In Legend Born (40 page)

This blatant display of her intimacy with the Imperial Advisor soon caused problems with her husband. It was the only time that Ronall ever actually beat her. Borell found out and had him dragged to Santorell Palace for a confrontation, then thrown into prison for several days. Then Ronall's father took him home and talked to him. Unlike Silerians, Valdani aristocrats regarded a woman's infidelity with considerable tolerance if she slept with a man of superior rank who could somehow benefit the family she had married into. Ronall's father explained to him that Borell was a reasonable man who had promised he would ensure that the family reaped the rewards of his public liaison with Ronall's wife. Ronall never learned to like this, but with his father's stern lectures filling his ears and the memory of a prison cell haunting his dreams, he learned to tolerate it.

Meanwhile, since Borell had proved to be extremely possessive, Elelar took great pains to ensure he didn't find out that, these days, she occasionally slept with the Kintish High King's ambassador to Sileria. When that man had first issued her an invitation to his bed, in the discreet and circumspect manner typical of his kind, she had considered it too important an opportunity to pass up. She could learn things from him that Borell didn't know, which made the affair worth the risk.

Though she never admitted it to Ronall, Elelar thought it very likely that the fault was hers and not his that they had no heir. There had been so many men over the years, and none had sired a child on her. True, some of the men, especially the well-born ones, wore sheathes; on other occasions, she often took the preventative measures provided—in defiance of both Valdani and traditional Silerian law—by the Sisterhood. Nonetheless, there had been many opportunities for a child to find its way into her womb, but none ever had. It was a relief to her, since she had never lain with a man whose child she wished to bear... except, perhaps, for the very first one. Indeed, in her whole life, she had only ever taken one man for pleasure: the very first one. All the others were for duty.

The very first one... He had come across the Middle Sea, from one of the Kintish Kingdoms far inland. He was the son of one of her grandfather's foreign allies, and he had stayed here for nearly a twin-moon conducting business with the Alliance. He was twice her age, worldly, educated, and soft-spoken, with skin as dark as freshly-ploughed earth in the lowlands after a good rain. Elelar had never felt anything like the hot rush of longing that flooded her whenever she looked at him. He saw it, recognized it, smelled it on her skin when she brushed past him in the sunlit hallways or offered him wine at dinner. He had only been their guest for five days when he came to her room late one night, uninvited and unexpected, and taught her ignorant body exactly what it longed for. Then, with a patience she had never known in any man since, he taught her a hundred ways of pleasing a man—which she now fully suspected
he
had learned from some Kintish courtesan.

The lessons continued in secret night after night, a delirium of pleasure followed by long, whispered talks when she opened her heart and soul to him. By day, she was giddy with happiness, but so tired and absent-minded that her grandfather became convinced she must be growing ill. The servants knew better. They never bothered administering any of the treatments he suggested for her recuperation, but merely turned a blind eye to the young
torena
's shameless behavior with the
roshah
in their midst.

She cried herself to sleep many nights in a row after her lover's departure, devastated that he had never once expressed a desire to marry her, let alone spoken to her grandfather about it. Lost in her misery, she convinced herself—with the blind optimism of first love—that he would soon grow to miss her as much as she missed him. Surely he would return to marry her, or at least write a letter sending for her.

A letter from him finally arrived, addressed to Gaborian and carried through dangerous territories by trusted couriers. Elelar knew, with a joyous certainty which admitted no doubts, that it must contain a formal request for her hand. She insisted upon reading it over her indulgent grandfather's shoulder, too eager to wait for him to relay its contents to her.

The letter began by thanking Gaborian for his hospitality and expressing a hope that he and his granddaughter were both in good health. Then it went on at length about business matters connected to their secret work. There was no further mention of Elelar, not the slightest hint that he'd even thought of her since leaving Sileria. Her heart was already breaking when she read the final few lines of the letter with disbelieving horror: Her lover added that he was pleased to report that his wife had just safely delivered their third child, the happily-anticipated event for which he had hurried home from Sileria. With his family growing so large and his wife increasingly inconvenienced by his long absences, one of his associates would have to take his place for any future journeys abroad which were deemed necessary for their great work.

Elelar went to her room and refused to come out for three days. Her grandfather finally recognized her youthful infatuation with their foreign guest and, his voice rich with compassion, questioned her about it through her locked door. Had the news hurt her very badly? Had she not known their friend was a married man and a father? Had she felt a special affection for him?

After a while, the questions revealed that her grandfather now began to suspect the full truth, for Elelar had never before behaved so irrationally. Had the man dishonored her? Was there anything she wished to tell her grandfather, who promised to understand no matter what she revealed? How could he help her? Wouldn't she please
talk
to him?

After three days, Elelar emerged from her bedchamber, having answered none of her grandfather's questions. She told him once, and only once, that she would not tolerate any mention of the man's name in her presence ever again. And so they never again spoke of him or the incident. She could see that her grandfather's heart was heavy with sorrow for her, but she felt too humiliated to acknowledge his compassion. At seventeen, she had learned a valuable lesson about men, one which she would never forget. From that day forward, the dance between man and woman was something she only did for the Alliance, never for herself.

Elelar supposed it was sheer exhaustion that permitted her mind to dwell on such maudlin memories, since this night's work had been demanding. The sky east of Shaljir was just starting to grow pale, subtle shades of pink and peach painting fantastic patterns on the vast celestial canvas as Elelar concluded the last of her business and wearily ascended to her bedchamber. She was halfway up the grand staircase when Faradar, gasping for air, came running into the main hall and stopped her with an excited shout.

