The Heart of the Mirage

by Glenda Larke

  ‘This world doesn’t work the same way as Tyrans, Favo.’

  ‘Did you do this?’

  I stared at him in unfeigned surprise. ‘Come now, Favo, when have I ever been able to conjure a building out of nothing?’ What had prompted him to say that? I stirred uneasily, and remembered their orders. Kill all women with gemstones in the middle of their hands. That had come from Bator Korbus and Rathrox, of course, with their memories of the early invasions and the Magoroth victories.

  I put my left hand behind me and changed the subject. ‘Tell me, did you inform the Legate of what I said earlier tonight?’

  ‘I did. We are not retreating.’

  ‘That’s a mistake. You had better prepare yourself for more trouble.’

  ‘Damn it, Ligea, just whose side are you on here? Give us some help! What can we do to combat this kind of sorcery?’

  ‘I came here to offer you the only kind of help I can give you: good advice. This is a war you can’t win. Turn back.’

  ‘There must be something we can do to—to defend ourselves. Counter-spells perhaps…’ He looked as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was saying.

  ‘There is nothing.’

  ‘I don’t understand you. You’re acting as if your loyalties are to Kardiastan, not Tyrans. Tell us, at least, how to cross the Shiver Barrens. Then—win or lose—we won’t have to cross those Vortex-scoured Alps again.’

  ‘Favo, I can’t tell you that.’ It would have opened up the Mirage to attack from Tyranian troops in Kardiastan.

  ‘Why not? You must have done it, or you wouldn’t be here.’

  When I didn’t reply, he shouted at me. ‘What’s happened to you? You’re behaving like a traitor, Ligea Gayed! A traitor to your country, to the memory of your father! You help us, or there’ll be a report about you on the Magister Officii’s desk the minute I’m in a position to have it there.’

  For a moment we stood staring at each other, both aware there had been another fundamental change in our relationship, a change that had gone too far to ever be reversed.

  And he wasn’t finished yet, either. ‘I should have known not to get involved with a Kardi barbarian,’ he said and his viciousness went straight to my inner core of uncertainties. ‘You’re shit, Ligea, and you’re the colour of shit. You always did have the vulgarity of an ill-bred barbarian. What highborn woman of Tyr consorts with the Brotherhood? What real Domina makes friends of her slaves? You never did have any class! And you geld a man. I only ever took up with you because I thought it would do my career good to be seen with a general’s daughter but, by Ocrastes’ balls, it’s been a hard grind to bed such an ugly, castrating whore.’

  Then he turned on his heel and walked away.

  I felt his hate, I experienced it. I dragged in breath as hurt ripped through my chest.

  No, Favonius, no. Don’t end it like this. We were friends…

  He’d loved me once, as much as he was capable of loving. He said so often enough, and my ears knew the truth when it was spoken. Even the words he’d just used were no more than a skimming of surface validity obscured by a twist of bitter lies. Why, then, did it hurt me so much? My insides cramped.

  The colour of shit. Ugly.

  When I re-entered the building a few minutes later, it was to find Brand leaning elegantly against the mantelpiece to one side of the fireplace, sipping a glass of wine. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘at least they got something right this time. This is very good wine.’ He held out a glass to me. ‘Bet it tastes better than that pink stuff you were drinking earlier on. Rather nice glassware, too. Beautifully cut.’

  I came across to take it. ‘Mmm. Just what I need. A drink, a warm fire, a soft bed—’ I raised my glass in a toast, but then didn’t drink. I was suddenly stilled, my own words a revelation to me. Moments passed with neither of us speaking.

  ‘I was never meant to be celibate,’ I said finally.

  ‘Why now?’ The words blurted out of him; he was caught by surprise.

