by Glenda Larke
I loved the terrace best of all in the desert-season when it was heady with the smell of flowers and the warmth of the sun—as it was today, my sixteenth anniversary day.
The mellowbirds droned their somnolent call in the garden, mocking my impatience. I was waiting for Pater to come back from the city; I was waiting for his news concerning my future, and I wanted to thank him for his anniversary gift. I’d even put on my best wrap, the one with garnets sewn along the hem, just to please him, although I didn’t like it much. It was too stiff and uncomfortable. Besides, it stopped me from doing what I most wanted to do right then: ride the big roan stallion stalking its proud way along the garden path just below the terrace.
I had to be content to lean against the balustrade and gaze instead. The roan coat shone in the sunlight, the muscles of his shoulders and neck and legs spoke to me of power and speed. I gave a slight shiver of excitement.
‘Ah, Goddess, Brand,’ I said. ‘Isn’t he magnificent? Can you believe he’s really mine? Isn’t Pater wonderful to have bought him for me?’
Brand, who was walking the horse, halted and looked up, squinting against the light. ‘The General doubtless had excellent reasons for buying you such an unsuitable mount,’ he said.
I pouted, trying to decide exactly what he was telling me. Brand often said things that never meant quite what I thought they did at first; it was an annoying habit of his. ‘I hope you are not criticising Pater,’ I said severely and then, not wanting anything to spoil my day, turned my attention back to the horse. ‘Oh mount him, for Goddess’ sake, Brand, although I shall be jealous—I just have to see how he moves.’
Brand smiled, an indulgent, teasing smile of the kind that usually infuriated me into throwing something at him, but today I refused to be even mildly irritated. He swung himself up onto the animal’s back, apparently unconcerned by the lack of a saddle. His strong square hands gathered up the reins and held the roan in tight as it stamped a front foot in annoyance and tried to swing its head free. It occurred to me Brand looked almost as magnificent as the horse, but I pushed that thought away. That was not the kind of thing one should think about a slave.
He moved the roan from a walk to a trot to a canter, swinging it around through the garden in a wide figure of eight and then jumping it across the fishpond as a finale.
‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked as he reined in beneath the terrace. ‘I think he’s perfect.’
He patted the roan’s neck and looked up at me. ‘He’s edgy. You’ll need wrists of steel for this one, Miss Ligea. I don’t think you should ride him until he’s more schooled.’
‘Oh, nonsense! My wrists are strong—don’t I ride nearly every day? I shall school him myself.’
He slid down to the grass, frowning slightly. ‘Well, I don’t think you ought to ride him yet a while. He ought to be, um, cut. If he gets a whiff of a mare, you’d never hold him. He’s no mount for a sixteen-year-old girl—’
A voice at my elbow said coldly, ‘And I don’t think you should say any more, thrall. It’s not your place to pass judgement on the General’s gift to his…his daughter.’
Salacia, my adoptive mother. One of the most beautiful women of Tyr, or so everyone told me. I knew she was fifty years old, but she looked fifteen years younger, mostly because her skin was white, kept from the sun and unblemished by wrinkles. She never frowned, never laughed and rarely smiled; a face so devoid of animation had no chance to develop creases. I could never look at her without thinking of a statue, perfectly polished but incapable of showing emotion. Perhaps that was why I invariably felt gauche in her presence, all arms and legs and ungainly height. I knew the emotions were there of course; I might not have seen them on that alabaster mask of hers, but I could feel them. Cold indifference usually predominated, occasionally laced with a strangely impersonal spite. I wasn’t enough of an object in her life even to arouse her dislike.
‘Take that animal away, Brand,’ she ordered, ‘and get on with your work.’ She turned back to me, her malice momentarily satisfied.
As a child I had been constantly bewildered by her lack of interest, but I was older now. Sixteen…Old enough to understand and pity her. She’d wanted a child of her own; instead, I’d arrived in her household to mock her desire. Fortunately for me, she had been far too proud ever to allow herself to care overmuch, and even her verbal jibes were muted. Mostly she ignored me; only occasionally did she rouse herself enough to deprive me of something I enjoyed, such as admiring the stallion. They were the petty tyrannies of a petty woman and I was used to them.
