starving and could hardly wait to get some decent food into his stomach!
"The glowing worms didn't appeal to you?" Armian asked dryly as they rode away from the coast on mounts provided by Elelar.
"Not even the glowing mushrooms," Tansen replied without looking at his father. Then, wishing the doubt didn't even occur to him, he asked Armian, "You will keep your word, won't you?"
"Hmmm?"
"Your promise to the torena. Not to tell anyone about..."
"About our little friends living underground?" Armian didn't seem offended by the question. "Yes, I'll keep my word."
Tansen knew it was rude to persist, a slight to Armian's honor, but he had to be sure. The Beyah-Olvari seemed so helpless, despite their own special power. "Not even Kiloran?"
Armian smiled slyly. "You surely don't imagine that Kiloran's going to tell me everything he knows, do you?"
"I, uh..." Tansen hadn't thought about it.
"The most powerful secret," Armian advised him, "is always the one that the fewest people know."
"Oh." It wasn't quite the answer Tansen had hoped for.
"This secret," Armian explained, "can add to our power someday."
"Our power?" Tansen asked, puzzled.
Armian looked faintly surprised. "Yours and mine. Our influence.
"Oh. Yes." After a moment, he asked doubtfully, "How?"
"I don't know yet, son," Armian admitted. "But until I do, I'd be a fool to share it with Kiloran, wouldn't I?"
Tansen sat uncomfortably on his plodding horse, staring at the spot between its ears.
After enduring his silence for a while, Armian asked, "Is something wrong?"
"Huh?" Startled, Tansen nearly slid off the horse. He grabbed at a handful of its mane, then stared at Armian, unsure of what he wanted to say—unsure, even, of what he was thinking. "I... No. I'm just hungry, father."
Armian smiled. "I'll ask the torena how soon we can stop." He rode ahead to join Elelar, leaving Tansen alone with feelings too chaotic to shape into thoughts or pursue to conclusions.
They headed deep into western Sileria and searched for Kiloran as the dry season began to squeeze the land in its cruel grip. For a while, much of Tansen's concentration was devoted to staying atop his horse. He had never been on one before, and he found the experience awkward and smelly when it wasn't downright frightening. The humiliation was worst of all, though. He was slow and ungainly about mounting—and, on several occasions, he had been fast and noisy about dismounting without having planned to do so.
While they traveled, Armian helped him improve his horsemanship; the years in the Moorlands, where men practically lived on horseback, had made Armian a fine rider, wise in the ways of these skittish, snorting beasts. When they stopped for the torena's rest, Armian taught him to fight. Born to a violent clan in dangerous times, Tansen had already learned as much as most shallaheen knew about combat, but now he realized how little an ordinary peasant knew in comparison to an assassin—to an expert like his bloodfather, who had been taught by assassins.
Armian was the first person to teach Tansen that violence was a skill, and that practice and discipline were more important than passion and rage. It was Armian who first taught him about surprise attacks, ambush tactics, misdirection, feinting, and conserving his strength. Training with his father in the mornings, in the evenings, and sometimes in the sleepy shade of the afternoons, Tansen became increasingly fast and effective with his hands and feet, and he learned to swing his yahr with deadly skill and precision.
"But you should have a nicer one than this," Armian said, idly fingering Tansen's yahr one day. "I'll find you a better one."
Tansen nodded, pleased.
"And after you kill someone with it," Armian added, "perhaps Kiloran will make you a shir."
Tansen froze. Armian noticed.
"Isn't that what you want?" Armian asked him. "Didn't you tell me—"
"Yes, father." It must be what he wanted. It was what he had always wanted. Now it was so easily within his reach.
All he had to do was kill a man. He didn't know whom yet, though he had no doubt Armian would choose someone for him to murder, when the time came. Or perhaps Armian would let Kiloran choose the victim.
All he had to do was kill.
"Yes, father?"
"You look strange."
Tansen blinked. "Um. The horse. It smells." He dismounted, sliding down as Armian had taught him. "I think I'll walk for a while."
Ronall was used to Elelar's favorite horse by now, and it even seemed to have resigned itself to his company, so he saw no reason to abandon it when he deserted his dear wife's estate and set off again in pursuit of... Dar and the Three only knew what.
Death? Maybe. Maybe not. He still had moments—even whole days—when he was so despairing that death seemed to beckon to him like a lover. He was so lonely, lost, and afraid.
And, as always, so hungry for... something. Evermore longing for a fulfillment he couldn't even define. His wife's love, perhaps? Hah! The next person that Elelar loved would be the first—and Ronall had no illusions that it would be him.
Poor Zimran. He never had a chance. Not against Elelar.
He could sympathize with, rather than hate or resent, the shallah who had lived with his wife. Somewhere along the twisted path of his life, Ronall had lost any desire to take vengeance on his wife's lovers—probably because he knew better than anyone that loving Elelar was its own punishment.
And what, he now wondered, would Dar's vengeance against Elelar be for plotting against the Firebringer? What would the volcano goddess do to her? What would be the penalty for such a sacrilege, such a dark and terrible betrayal?
Ronall's religious training as a boy had been mixed, contradictory, and rather indifferent. As a man, he prayed impartially to Dar and to the Three, but only in moments of fevered desperation. The rest of the time, he just hoped the gods would leave him alone if he left them alone. Which was more or less how he treated the waterlords and their assassins, too.
Now he wondered with a chill if Elelar expected the Society to protect her from the wrath of Dar. Were the strange events at Darshon related to his wife's transgression? Were the earthquakes evidence of the destroyer goddess reaching out in search of Elelar, all the way from Mount Darshon? Would he beat Elelar to the Otherworld, or would Dar send her there first in a fury of fiery rage?
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