All excerpts © Laura Resnick
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The Destroyer Goddess: In Fire Forged, Part Two |
"A masterpiece of high fantasy! In the sweeping tradition of Tolkien, Jordan, and Haydon, In Fire Forged is a rich, compelling story of a land in crisis and the high price of freedom. Using wry humor and breakneck pacing, Laura Resnick effortlessly moves her complex, well-drawn characters through ever-escalating crises to an explosive (in every sense of the word) and deeply satisfying conclusion. I hope Resnick returns to Sileria again soon!"
—Mary Jo Putney
New York Times bestselling author
(Excerpt)
[Tansen returns from Mount Shaljir, where he has just made Zarien his bloodson.]
Elelar realized what Tansen had done as soon as she saw the blood-soaked cloth wrapped around his left hand.
"Are you sure that was wise?" she asked him when they were alone in the same room at Santorell Palace where she had watched Searlon murder Cyrill.
"You're supposed to congratulate me," he replied. "Becoming a father is—"
"He is not like other boys. Surely you see that."
"Dying and being given new life by a goddess has a tendency set someone apart," he agreed dryly. "However, since I saw my bloodbrother through a similar fate, who better than me—"
"This could be a very good thing for you," Elelar interrupted. "I see that. I understand that."
"Then why do you look like I've taken a fever instead of a son?"
"Because men never think these things through practically."
"Don't start," he warned her.
"He was sea-bound for the first fourteen years of his life," she persisted. "How well do you really know him? How well could you possibly—"
"Much better," he pointed out, "than many people know each other before they get married." He lifted one brow but didn't bother to cite an obvious example. He didn't need to.
She turned to another topic. "We've received bad news."
"What?"
"Baran is siding with Kiloran."
His expression became focused and very serious. "How do you know?"
"We've learned that they had a truce meeting."
"Ah. I knew there'd been one, but I didn't know if Baran attended."
"He did. And he and Kiloran made their peace there. Temporarily, of course."
"Of course."
"In front of quite a few witnesses from the Honored Society, Baran agreed to oppose you and to help Kiloran bring Shaljir under the Society's influence—by using the Idalar River, obviously."
His jaw worked for a moment. Then he said, "Damn. That's discouraging." After a heavy pause, he added, "Still, maybe Mirabar can bring Baran around. He might still be—"
"Mirabar should stay away from him." When he looked sharply at her, she explained, "Before they parted, Baran and Kiloran divided up their tasks. Kiloran is coming after you... and Baran will take charge of killing Mirabar." A moment later, she said to his retreating back, "Where are you going?"
"Home."
"What?" He had no home.
"I'm leaving Shaljir," he said, opening the door and pausing briefly. "I told Mirabar to do whatever she had to do to get Baran on our side. If she doesn't know about this truce meeting, she'll walk right into whatever trap he sets for her, especially if he baits it with promises of cooperation. I've got to stop her."
"Tan—" She closed her mouth. He was already gone.
A moment later, she heard him shouting for Zarien as he ascended the steps to gather his few belongings and set off for the mountains again.
* * * * *
[Baran has a secret meeting with Dulien the waterlord.]
Dulien scowled at him. "Did you know that as soon as the Valdani abandoned Cavasar, he killed the two waterlords who used to control the city's water?"
"He?" Baran asked mildly.
"Kiloran!"
"Oh, yes. Do forgive me. Go on."
"Now he's got that sycophant, Meriten, trying to wrest Abidan's and Liadon's territory from the Guardians."
"I gather that shallaheen are stabling sheep in the ruins of the twins' houses." Baran sighed and shook his head. "Does no one have any respect anymore?"
Dulien continued sulkily, "Kiloran also had Searlon openly helping Meriten."
"So I heard."
"And now..." Dulien paused dramatically. "Searlon has disappeared."
"Dead?" Baran asked with hopeful interest.
Dulien shook his head. "No. Surely someone would boast of Searlon's death, if that were so. And Kiloran would certainly mourn him."
"True. So... Searlon's on some delicate mission for his master," Baran surmised, "and no one knows where or can guess what."
"It makes me nervous," Dulien admitted.
"I imagine it makes everyone nervous."
"It means there's something even more important to Kiloran than just the things we already know about," Dulien explained, as if Baran might somehow have failed to grasp this implication. "You know: helping Meriten reclaim the brothers' territory, destroying you, killing Tansen, accessing the mines of Alizar, get—"
"Yes, yes, you needn't go through the whole list, Dulien."