I almost smiled. I felt very adult. What Salacia did didn’t matter; Pater made up for everything…
He wasn’t alone when he came back; he’d brought the Magister Officii with him. I knew Rathrox Ligatan by sight and I knew why Pater had brought him to the house: to meet me. Pater had promised to ask the Magister if I could train to be a Brotherhood Compeer. My heart beat uncomfortably fast. The Brotherhood did not usually accept women as trainees at the compeer level, or accept non-Tyranians at any level—and I’d been born a Kardi. Gayed had never made any secret of my origins.
I performed the welcoming ablutions myself, and tried to assess the Magister Officii’s thoughts. His emotions were complex; a tangle of conflicting feelings that were hard to interpret. I could sense strong amusement, a touch of contempt—but mostly he was smug. I didn’t think I liked him very much.
‘Well,’ Pater asked me, his dark blue eyes mocking gently, ‘how do you like your horse?’
‘He’s wonderful! But Brand says he’ll be too much for me.’
‘For my Ligea? You must accept the challenge, child. There’s no place for weaklings among the Brotherhood, is there, eh, Rathrox? Ocrastes’ balls, what does an ignorant thrall know about horseflesh anyway? That beast is not too much for you!’
‘Among the Brotherhood?’ I stammered, seizing on the most significant thing he’d said. The roan suddenly seemed unimportant.
I turned to Rathrox Ligatan. ‘Magister Officii? The—the Brotherhood will take me?’
He inclined his head, smiling faintly. ‘I don’t see that being Kardi-born will be a disadvantage, do you, Gayed?’
The two men exchanged glances. ‘Why should it?’ Pater asked. His voice was smooth, his features relaxed, yet I caught an undercurrent of something I didn’t altogether like. I could have deliberately opened my mind to his emotions—I could have listened for a lie, but I didn’t. I never did with him. It would have been disloyal, dishonourable even. He was my father and I loved him. The rules were of my own making, but I kept them.
‘Why indeed?’ agreed the Magister Officii. ‘I have nothing against the Kardis. In fact, I admire them. A fine people from an interesting land.’
That was a lie so blatant the blast of it almost made me choke, and it was followed by a churning blackness of rage and hate. For a moment I thought the emotion was directed at me, but once I gathered my wits together again, I realised it was not me he despised; on the contrary, he was quietly pleased with me in an amused, self-satisfied fashion. What then had aroused a rage so irrational in its intensity? Kardis? Kardiastan? Or had mention of the place just conjured up some unpleasant memory? I had no way of knowing. I sensed the emotion, never the cause.
I looked back at Pater, and he was now the one who was smiling, as if he were aware of the depth of the Magister Officii’s sentiments and was amused by it. He said, ‘You must work hard at this, Ligea. One day you’ll be a compeer; make sure you’re the best.’ He was serious now, almost cold. ‘You’re my daughter; you bear my name. Live up to it. The Magister Officii is going to take a personal interest in your progress, and perhaps one day—’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Perhaps one day you will be a heroine of Tyr, and of inestimable service to us.’
I stood a little straighter, and felt the swell of pride.
That night I dreamed of the kind of services I could perform to make my father proud of me…
The scent of blos
som was gone from my nostrils and I was lying back on the sleeping pelts, Temellin’s arm flung carelessly over my body, his breathing even and peaceful. I rolled away slightly, unwilling to be distracted.
Think, Ligea, think. Think about who it was who loved you?
Not Salacia, certainly. I’d never believed that. It had been Aemid who had been mother to me and I’d never thought otherwise. Aemid—of Kardiastan. Aemid the slave. Aemid, who now put her love of her country before her affection for me. Who would rather see me dead than have me betray her people. (Hardly the kind of love Brand wanted me to think about!)
Who had loved me?
Brand? Yes, certainly. The slave boy—from Altan. The eighteen-year-old who had looked up at me in concern from the back of the roan, worried I wouldn’t be able to control a half-broken stallion. (He’d been right, too, damn him; the animal had thrown me more than once and I’d been lucky to escape with no more than bruises and a broken collarbone.)
I thought of Rathrox Ligatan, mentor, but never friend.