  ‘Because now we are friends. Because now you will be able to walk away afterwards.’ Because Temellin’s gone from my life and I need comfort. Because I need reassurance that I am not an ugly, castrating whore…

  He nodded thoughtfully. ‘In some things, my Magor friend, you were wiser than I. You were right— there was a time when this would have been a disaster.’ He reached out, took my wine and put the two glasses down on the table. ‘But not now.’ He took me into his arms and bent his head towards my lips. ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘this is exactly right.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  When I looked out of the door the next morning, it was to see the legionnaires trying to restore what was left of the camp to some kind of order, and herding stray gorclaks back to the tether lines. They were carefully avoiding passing near—or even looking at—a jet of water shooting up out of the grass of the plains just behind the camp. The water fell to the ground in rainbowed droplets, each a musical note singing like the plucked strings of a harp. A flock of purple ducks preened nearby, ruffling their feathers and their ribbons in obvious enjoyment of the shower.

  Inside, Brand was poking around among the things on the table, looking for something to eat. The black bird had abandoned its perch on the pump handle and was now on the mantelpiece, flat on its back with its feet up in the air. Its bright red eyes regarded Brand’s investigations with interest.

  I pushed away my guilt and smiled at Brand fondly. I had wondered if his lovemaking would disappoint me. I had wondered, now I knew what the touch of a lover’s cabochon could achieve, if I were doomed to dissatisfaction without it, but I hadn’t been disappointed. The lovemaking might have lacked the physical intensity of what I had found with Temellin, it might have lacked the sheen that comes with the consummation of a different kind of love, but it had been satisfying nonetheless. Especially satisfying, after I’d seen how happy it had made Brand. That had surprised me; I had not realised giving someone else so much delight could have made me so happy.

  When I thought about Favonius, my emotions were darker. He’d tainted something inside me that had once been good. He’d turned a pleasant past into a bitter memory, and the sadness clung in my thoughts like rot. And he’d severed more than he’d known. He’d cut the last strand of my ties to the belief that I was truly a citizen of Tyrans. Oh, I still had the paper somewhere, but if someone like Favonius could call me a shit-skinned barbarian and mean it, then what was such citizenship worth?

  I wasn’t a Tyranian about to go home. I was a Kardi going to a foreign land with murder in my heart.

  Brand finished his investigation of the table with a sigh. ‘Pickled fish,’ he said, ‘stale bread and some kind of sour—very sour—fruit. I was hoping for something of a similar standard to the wine.’ He held out what looked to be an orange plum to the bird. Without getting up, the bird took it in one foot and proceeded to shred it and swallow the pieces, sour or not, with evident enjoyment.

  ‘The Mirage Makers getting it wrong again,’ I said with a shrug of incomprehension. ‘I ate our own food.’ I looked back over my shoulder, out of the open door to where the legionnaires struggled to repair the camp. ‘They won’t leave Kardiastan. I’ll have to offer some more inducements, I’m afraid.’

  Brand looked up quickly. ‘What are you planning this time?’ His ambivalent tone was enough to tell me he found any talk of my power both fascinating and repellent. It interested him, but he did not like it. ‘You’re still drained. You’ll exhaust yourself.’

  I shrugged. ‘Can’t be helped. I won’t let them ride on into the Mirage, Brand. I can’t. Only the Magoroth have the kind of power that could take on the Stalwarts, and the only Magoroth left in the Maze is Gretha, and she must be within a baby’s kick of birthing her eleventh child. But it’s more than that, too; if the legionnaires ride on into the Mirage, in the end they will have to face Temellin and the Magor somewhere. And the Magor would defeat them. Only by sending the Stalwarts back across the Alps can I save the
m.’ I gave a half-laugh. ‘Sometimes I don’t know what I want, Brand. With one hand I would tumble the Exaltarchy if I could, even while I stretch out the other hand to help the Exaltarch’s finest legionnaires.’

  ‘I’m worried about you; you are still so weak.’

  ‘I’ll wait until tonight. I might feel stronger by then. I thought of trying to destroy as many of their weapons as I can. After all, what damage can an army do if it has nothing to fight with?’ I gave him a wan, joyless smile and went to lie down. At least, I thought, it was days since we’d seen any sign of the Ravage. One less thing to worry about. Or was it? Perhaps it was watching, biding its time. Mostly, though, I was just too tired to spare it a thought.

  The legionnaires spent their time mending tents and replenishing supplies. The purple ducks found their way into cooking pots, minus decorative ribbons, and so did a great many rabbit-like creatures scuttling around in the grass. Only when the camp had settled into sleep that night did I turn once more to my cabochon.

