The Magic Mines of Asharim

by Pauline M. Ross

  For a moment I was stunned, then I burst out laughing. “You’re turned on by my political ambition?”

  “Absolutely. We are so alike, you and I. Children of the Empire.”

  I couldn’t see it. He was a barger, we had nothing in common. And yet, I was drawn to him. There was an affinity between us that had nothing to do with sexual attraction. And there were the books, the writing desk, the wine—

  The wine! How could a simple barger afford barrels of wine? And silk sheets!

  “Who are you?” I said, struggling to breathe suddenly.

  For answer he reached up and unwound his head-scarf. As it uncoiled into his hands, his hair tumbled free, the curls falling halfway down his back, the temples cropped short in the nobles’ style.

  “Oh,” I whispered. “You still have the hair.”

  “Of course. What happened to yours?”

  “That was the ridiculous escape from Caxangur disguised as a—”

  I stopped, jaw dropping, as I caught sight of his ear tattoos. “But—?” My brain churned, but I couldn’t make sense of it. “I thought I knew everyone from the Highest, but I’ve never heard of a Zakkarvyn before. What family are you?”

  He sketched the formal greeting, hand to forehead, mouth and heart, although ironically, I suppose, for his mind brimmed with amusement and his eyes crinkled. “I am Sorthysszakkarvyn Dre’zindassyon.”

  “Zindassyon! By the One! Then the Keeper is—?”

  “My mother.”

  “Demons and sprites. I had no idea. Well, obviously. Impossible to tell your rank under all that cheap cloth. But I still do not understand—” I chewed my lip, puzzling it out. He just smiled enigmatically, enjoying my bewilderment. “Oh, I have it. You are the missing son.”

  His eyebrows quirked. “Missing son?”

  “The Keeper’s son who was taken for the Program. There was some scandal. Oh, but that can’t be right, for here you are.”

  “No, it’s true. I am a son of the Keeper, but not a Son of the Spirit. My father was one of the Keeper’s personal guard, not one of the Protectors, so I had to be tested by the Tre’annatha. I have a connection to water, so I was taken for the Program. When I was twelve, I escaped. My father helped me. That was probably the scandal you’ve heard of.”

  It was almost too much to take in. A connection to water? I had some vague memory of a strange rush of water when we were escaping from the Hrandish. An odd backwash that swept the spear men back through the tunnel. Yes, that sounded right. But escaping from the Program? That was almost unheard of. Once inducted, subjects were kept locked away underground, never to emerge. I couldn’t imagine what his father, the guard, had to do to get Zak out.

  “So you see, there’s another similarity between us,” he said.

  “Similarity? We are both Highest?”

  “I meant that we’ve both managed to evade the Program.” I looked at him blankly. How could he know about that? “The fire thing?” He wiggled his fingers. “You caused that delightfully entertaining bonfire in the Hrandish camp, remember? So obviously you should be in the Program too.”

  “Oh, of course. I’m being very stupid today. But then, these are not the ideal conditions for acute mental agility.” I gestured towards the bed. “I came here in the expectation of something involving a lot less talking.”

  He burst out laughing. “And I am keeping you waiting. My apologies, Lady. But there is one more thing before we can stop talking.”

  He bent down to open one of the drawers under the bed, and pulled out a small woven bag. From it, he took a lump of green dough and rolled a bean-sized ball of the stuff between his fingers, setting it down on the table.

  “Do you know what this is?”

  “Hassalma, I imagine.”

  “You imagine? You’ve never had it before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ah. Small amount then.” A second ball, the size of a pea.

  “You don’t need to do this,” I said coldly. “Not on my account. I’m perfectly willing.”

  His eyes twinkled again. “A common misconception. Hassalma won’t make an unwilling partner willing. It doesn’t switch off critical thinking. If you despise me now, you will still despise me later. No, it changes perception, that’s all. The outside world – all the distractions and extraneous factors – fade away, and all that’s left is you. Your feelings, your body, your responses, your senses. Nothing else. It heightens the experience.”

  “It’s not necessary, not for me.”

  “Allandra – or do you prefer Sanya? Forgive me, but I know a little of your history now. I did a little research. I know that you’ve been married, that there have been other lovers, that you became a companion-servant. You know about sex, you’re an expert, you understand how it works. But for this one night, I want to give you something special, something you will remember for a long time. I’ve pushed you into this, so will you let me at least do this one thing for you in return?”

  I thought about it. I knew of hassalma, of course. It was very rare, very expensive, the product of a swamp plant that was both hard to find and hard to retrieve. The common name for it was king’s gold, and for a good reason.

  “How long do the effects last?”