About him, I’d never had any illusions. He’d used me, again and again, but then, I’d been willing enough to be used. Willing enough to learn from him and in return to use my abilities to bring him the traitors, the criminals and the enemies he sought. Until one day he’d learned to fear me and sent me to the one place where there was no Brotherhood to help me.
To Kardiastan.
To get rid of me? Perhaps. Or perhaps because he wanted me to exact revenge on the people he hated…With the sudden cold of realisation, I knew why I had been remembering that sixteenth anniversary day of mine—because that was the day Rathrox had shown me his intention. That was the day he’d told me I was nothing to him but the future instrument of his revenge on Kardiastan. Perhaps he hadn’t used words to say it, but he’d told me nonetheless. I just hadn’t listened.
And Gayed had been there that day. Gayed, General of Tyrans, the only father I could remember.
Perhaps one day you will be of inestimable service to us—
The cold tightened its grip in my chest. Those had been Gayed’s words…
But Gayed had taken me into his home, given me his name, made me a citizen of Tyrans, shared his wealth with me. He had raised me, educated me, given me everything he would have given a true daughter.
Would he have given a true daughter to the Brotherhood? An unbidden, unwanted thought, and suddenly it was impossible to think of any child of Gayed and Salacia’s becoming a Compeer of the Brotherhood. Gayed would never have allowed such a thing… Would never have even contemplated it.
Had he loved me? That proud man who’d given a sixteen-year-old daughter a horse too tough for her to handle because he’d wanted her challenged? The man who’d urged that same sixteen-year-old into the Brotherhood, into the manipulative hands of Rathrox Ligatan, to be trained and hardened and taught how to kill? A proud man who had once been part of a defeated army, an army humiliated by Kardiastan. The only time he’d been on the losing side. The only time treachery rather than military might had provided the ultimate victory.
Would such a man have taken a three-year-old enemy child into his family for reasons of love or compassion?
Of course not. Delusion.
Then what was the truth?
A far-sighted man, he’d taken a child of Kardiastan and made her a woman of Tyrans. A man of vision, he’d taken one of the Magor and made her a Brotherhood Compeer. A man of foresight and planning, he had moulded me, the malleable, eager child; wrought me into his instrument of revenge. One day you’ll be of service to us…
I’d mourned him when he died. I’d wept at his burial griefs.
I lay there, and my blood froze with the betrayal of memory.
I had been betrayed by a man I’d loved as my father. By the man who had been my father. Whom I had loved. Who had used me. Who had doubtless despised all I was…
Tears trickled unbidden down my cheeks. Tears from Ligea Gayed? She never cried. But I’d never been so utterly bereft before. I’d never felt that choking in my throat, that crushing sense of betrayal turning my whole life into a lie.
Yet they’d forged their weapon well, those two brutal men of Tyr. I was still a woman of Tyrans…wasn’t I?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My clothes weren’t made for those nights. The still air was cold and the bitterness of it seeped into my bones. Under the feet of the shleths, the sands were hard with ice; ahead the last of the Rakes clawed at a purple sky pricked through with stars, stars as bright as sparkles of sunlight on the sea. The Shiver Barrens: a land that burned with vicious heat by day, and stole the warmth from our bodies by night, a land that killed so easily, yet possessed a beguiling beauty destined to linger on in memory.
A land frightening in its mysteries.
My head pounded. Yesterday’s strangeness had been real; I had the sword to prove it. And those visions, they must have been real too. I had walked under these killer sands, and lived. Something nonhuman had spoken to me. Something had shown me a vision of unspeakable brutality. And something had told me that thing I didn’t want to think about.
I felt sick. Confused. Afraid.
And then those memories Brand had coaxed out of me with his taunting words…Had he any idea of what he had done to me? He had scoured my life of its illusions. What did I have now to replace the mockery of destroyed childhood dreams? The love of a slave, perhaps? I thought not. Or the love of an enemy, a man destined to marry another? Hardly that either. No, all I had in that empty space was the blight left behind by the deepest of betrayals.
I shivered.
‘Are you cold?’ Temellin asked.
We were walking our mounts, because apparently this last band of the sands was narrow, and there was no need to hurry. Garis and Brand were ahead of us, leading the pack shleth, and having their own conversation. By the sound of it, Garis was being amusing.