"If Meriten gets that territory, it will be the same as Kiloran's having it." Dulien waited for Baran to agree with him. Baran merely gazed at him with a pretense of polite interest. Dulien continued angrily, "Kiloran's already got Cavasar, Kandahar and its territory, the Zilar River, the mines of Alizar, the Idalar River... Well, the Idalar River if you can't hold onto it. And having the Idalar will give him Shaljir. And now he's after Verlon's territory!"
"Verlon's territory? Really?"
"Attacks on Verlon's assassins. Many dead."
"Jagodan shah Lironi is making war on Verlon," Baran pointed out, "so surely that's why many are d—"
"Yes, yes, but Kiloran is attacking, too."
"How do you know?" He could already guess, but he wanted to be sure.
"A shir of Kiloran's was found at one of the massacres."
Oh, yes.
"Ah," Baran said, encouraging Dulien, "just like the initial attack on Wyldon's stronghold?"
"Precisely!"
"Very, very disturbing," Baran agreed gravely.
"And now a shir of Kiloran's has been found among Gulstan's slain men, too."
"My, my. Who's next?" Baran mused.
"Exactly!" Dulien pounced. "Kiloran wants it all!"
Oh, yes. This strategy had Tansen's name written all over it. Not that Tansen could write his name, of course. But this sort of calculated misdirection which was wasting the waterlords' energy and scattering their focus was precisely the sort of tactic at which Tansen excelled. Really, it was surprising that the other waterlords couldn't see that.
Then again, considering what a fool Dulien was, and what a blood-thirsty hot-head Verlon was, perhaps it wasn't so surprising, after all.
"So what do you want from me?" Baran asked Dulien. "Apart from the pleasure of my company today, I mean."
* * * * *
Mirabar's hand moved across Tansen's chest and into the neckline of his worn tunic. He felt his head swim and his vision fade before he remembered to keep breathing. Her breath was warm on his neck, her cheek rubbing softly against his hair. He was trembling with waves of instinct and emotion that howled to be unleashed.
"Are you sure about this?" he whispered.
"Yes," she murmured, smoothing her hands down his sides to find the hem of his tunic.
He stopped her from pulling it up. "What about—"
"Don't," she said, tugging the frayed garment out of his grasp and sliding it up his back. "Don't bring anyone else in here with us."
"No," he agreed, feeling the hot rush of need flow through him unguarded now. "No one else. No one but us."
Her palms were warm against his skin as she pushed his tunic up. He ducked his chin and raised his arms, letting her pull it over his head. The night air on his naked back had never felt so soft before, so full of promise. Mirabar tossed his tunic aside as he turned to her, still seated, and drew her to stand between his legs.
Her eyes glowed like the heart of Darshon's caldera, and he would never look into another woman's eyes again without finding them dull and lacking. Her fiery hair was soft in his hands, tangled from the winds which had swept the village all day. Her touch was firm, cherishing him, inviting him to be bold.
There was so much to discover, so much to learn. All the wonders hidden beneath a shallah woman's modest clothes. All the secrets hidden beneath a lover's skin. The whispers they had never exchanged before, the looks they had veiled, the desires they had kept secret and fiercely imprisoned. All this was theirs now, without reserve or thought or caution. It seemed incredible they had waited so long, and unthinkable that they should wait even a moment longer.
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So here's the thing—
In Fire Forged, the sequel to In Legend Born, turned out to be so huge a novel that it created practical publishing problems for Tor Books. I eventually agreed to release In Fire Forged as one novel in two volumes because the only way to publish it in one sole book was to cut so many pages that the remaining story would have made no sense. Ex.:
"Where is everyone? Aren't we supposed to be having a battle now?"
"Laura had to cut that scene."
"Oh. Who are you?"
"Laura also had to cut the scene where I'm introduced. And she cut the scene which explains why I've come here to kill you. Sorry."
"Wait! No! Agh!"
Perhaps you can see the problem.
I hope you liked The White Dragon: In Fire Forged I well enough to want to read the second volume, and that you find the story's conclusion both surprising and satisfying in The Destroyer Goddess: In Fire Forged II.