  Once again I moved the air, this time creating eddies to sweep the ground, catching up dust and grit. I moved this warmer air from the plains down to the riverside, cooling it along the ice-cold waters of the river, where the moisture in it became mist, then fog; a thick suffocating blanket of moisture and dust. I rolled it across what was left of the camp—there were fewer tents now—and settled it there.

  ‘Time to go,’ I said softly to Brand. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  He squinted into the fog. ‘How? I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘I can sense where people are, and who they are,’ I reminded him. ‘And I can enhance my hearing too, if necessary. Come.’ I led him past the fog-clad sentries, unseen and undetected, into the heart of the camp.

  I ignored the tents and aimed for those legionnaires lying on the ground, wrapped tight in whatever blankets or pelts they had, their heads covered to escape the damp. I moved from one sleeping bundle to the next, seeking out the weaponry that lay close at hand to each legionnaire: swords, lances, spears, arrows. A short burst of cold light from my cabochon and the metals melted, rendering the weapons useless. Whenever I sensed someone was awake I avoided them. It hardly mattered; I didn’t have the power to destroy every weapon they had. My aim was not to leave them entirely defenceless, but to reduce their fighting potential to a degree sufficient to force them to turn back.

  By the time we had circled through most of the sleeping men, I was leaning against Brand and staggering. The flash from my palm had become a mere gleam, the results less spectacular. ‘It’s time to go,’ Brand whispered.

  I could have used the power in my sword to continue, but it was less subtle and already people were awakening. We could hear agitated cries from the other side of the camp. I nodded my acquiescence.

  ‘Which way is out?’ he asked. The fog was as thick as ever and he had no idea where we were.

  I pointed in the correct direction. ‘Goddess, Brand, I am so tired…’ I drooped against him, and in my fatigue, my powers failed me. I was not aware of Favonius’s approach until he had actually loomed up out of the fog, close enough to touch.

  His enraged voice lashed at me through my tiredness. ‘I knew it! It is you!’ He seized my left hand and looked at my palm. The golden glow of the uncovered cabochon was just visible. He flung my arm away in a gesture of distaste. ‘I knew it had to be something to do with that lump of yours; it’s you who has sorcerous powers! Well, there’s no way the Stalwarts will retreat before one person, and a woman at that. Go to the Goddess, Ligea—’

  His sword was out and aimed at my throat before I could move. But he had forgotten Brand, forgotten Brand wasn’t a slave, forgotten Brand had never had the slave mentality that would have stopped him from ever threatening a legionnaire. He moved just as quickly as Favonius, and the knife he held rested at the Tribune’s throat long before Favonius’s sword pricked at my neck. I stepped out of reach.

  ‘Lower your weapon very carefully,’ Brand said evenly, ‘or you die right here and now. And don’t doubt it, Favonius.’

  It was the insolent use of Favo’s given name, an unthinkable liberty for a slave or even a servant, that convinced the Tribune of Brand’s sincerity, more than the threat or his tone. Favonius dropped his sword point and stood still, shocked. ‘I’ll see you dead for this, thrall,’ he said at last, his anger so strong I could taste it in the back of my throat.

  ‘But not now, I think,’ Brand replied, his voice full of quiet menace. He did not move his knife. ‘What shall I do with him, Ligea?’

  I straightened, almost too tired to care what he did. ‘Let him go. I shall deal with him.’ This time I used my sword.

  Brand stepped back. Instantly, Favonius raised his sword, only to find the blade of it was no longer useable. It was a travesty of a weapon, a tangle of knobbed metal. His jaw sagged.

  He took a deep breath and regained his equilibrium with a supreme effort of will. ‘You can’t think we will retreat before any barbarian scum, let alone one of their bitches.’

  ‘Why not? Think of it this way, Favo: if you are right, then they sent only one, their newest, most inexperienced recruit, to stop the Stalwarts. Go on, and you’ll face the whole population of the Mirage. They will turn you all to dust.’

  ‘How do we know others even exist?’

  ‘You’ve heard enough tales to know they do. Think back, Favo. I’m sure you’ve heard stories about the early conquest of Kardiastan. I’m equally certain you’ve heard more recent stories from your fellow officers about what happens in this land.’