‘Cold? Yes, a little.’ In the vast emptiness of that landscape, my voice seemed frail, the whimper of a worm before the might of a god.
He fumbled in one of his saddlebags, and tossed me a blanket woven of shleth wool. ‘Put this around you.’
I smiled my thanks, draped it over my shoulders and asked the first thing that popped into my head. Anything to stop thinking about what had happened the day before. Anything to be Ligea Gayed again.
‘Is slavery the only reason you fight Tyr?’ I asked.
I had previously avoided talking about Kardi politics. I had been wary of doing anything out of keeping with the personality of a woman brought up as a slave, but the time for that kind of caution was over. I hoped that by now Temellin trusted me, and I needed to know a lot more than I did. A lot more than what I could find out from observation and judicious eavesdropping.
‘Why do you ask?’ Temellin countered.
‘You risk so much,’ I said, choosing my words with care. ‘All of you. Have you any idea what can happen to you?’
He shrugged, apparently indifferent.
‘I don’t think you really understand,’ I told him, and the urgency I felt was genuine. ‘Listen, let me tell you about a place called Crestos. General Gayed’s brother was the Governor there for some years, and the Gayed family used to holiday there. It’s a large island in the Sea of Iss. The Crestians rebelled against Tyranian rule, oh, about ten years ago. They drove the legions out, slaughtered every Tyranian they could find on the island. They were left alone for a year or two, but the Exaltarch was just planning his revenge. He built a new fleet, landed legionnaires on every beach of Crestos, and killed every man between the ages of twelve and sixty. Then he repopulated the place with Tyranian soldiers who were retiring from military life. They were granted land or town properties. The only catch was that they weren’t allowed to take any women with them. So you can imagine what happened. Every child born on Crestos thereafter was half-Tyranian.’
He nodded, his emotions sober. ‘I’ve heard the story.’
‘I was on Crestos once, with the Gayed
family, when I was about thirteen, before all this happened. I remember a peaceful, prosperous nation with a thriving commercial centre and port, a fine theatre and some of the best sculptors in the Exaltarchy. They had a good life then. They ended up with nothing. Not even their bloodlines. Was it worth it, Tem? Is what you do here worth the risk?’ To add a little verisimilitude to my anxiety, I added, ‘I don’t want to see you dead.’
He grinned at me. ‘I hope you won’t.’
‘Then maybe you could negotiate. Have the Magor swear allegiance to the Exaltarch in exchange for making Kardiastan slave-free. Kardi slaves are not popular in Tyr, I do know that. It would be no great loss to the Exaltarchy, and they would save on the number of legionnaires they have to have quartered here.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that your idea, or the Legata’s?’
‘I believe she was going to mention something along those lines to the Governor. She could arrange it.’ Perhaps.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said. ‘How could you? You weren’t brought up here! This is our land, Derya. Ours! It doesn’t belong to Bator Korbus and his legions. It is our right to govern ourselves. To be free. To decide what sort of buildings to have, what sort of law, what sort of punishment for wrongdoers. To decide how to educate our children, and what language they should learn.’
I tightened my hold on the blanket over my shoulders, trying to keep out the cold. ‘But hasn’t Tyrans brought you many advantages? The Tyranian road system, for example.’
‘Built with the blood and sweat of Kardi slaves.’
‘The theatres. The stadia. The games. The schools. The baths. The libraries. I’ve seen all these things in Sandmurram and Madrinya. There would be more, if there was peace here.’ I heard a hint of desperation in my voice, and wondered at myself.
‘All built with slave labour, on the Tyranian model. The theatres perform works that have nothing to do with us, in a language which is not our own, playing music that is not ours. The games encourage a competitive culture foreign to us. The schools would teach our children to be Tyranian, if they could. They certainly try. Bathing naked in public and lying about afterwards being pandered to by a bevy of slaves—or even servants—is not our custom. And the libraries don’t contain works written by us. In fact, if any book or scroll written in Kardi is ever found, it is destroyed. We have lost our literature by the promulgation of Tyranian law, Derya. So much has been taken from us—can’t you understand that? Because if you can’t, then you ought to return to Tyrans. All we want is to be left alone to rule ourselves. To be equal to Tyrans, not subjugated to it. Why is that too much to ask?’