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The White Dragon: In Fire Forged, Part One |
"The long wait was well worth it. Laura Resnick follows up her fiery debut novel, In Legend Born with the first part of the two-volume sequel, THE WHITE DRAGON, In Fire Forged Part 1, a thrilling, brutal, take-no-prisoners tale of undeniable power. Fans of In Legend Born will be delighted to return to the fierce beauty of Sileria, its unique mythos and its complex, multifaceted people. A well-thought out, carefully crafted and thoroughly enjoyable read."
—Elizabeth Haydon,
author of Requiem for the Sun
(Excerpt)
[Unexpected, Baran awaits Mirabar's arrival in Sister Velikar's Sanctuary.]
Baran heard Mirabar's voice outside—warm and feminine, so different from that of Sister Velikar. Then Najdan's voice, deep, dark, a little rough, revealing all the sharp violence of the man. There was 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 informed him.
The man's head turned in startled surprise and he saw Baran. "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 some kind of wordlessly vicious noise, drew his shir, and leapt 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 Sister Velikar to me as an emissary; 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," Najdan said.
"I thought you wanted my friendship," Baran admonished.
Najdan's jaw worked, but 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.
"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 glower got darker. "Sirana, if we kill him now—"
"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 affect on some people."
"You have that affect on everyone," Najdan said, his tone very unflattering.
Baran shrugged. "I can't understand it, myself."
Mirabar ignored him and repeated, "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 killing nearly twenty 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 innocently.
"And 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 casually 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.
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?"
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, he 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 a very interesting woman, isn't she, sirana?"
* * * * *
[Tansen and Elelar meet in Shaljir.]
Now that they were finally alone, Elelar turned to face Tansen. "So," she said, getting right to the point, "Mirabar wants you to kill me?"
"That can hardly come as a surprise to you, torena."
"No," she admitted, "it doesn't." She came closer. Close enough for him to smell the aromatic oils she rubbed into her skin. Closer still, until he could swear he scented her skin itself. "Where are your swords?" she whispered.
"I'm not going to do it, Elelar," he said tersely, "and you know I'm not, so let's just—"
"That's good," she murmured, turning away from him. She walked to the empty fireplace and stared pensively at its charred stones. "I didn't think you would, but that's good, all the same."
He didn't understand her preoccupied manner. "Good?"
"Yes." She seemed to come to a sudden decision. "I need a favor."
He almost laughed. "You of all people shouldn't—"
"No, you'll like this one."
He folded his arms across his chest. "What?"
"About Mirabar..."
"Yes?"
He saw the fire in her eyes now. It wasn't what he was used to from her, wasn't what he expected. Her face was alight with it, too, as she said, "It's something the Olvar told me."
"The Olvar?" Tansen remembered the gentle, wizened leader of the Beyah-Olvari living in the secret maze of tunnels and caves beneath Shaljir. "What did he tell you?"
It wasn't the cold light of shrewd calculation, nor even the hot light of her fanaticism, both of which had been so dangerous and deadly on many occasions in the past. This was different, the glow in those dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, the fervent warmth in that lovely face... Different but somehow familiar, as if he'd seen this look elsewhere...
"He told me," Elelar said, her voice rich with tension, "that Mirabar's going to kill me."
"She wants to, it's true," he said, years of practice helping him keep his voice steady and reassuring, "but I won't—"
"Yes!" she said, her face brilliant with intensity. "That's the favor I want!"
"Of course," he promised, realizing how Mirabar's fiery power could frighten a woman of merely human gifts. "I'll stop her if sh—"
"No!" she said. "Don't stop her! Promise me you won't try to stop her."
His first thought was that Elelar was planning a trap for Mirabar. His second thought was that the one thing that could make him kill Elelar would be if she hurt Mirabar.
"Elelar..." he began slowly. But he didn't even need to ask. Now he understood what he saw in her eyes, in her face. No cunning plan, no double meaning, no concealed motive. He knew this expression, so strange and unfamiliar on Elelar's face, because he'd seen it elsewhere, on other beloved faces.
It was the look of believers. The look of people who could not be dissuaded or intimidated or stopped, because they had been touched by something so much greater than themselves that they were beyond the fears and reasoning of an ordinary man like him.
"What's happened to you?" he asked suspiciously, taking her by the shoulders.
"The Olvar told me..."
He was astonished to see tears well up in her eyes. Her smile told him these were tears of joy. Of relief.