Surprised, Elelar turned and met her servant, who was already running up the stairs to thrust something into her hand. "They left something for you,
torena
. I was so shocked! It's been
months
since—"

"Who?"

Faradar paused to get control of herself, then whispered more calmly, "Our old friends."

Elelar drew in a quick, surprised breath. "Our old friends" was how the Alliance referred to the Beyah-Olvari. For their own protection, their existence remained a closely guarded secret, so any contact was always made discreetly. When the Beyah-Olvari wanted to see Elelar, they usually left a message of some kind for her in a subterranean cubby hole between the house and the underground tunnels. Tonight, instead of a message, they had left—it seemed—a silky piece of cloth.

"Hold this," she instructed, giving her lantern to Faradar so she could more easily examine what the woman had handed to her on the shadowy staircase.

Elelar held the material—a hand-painted silk scarf, she now saw—up to the light. After a moment of blank confusion, she recognized it with a hot rush of mingled shock and panic—for it had once belonged to her.

"Dar have mercy!" She swayed, feeling faint for the first time in years.

"What,
torena
?" The lantern light wavered as Faradar caught her arm. "What's wrong? Has something happened?"

"By all the gods above and below," Elelar gasped out, slumping down onto a stair as her knees gave way. "I never thought it possible..."

"What is it?" Faradar asked in concern.

Elelar shook her head, unable to speak of what had happened so long ago, unable to form any coherent thought except the one which now pounded inside her skull over and over.

He's back, he's back, Dar shield me, he's back...

Chapter Sixteen

Mirabar awoke to find herself lying in a heap near a sacred fire. It had been a long night's work, petitioning the Otherworld for help, trying to guide shades of the dead toward the gateway, begging Dar for mercy and consideration on their behalf. She now realized she must have passed out from the strain. She looked around and discovered that someone had put food near her. Famished, she threw off a blanket—which someone had used to cover her while she slept—and attacked the meal. When she was nearly done eating, she heard a man's voice from the mouth of the cave.

"Ah, you're awake."

She jumped and turned around. He was not the same
shallah
who had led her here last night, but he had obviously been warned about her, since he didn't gasp, utter prayers and curses, or reach for his sword. Darfire—this one had a sword, too!

There was an awkward pause. She decided to break it by saying formally, "I am Mirabar, no father, no clan, a Guardian of the Otherworld."

"
Sirana
." He crossed his fists and bowed his head respectfully. "I am Amitan mar Kiman shah Islanari."

"Basimar's clan," she noted.

"She says that you are a Guardian of great gifts, favored with special visions from the Otherworld."

It sounded good, so Mirabar didn't contradict the description. "She says that one of you has seen another like me."

"Well..." A wry smile touched Amitan's mouth. "That was Zimran, and since he is given to telling tales..." He made a dismissive gesture, then added, "But Josarian saw him, too, so I suppose it must be true."

She asked him to repeat what both men had said. She was disappointed that the description he offered was no more detailed or satisfying than what she had made Basimar tell her a dozen times already—fire-gold eyes, dark hair, very powerful, apparently a
toren
by birth—but she listened intently nonetheless, like a child who never tired of hearing a favorite tale.

"Another like me..." Her mind drifted as she dwelled on this extraordinary notion once again.

Amitan came forward, approaching her as if she were a deer who might run away. "You fought hard last night,
sirana
, to help those slaughtered in Malthenar."

"Their cries are still loud," she replied, shying away from the din. "Or perhaps they are other voices." She glanced at him. "That's why Guardians only come here for special occasions and only stay briefly. We hear so many voices up here, where the Otherworld is so close to this one."

"I knew Corenten," Amitan said quietly. "He was a good lad. He might have married my sister."

"I'm sorry."

"Is he...." Amitan cleared his throat. "I know little about these things. Is he in the Otherworld now?"

She shook her head. "I don't know. I'm sorry. If you can bring me something that belonged to him, I can try Calling him. But, you must understand, he died very recently, so it may be too soon for—"

"She's awake!"

Mirabar looked up to see Basimar, at the mouth of the cave, reporting this news to someone who waited outside. At Basimar's urging, she left the cave and went out into the sunshine. There were five men with Basimar, all of them obviously curious about Mirabar but evidently prepared for her appearance. Along with Amitan, they were the only ones in residence at Dalishar.

"I thought there were supposed to be many more of you," Mirabar said.

"There are,
sirana
, but we don't just sit around Dalishar filling our bellies," said the man from last night. "We spend most of our time attacking the Valdani and distributing the supplies we've stolen from them."

"So why are
you
here, then?"

"Someone has to keep Dalishar safe," a young man said, clearly annoyed that the duty was his at the moment.

"We can't have the Valdani finding out about it and setting a trap for us here while we're all away," Amitan explained.

"So Josarian is gone. The warrior—Tansen—is gone. Zimran is gone." Mirabar frowned. "Who's in charge now?"

"Emelen."

She looked around. "Which one of you—"

"He's gone, too,
sirana
."

"Wonderful." She sat down on a rock.

What was she supposed to do now? She had sought Kiloran ever since leaving Tashinar's side, and she was no closer to finding him than she had been then. When Basimar had revealed to her that the warrior might be found at Dalishar, she had abandoned her quest for Kiloran in favor of finding the warrior. Had she been wrong? Now that she knew Tansen had gone in search of Kiloran, she had a terrible feeling that she'd made a mistake in coming here; she should have kept looking for Kiloran, too. Tansen would be with him.