  He paled at that and strove to understand. ‘I don’t know you any more. And I don’t understand, Ligea. Why? Was it all a sham, right from the beginning? Were you always a Kardi barbarian at heart, bent on betrayal? You seemed so—so loyal to Tyrans. What happened? Did they ensorcel you?’

  ‘I grew up. I learned what Tyrans really is. A behemoth, Favonius, that crushes the weak beneath it. A giant beast without compassion or understanding. Melete’s heart, you came here with orders to kill babies! Is that what the Stalwarts are all about? Well, this servant of the behemoth doesn’t serve any more.’

  ‘I don’t understand. I’ll never understand how you could change so.’

  I nodded. ‘I never expected you to. Go back across the Alps, Favonius. It’s your only chance.’ I waved a hand around me to encompass the camp. ‘You don’t have enough weapons to fight with any more.’ I used my sword again. The shaft of light caught him on the temple and he dropped where he stood.

  ‘Have you killed him?’ Brand asked. He didn’t sound particularly upset at the thought.

  I gave a low laugh. ‘Brand, the way I feel at the moment, I couldn’t kill an ant if I crushed it between my fingers. Although it might be wiser if I ended his life here and now. He meant what he said about seeing you dead one day.’

  He wasn’t perturbed. ‘Our paths are not likely to cross too often.’

  I lingered for a moment longer, gazing down on Favonius’s prostrate body, and wondered if I did him a disservice by leaving him alive. His career was finished after this fiasco, for a start, and the Stalwarts were all he’d ever had. Or perhaps I was just looking for a reason to kill him and satisfy the panic in me, the deep unease that told me not killing Favonius would be as large a mistake as not killing Pinar when she’d lain unconscious at my feet.

  I was right, of course.

  If only I had done it.

  If only.

  Brand touched me on the shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

  We heard shouts of consternation. The bellow of an officer, as loud and as inflamed as a male gorclak’s challenge call, penetrated the fog. And the opportunity was lost. Brand put his arm around me and pulled me away. ‘Quick! Which direction?’ he asked.

  When I awoke in the morning, Brand was cooking at the fireplace. ‘Smells good,’ I said. Fatigue tugged at me; even rolling over to face him was an effort.

  ‘I had some luck hunting this m
orning,’ he said, adding laconically, ‘Duck. At least I think it was. It did have a hairy tail like a cat, though.’

  ‘How did you get back in through the ward?’

  ‘You forgot to renew it last night.’

  ‘Oh, Goddess…’

  ‘No harm done. I kept watch. And I didn’t have to go far away to find the duck, either.’

  ‘What are the legionnaires doing?’

  ‘Packing up to go. The fog has gone. They’ve been sifting through the remains of the camp to see what they can salvage. Some of the men have been off hunting—they are short of food now. I’ve seen Favonius from a distance; he seems to have recovered. The Legate wanted to see you again. I told the messenger you were ill. I hinted you were ensorcelled. He—the Legate—sent back the advice that you ought to move out of the building. He says you’re welcome to join them on their retreat across the mountains. Ligea, why in all Acheron’s mists didn’t Favonius tell everyone he believes you were responsible for what happened last night?’

  ‘I told you he wouldn’t.’ I had reassured Brand of that the night before, but he hadn’t quite believed me.

  ‘How did you know he wouldn’t?’

  ‘I know Favonius. How could he tell anyone? Everyone knows he and I have been lovers for years. How can he tell his comrades-at-arms he was bedding something capable of sorcery all that time and never knew it? His pride won’t let him say a word. Pride has always been Favonius’s weakness. Pride and the arrogance of the younger son who made it on his own.’ He brought across a plate of food to me. ‘Goddess, this looks good, Brand. And I’m so hungry. There’s nothing like a spot of sorcery to increase the appetite!’

  By midmorning the Stalwarts were on their way.

  There was nothing proud about them now. Many of them still had their gorclaks, but there was little else of value for them to take back over the Alps. Their food would be whatever they could hunt or forage on the way, their only shelters the caves they could find, their only warmth the fur cloaks they wore. Many of them were going to die, and they knew it.