"What?" Tansen demanded, shaking her slightly. "What did he tell you?"
"I must surrender."
He let her go. "Surrender?"
"When the one with eyes of fire comes for me, I must not resist."
He backed away, completely taken aback. He didn't want to kill her. He knew she should die, but he didn't want to let someone else kill her, either. And he didn't want Mirabar to have the blood of vengeance on her hands. Mirabar had no idea what that was like, and he never wanted her to find out.
"Tansen..."
He shook his head. He couldn't think of anything to say except, "No."
"The fate of Sileria depends on this."
"On Mirabar killing you? No." He shook his head. "I want to speak to the Olvar."
She came closer again. Pressed her palm to his arm. Then raised her hand to touch his cheek. A soft palm. Silken fingers. The skin so fair by Silerian standards. So different from the work-hardened, burn-scarred, sun-kissed hand of the woman who wanted her dead. The woman whom Elelar now claimed was destined to kill her.
"Don't you see," Elelar whispered. "Surely you, of all people, can understand?"
"No," he repeated, knowing what she would say next.
"It's my redemption."
He didn't want to lose her. That was the ugly truth.
Forgive me, Josarian. I can't let go. Not even now. Forgive me.
He was ashamed and humiliated. And afraid.
"My death, for Sileria," Elelar said. "I'm ready."
"I'm not."
"My guilt expunged. My shame healed. My soul purified for the Otherworld." She leaned closer, so close their breath mingled. "Let her do it. Let her kill me. Promise me."
"No."
"Let me be redeemed," she urged, seducing him with her desire to be sacrificed.
He took her face between his hands. Her lovely, treacherous, yearning face. "Not like this." He tried to make her understand. "Not Mirabar."
She placed her hands over his, stroking his fingers, his wrists. "Don't you see? It must be her destiny, as it is mine."
"I don't care. I won't let it happen."
"Sileria's destiny—"
"No."
"Let her cleanse me with her vengeance," she whispered, kissing his neck, pressing her lush breasts against his chest.
He shivered, then pushed her roughly away.
"And who will cleanse Mirabar for murdering you in vengeance?" he snarled.
"She's a shallah. She won't need—"
"Oh, yes, she will," he interrupted. "And I will not let your death become her burden. I'm a shallah, too, and I can tell you the weight never grows lighter. Not ever."
Angry now that she was failing to win him over, she said, "She will not be killing her own father."
He'd been expecting that, but it made him hotly angry even so. "Darfire, maybe I should just kill you and get it over with!"
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Among many other things, In Fire Forged explores Tansen's relationship with Armian, the legendary figure who (as revealed in In Legend Born) became his adoptive father after the Valdani slaughtered Tansen's family. As you may remember, Armian returned to Sileria to propose to Kiloran that the Honored Society work with the Moorlanders to drive the Valdani out of Sileria. And Tansen, only fifteen at the time, eventually made a choice about Sileria's (and Armian's) fate which now returns to haunt him in In Fire Forged, where he must face the consequences of that long-ago decision.
What you probably don't know, however, is that the character of Armian, like Josarian, was originally inspired by Sicilian legend—and that Tansen was originally inspired by some previous work of my own.
There is an apocryphal tale that Charles "Lucky" Luciano, a Mafia boss who was serving time in a US prison in 1943, was sent by the US government to Sicily during the Nazi occupation there to contact Don Calogero Vizzini (the capo di tutti capi—boss of all bosses—in Sicily at that time) and convince the Sicilian Mafia to cooperate with the Allied invasion of Sicily, which occurred that summer. Don Vizzini, by the way, knew Giuliano.
Lucky Luciano, was eventually pardoned by the US government due to the official (and well-documented) assistance he supplied to the US during WWII. However, he denied to his dying day that this assistance ever included a secret, undocumented mission to Sicily (and, indeed, it seems very unlikely that it ever did). Nonetheless, I wrote a short story about this legend, and about how things in Sicily might have turned out differently than they actually have, in the alternate worlds anthology By Any Other Fame (DAW Books, 1994). The story, "Under A Sky More Fiercely Blue," is now currently available on-line at Fictionwise.com, an electronic sf/f short fiction magazine which has acquired a number of my old short stories. If you choose to go there and read the story, you'll see the vague origins of my ideas, written several years years before In Legend Born and In Fire Forged, for what ultimately became the characters of Armian, Kiloran, and Tansen.
