In Legend Born (5 page)

Moreover, he had just learned that at least one of those whispered stories was apparently true. It was said that only three people in the world could touch a
shir
with impunity: the waterlord who fashioned its deadly blade out of water, the assassin for whom it was made, and the man or woman who killed him. Having unfolded the delicate silk which hid the
shir
from view, Koroll found that it was bitterly cold, colder than anything he'd ever known, and the brief touch of it against his fingers made them ache with fierce pain long after he dropped the thing.

Had the stranger killed a Society assassin and taken his
shir
? If so, then he just might be the right man to solve Koroll's problems. Surely killing one Silerian peasant would seem a small enough price to a mercenary who would otherwise be charged with inciting a riot and causing the deaths of two Outlookers. Of course, releasing such a man and giving him his weapons back was risky, but Koroll was counting on an extra incentive to ensure the warrior's cooperation; the final item of unusual interest among his possessions was a hefty bag of gold. If Koroll held onto that until the swordmaster brought him proof of the
shallah
's death...

He heard a knock at the heavy door to the chamber and called, "Enter!"

Four Outlookers, young and arrogant in their smooth gray tunics, leggings, and new boots, escorted the swordmaster into Koroll's presence. Koroll studied the shackled prisoner closely as he shuffled into the room. Now that the stranger's eyes were open, Koroll saw that they were the deep brown color typical of most Silerians; they were watchful and intelligent, and they gave away little as the warrior surveyed his belongings spread out on the long polished table. His skin had the rich olive tone of a typical
shallah
, and his facial bones were strong and faintly exotic-looking compared to the Valdani around him. Still a young man, he was lean and lithe, with whipcord muscles that looked honed to make him an agile fighter of great endurance.

Even shackled, he looked fierce. Koroll rather marveled at the courage—or sheer foolhardiness—of the young Outlooker who had demanded this man's weapons this morning and seized his tunic upon being denied. A pity the lad was dead now, gutted with a fish knife.

"I am Commander Koroll, military governor of Cavasar and its district. One of my surviving men says that although you resisted a direct order and broke the law," Koroll began without preamble, "he thinks you did not intend to kill anyone, but merely to escape."

The stranger's closed expression didn't change. "That's true."

"Why did you resist?"

"I'm a
shatai
."

"A swordmaster?"

"Yes. How am I to earn a living without my swords?"

Koroll hefted the bag of gold he'd found in the man's satchel. "You wouldn't have starved."

"I was thinking of my future."  

"You could have applied to me to have your weapons returned to you."

Despite his chains, the prisoner managed to look arrogant. "No
shatai
permits his swords to be taken from him."

"I have seen
shatai
give up their swords. At the Emperor's palace in Valda."

"We may choose to give them up, to show respect or to honor a truce. But no one is permitted to
take
them."

"And you didn't deem it appropriate to show respect and voluntarily relinquish them today?" Koroll challenged.

"I was... not asked nicely," the stranger replied, lifting one dark brow.

Koroll's lips twitched. "And you are accustomed to being asked nicely?"

"Most men treat a
shatai
with more courtesy than I was shown today."

"Yes, I imagine so. We don't see many
shatai
here, you understand," Koroll said cordially. He narrowed his eyes. "And you're not Kintish anyhow, are you?"

"No."

"I didn't know there were any
shatai
who weren't Kintish."

"There aren't many."

"But a Kintish
shatai
trained you?"

"A
shatai-kaj
. One who trains
shatai
."

"Why did he train you?"

The stranger shrugged, then winced as the motion pulled at his wound. "He wanted to."

"A better reason, if you please."

This time the stranger smiled slightly. "The
shatai-kaj 
give no better reasons. They are men who need explain themselves to no one."

"But you..." Koroll's gaze lowered to the man's hands, to where he had seen the distinctive scars. "You're part-shallah, aren't you?"

The stranger hesitated for only a moment. "Yes."

"What are you doing in Cavasar?" He saw sweat on the prisoner's face and guessed he was in pain; certainly nothing about the man suggested nervousness.

"I had only just arrived when your men—"

"You came here on a boat?"

"Yes."

"From where?"

"The Moorlands."

"What were you doing there?"

"Working."

"What kind of work?"

The warrior glanced at the two swords that lay unsheathed upon the table. "The kind of work I do."

Pleased by the answer, Koroll dismissed two of the guards. "He may be seated," he said to the other two, noticing that the prisoner was starting to look a little light-headed. He had lost enough blood to miss it for the next few days. The guards shuffled him over to a chair that was near Koroll but strategically distant from the weapons on the table, then positioned themselves on either side of him, their swords drawn. Even wounded and shackled, Koroll suspected this
shatai
could take advantage of the situation if permitted.

Koroll picked up one of the Kintish swords and noted that the stranger didn't like him touching them. "What is your name?"

"Tansen."

"Are you from here?"

A brief nod. "I was born in Sileria."

Koroll looked him over for a moment, then decided to try another tactic, since the stranger seemed more concerned about his swords than about himself. He traced his finger down the flat of one blade. "What are these inscriptions on your swords—these Kintish hieroglyphics?"

Tansen's gaze rested possessively on the swords as Koroll handled them. "The left one... That's my teacher's motto."

"What does it say?"

"Why do you care?"

"I'm curious." Seeing that Tansen intended to stay silent, Koroll pointed out, "You have caused the deaths of two Outlookers today. Normally, you would already have been sentenced to death by slow torture in a public execution."