However, when I say a legend, an incident, or a historical figure "inspired" my work, this does not mean that my work in "based" on it. It means that something sparked my imagination and caused me to start asking, "What if?" Armian and Kiloran are not Luciano and Vizzini. They're the wholly fictional characters whom I eventually discovered when, upon considering their legend, I started asking myself, "What if?"
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"Laura Resnick's wonderful fantasy debut is a Just-One-More-Page-Omigod-Is-It-Really-3:00-A.M. kind of book. It has a rich setting, sharply drawn characters, and a cleverly intricate plot that doesn't let go."
—Kate Elliot, author of King's Dragon
(Excerpt)
The trail was long, uneven, and rough. Tansen had come to Darshon once before, in his childhood. In the succeeding years, he had forgotten what a hard climb this was. Pink, peach, brown, and black lava flows, the remnants of Dar's many tantrums, coiled, curled, rolled, and braided into a thousand tangled shapes, and he had to pick his way through or climb over them all. He passed through what had once been a forest. The trees had been incinerated, their trunks covered by flying chunks of lava. Now they squatted beneath Darshon's snowy summit like great, lumpy trolls; as a child, he had believed every story inspired by these monstrous visions crouching on the mountainside.
There were no trees higher up. Higher still, even the shrubs and plants grew scarce. The lava took on fantastic and incredible shapes as thick clouds slid down the mountain's slopes to meet him. He passed geysers of boiling water shooting angrily into the air, warning him away from the goddess's domain. Warm pools of water where the zanareen liked to bathe were now completely deserted, as were all the huts, tents, and caves that he passed. The zanareen were all up there. With Josarian.
Fear churned in Tan's belly. Fear for his bloodbrother, who was about to jump to his death. Fear for himself, for Dar would not welcome him here. Everywhere he looked, he saw evidence of what Dar could do on an angry rampage. She was the destroyer goddess, not some soft-hearted foreign deity who could be placated with a few generous bribes. She was a goddess of fire and fury, and he had offended Her sorely, murdering his own bloodfather, slaying the man he had believed to be the Firebringer. And now Tansen was coming to deny Dar the one man whom many believed She wanted more than any other.
He climbed past rocks shaped like crescent moons, like loaves of bread, like dancing girls frozen in time. He climbed past lava flows which hideously suggested gigantic parts of human bodies. He passed bubbling lava pools, rocks glowing with heat, and streams created by heat-melted snow. His once-fine Moorlander boots sank ankle-deep as he climbed powdery cinder cones. He fell several times in his haste, cutting himself on sharp fragments as the ground crumbled beneath him. Blood from a cut on his forehead temporarily blinded him, but he wiped it away and kept on going. Higher up, great splits in the earth revealed gooey-looking purple and yellow innards, rich and bristly with crystals sharp enough to drive through a man's heart.
The air grew thinner as he went even higher, making his lungs ache and his head spin, slowing him down. It was cold now, so cold. He was nearly there, though. Just a little further. And then he could stop Josarian.
Suddenly the ground split open before him. The crack widened into a huge rent before he could leap across it. Wisps of steam arose from the earth's wound, clotting swiftly into a column of thick yellow smoke. The poisonous miasma choked him, forcing him backwards.
"Dar!" he shouted. He had stopped praying to the goddess the night he killed Armian, but he addressed Her now: "I will stop him!"
The black interior of the earth melted into bright red. The lava smelled like blood and was hotter than fire. It pushed apart the crack, widening the gulf between him and Josarian. The skin-charring heat drove him further back. Molten rocks began spurting into the air, chunks of yellow and orange fire leaping out at him, driving him back down the slope up which he had just come.
"Dar!" he screamed. "You'll have to kill me first if You want him!"
But he was only a man, and She was a goddess. His swords, his training, and his skills were useless again Her. Even his courage meant nothing in the face of Her power. Yellow smoke poured out of the fresh wound in the mountain, its acrid scent stinging his nostrils. It filled his throat, choking him, strangling him.
"Josarian..." he rasped.
He coughed, his chest burning. The pain and lack of air drove him to his knees. He struggled against Dar, but She was stronger. He had finally found a greater opponent.
He gasped for air, unable to move, unable to breathe, eyes watering until he couldn't see. And he knew his destiny had caught up with him at last. He would fail.