"Why haven't I been?"

"Because I may have a better use for you," Koroll said, a little annoyed that his warning apparently aroused no concern, let alone fear. "Now answer the question. What does the inscription say?"

Quietly, almost reflectively, Tansen answered, "Draw it with honor, sheathe it with courage."

"Can you read?" Koroll probed. Very few
shallaheen
could. "Or did you memorize that?"

"I can read the inscription," was the oblique response.

"Why is the sword inscribed? A sentimental gesture?"

For a moment he thought the question would be ignored. Finally, as if having decided that the information wouldn't profit his interrogator, Tansen said, "It identifies a
shatai-kaj
's students to each other, so when we meet, we will not fight each other."

"Not even if you are opponents who have been paid to fight each other?"

"We will not fight each other," Tansen repeated.

"How noble," Koroll said dryly. "Does anyone ever cheat?"

"If he did, then all
shatai
would be ordered to kill him on sight, and his
shatai-kaj 
would lay a curse upon him."

"Ah. I suppose that would certainly make one think twice." Koroll picked up the other sword and noted that the hieroglyphics were different. "And what's written on this one?"

"My own motto."

"Ah! Which is?"

Tansen's gaze met his and, for the first time, Koroll had a glimpse of the man who dwelt in this
shallah
's skin. "From one thing, another is born."

"And what thing gave birth to the
shatai
, Tansen?" Koroll asked, held by that dark, steady gaze.

"What 'better use' do you have for me?" Tansen countered.

Deciding this was the right moment, Koroll shoved aside the empty satchel to reveal the
shir
which lay in a pool of painted silk. Tansen's expression gave away little; of course he would have guessed that Koroll had found it when searching his things.

Bypassing the questions he had originally intended to ask, Koroll said, "Pick it up."

Finally! He was rewarded with a look of genuine surprise.

"Pick it up?" Tansen repeated.

"Yes. Pick it up."

Tansen glanced at the guards to his right and left. At Koroll's order, they both held their blades to Tansen's throat. Tugging at the silk scarf upon which the
shir
lay, Koroll moved it within Tansen's reach.

Koroll warned, "Just pick it up. If you try to use it, they will slit your throat like—"

"A sacrificial goat. Yes, I know." Looking rather contemptuous of them all, Tansen lifted his hands and, moving awkwardly because of his shackles and his wound, took hold of the
shir
. His expression darkened as he looked down at it, resting in his scarred palms. Very quietly, almost as if he were unaware he spoke aloud, he said, "It's an evil thing, this."

"Then it's true," Koroll breathed. "You killed a Society assassin."

Tansen's gaze remained fixed on the dagger. "I killed him." His voice was soft, and he seemed lost in the memory for a moment.

"Why did you keep the
shir
?" Koroll asked; Tansen clearly didn't relish possession of the thing.

His bare, branded chest rose and fell with a deep breath. "Because that's what you do when you... do what I did. You take the
shir
. That's... the way it's done."

Koroll had a feeling there was more to it than that—considerably more—but he didn't care about the details of yet another bloody and pointless Silerian feud. These people relished killing each other so much that the Outlookers seldom had to bother doing it. Until recently.

Tansen lay the
shir
back upon the table and asked, "Have I answered all of your questions now?"

"There's just one more: Do you want to live?"

"Are you offering me a choice?"

"Yes."

"Ah. I see." A slow, cynical smile spread across Tansen's face. "Tell me, then: Who do I have to kill?"

Recognizing a man with whom he could do business, Koroll smiled in return. "His name is Josarian, and I need him killed soon. Very soon."

Chapter Two

A single crescent moon hung like a jewel in the night as Josarian stole through the shadows. Gossamer trees grew in abundance this high up in the mountains, and the brush of their soft leaves against his face reminded him of Calidar's caress. Although his wife had been dead for a year, bleeding away her life as she fought to give birth to their first child, sometimes he could swear he still caught her scent when he first awoke in the morning, or heard her soft whisper when he sat alone to watch the moons rise over Mount Darshon.

He missed her as much as he would miss his own heart if it were torn out of his chest. He missed the child who had never even been born. He missed the future he and Calidar had planned together and which now would never take place.

Young and in love, they had longed only for a child to complete their happiness. But, after their marriage, many seasons went by without Calidar's conceiving. She went to the Sisters, but their remedies didn't help. After that, she went to Cavasar to consult the tattoo-covered fishwives who were said to possess the secrets of fertility; but their advice also produced no child between Josarian and his wife. At last, Calidar even made Josarian take her to see the
zanareen
, the strange mystics who lived at the icy summit of Mount Darshon and awaited the coming of the Firebringer.

They had given up after that, and Josarian had convinced Calidar that, in their love, they were already blessed enough for this life. Then one season, to their astonishment and fervent joy, their union produced new life. When Josarian looked back, he was glad that he hadn't known, had never once guessed that their joy and anticipation would end in a blood-drenched night of horror and grief. If Calidar had ever feared it, then it was the only secret she had kept from him.

Since the first time he had seen her, sitting outside her mother's tiny stone house, her face modestly turned away from the street so that only her profile showed, he had never gone an hour without thinking about her. A boy and girl's infatuation had turned into passion, and finally into abiding love, and they had married young. Although they both came from poor families, since all
shallah
families were poor, he had paid a bride price of twenty sheep. Her father would have accepted much less, of course, knowing how Calidar's heart was set on Josarian; but Josarian had wanted to honor her.