He suddenly thought of her. He'd never see her again. The intensity of his sorrow shocked him, sweeping through him without warning.
"Mira..."
Mirabar, the demon girl, plunging through the waters of Kandahar in a ball of fire to face Kiloran himself...
He heard the rumble of the volcano overhead. Dar was gloating as She destroyed him.
"No..."
The bitter gall of his defeat burned his chest, sucked away his strength. He would fail. Dar would have Her revenge on him at last. Josarian would die. The rebellion would crumble. Dar had wanted him to die knowing this.
He tried to push himself to his feet. The ground crumbled away beneath his hand. A chunk of molten rock set his sleeve on fire and scorched his arm. Head spinning wildly, he fell backwards as he tried to get away from the clinging pain. Far above him, at the summit of the mountain, Dar rumbled victoriously, having vanquished Her foe.
* * * * *
Every sensation faded into insignificance under the onslaught of Dar's summons. Josarian could feel the hot, smooth rock baking the soles of his feet. He could hear the ecstatic wailing of the zanareen. His body quivered from the exquisite heat rising from the lava lake directly below him. His naked flesh shivered against the scintillating chill sweeping across the mountaintop.
Yet all these sensations were as nothing compared to the soul-shaking power of Her ardent call. The zanareen had kept him isolated for days, alternately sweating beside a small lava pool then immersing himself in an icy stream. He had fasted according to their traditions, consuming nothing except the mind-spinning tisanes Jalan brought him. Hunger, cold, heat, pain... They meant nothing to him anymore. For days, he had felt nothing except this intense longing for Her, yet they had kept him from Her.
Day and night, he heard nothing but Her beckoning. Never asleep or fully awake, he felt nothing but the insistent pull of Her yearning. There was no hunger in him except his consuming need for Her. He could almost smell Her on his skin, almost taste Her on his tongue. Fire and brimstone, lava and heat, earth and sky...
Man and goddess, joining as one.
They had waited until now to let him go to Her, waited until they were sure he thought of nothing else, remembered nothing else, knew no need, desire, or ambition other than embracing Dar. As long as he remembered or cherished any portion or particle of his life, She would not have him, for She was a jealous goddess. Only now, when he knew nothing but this craving, remembered nothing of his life before coming to Her, only now was he worthy. Only now would She accept him.
He raised his arms overhead, surrendering to Her. She rumbled and roared in triumph, reaching out to him, welcoming him. Her heat rose from the lava lake to wrap around him, caressing him, coaxing him forward. Head reeling, heart pounding, he gave himself up and went to Her. He arched his back luxuriantly, then soared forward into space, tumbling into Her embrace. He heard a distant screeching, but it was so faint, lost in the fiery thunder of Dar's welcome.
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The original idea for In Legend Born was inspired by a true story: the life and death of Salvatore Giuliano, a bandit-turned-rebel who was active 1943-1950 in Sicily (where I lived for a year in the mid-1980s). Anyone who knows Giuliano's tale well (as do many Sicilians) would immediately recognize the parallels of Josarian's story with Giuliano's life, although Josarian's character is very different from Giuliano's.
One of my early romance novels, written for Silhouette Books as Laura Leone, is about a modern journalist who goes to Sicily to investigate Giuliano's legend. The book has the features and limitations of a Silhouette, but it also explores the most prominent incidents of Giuliano's life and legend, as well as the culture which both sanctified and sacrificed him. The book has been reissued by Wildside Press with a lovely new cover. It's called The Bandit King and is available on-line or by ordering it from your local bookseller. Look on the Laura Leone page of this site, if you're interested.
In addition, there are two excellent non-fiction books about Giuliano's life and legend: Billy Jaynes Chandler's King of the Mountain and also Gavin Maxwell's Bandit—which was originally titled God Protect Me From My Friends in England. Maxwell got the title from the personal motto which was carved into the butt of Giuliano's rifle (and which I adapted for Josarian): "I can take care of my enemies, but God protect me from my friends."
However, when I say a legend, an incident, or a historical figure "inspired" my work, this does not mean that my work in "based" on that. It means that something sparked my imagination and caused me to start asking, "What if?" Josarian is not Giuliano. Josarian is the wholly fictional character whom I eventually discovered when, upon considering Giuliano's story, I started asking myself, "What if?"