  “A few hours, at the most intense. After that, it gradually fades away. It may take longer if this is your first experience with it. And no consequences.”

  “Everything has consequences.”

  He smiled at me, but it was not mischievous now, more the intimate smile of a lover. “Will you try it?”

  I picked up the smaller ball, then hesitated.

  “Roll it round your mouth first to warm it, then chew.”

  I knew I should think this through more carefully. The rational part of my brain wanted to do some research on hassalma, on benefits and side effects and addictive properties and possible consequences, long or short term. The rational part of my brain was not in charge, though. Zak was watching me, his dark eyes fixed on mine, his broad chest and powerful arms radiating strength, his desire coursing through me. The musky perfumes of Mesanthia filled me with longing. I was helpless to resist him.

  I tossed the hassalma ball into my mouth. Zak reached for his, only a heartbeat later, still watching me.

  At first the taste was sour, almost earthy, like roots not properly cleaned. But as I rolled the ball back and forth with my tongue, it changed to something sweeter, like freshly podded peas, a crisp vegetable flavour. I chewed and swallowed.

  Nothing happened.

  “It takes a while,” Zak said, to my bemused face. He picked up the half empty wine glasses and padded across to the barrel to refill them. “There. Drink a little more, to take the taste away. Then tell me about your time in Mesanthia.”

  So I did. Not easily, not at first, but he asked questions, drew answers from me, wrapped me in a blanket of amicable warmth. He had charm, of course. The constant string of women could attest to that. He watched me and listened intently as if I were the only woman in the world, and I allowed myself to unfurl a little under his attentions.

  For so long, I’d had to watch everything I said or did, had to think so carefully about every move. I’d lived in fear for half my life. Friends – true friends – had been in desperately short supply. Even with my husband, there had been things I couldn’t say. He’d loved me dearly, but he’d never seen me as his equal. I’d always been a child to him.

  But with Zak, I began to feel that we could be something more to each other, more than friends or lovers. We understood each other in ways that perhaps no one else could. Both Akk’ashara, both of us Highest, we were alike in a thousand little ways. And the snake tattoo – that gave us another affinity. A secret we shared.

  So I talked and he listened, nodding or smiling or shaking his head, as appropriate, prompting me when I fell silent. In his mind, his desire bubbled up and down like a mountain stream, lively and invigorating, reminding me why we were there. But my impatience was gone. Perhaps it
was the wine, or the luxurious surroundings, or just the spell he cast over me, but I was happy to wait. The evening would come to fruition in its own time, as everything must. So I waited and talked.

  I stopped mid-sentence.

  There was nothing specific I could point to and say: there, that’s the hassalma taking effect. I just knew that something had changed.

  Zak smiled. “Is it working?””

  “I – I think so. Something is happening, anyway.”

  And even as I spoke the words, everything shifted. The nebulous feeling of some slight change, a minute shifting of perception, tipped me abruptly into a whole new world. It was like being underwater, or waking after long illness to a glorious spring day, cool and clear.

  I was aware of everything. I could feel every hair on my body as if each one was a living creature, independent yet still part of me. My skin was warm and smooth, pulsing very gently with its own rhythm. The shirt next to my skin touched me in a hundred different places and I knew every one, felt the very fibres that made the fabric. Even the air making my chest rise and fall, the blood pulsing through my body, my heart thudding – soft in my ears, yet clear as a bell on a winter’s night.

  But Zak was gone. His mind, with its complicated swirls of amusement and mischief and desire – all of it gone. There was nothing there, nothing but me, my own thoughts, my own emotions, my own desires. For the first time in my life, I was entirely alone in my own mind. Even my flickers were distant; still there, but quiet, as if sleeping.

  For a moment it was hard to breathe. I panicked, just a little. But then Zak was there, kneeling in front of me, looking up at me. I didn’t need to see into his mind to see the delight on his face, the welcoming eyes, the invitation. He stretched out one finger – just one – and ran the tip of it down my cheek.

  I gasped. It was fire, burning all the way down, yet these were the flames of pleasure, not pain. His finger rested on my lips, and I tasted the warmth of him, the residue of wine mingling with the musky maleness, all of it blazing through my senses. It was beyond my imagination, every tiny sensation multiplied a thousand-fold.

  My tongue reached out for him; another explosion of sensations. And then, finally, the moment I had dreamed of ever since I’d met him – my lips brushed his. And I fell into a deep, deep pool of pleasure beyond anything I’d ever known.

  I have no idea how long it took us to get to the bed. Every step, every button, every lace, every sleeve produced another world of delicate caresses, as gentle as butterfly wings, yet as intense as the greatest conflagration. At some point, the clothes were all gone, there was nothing but silk under us – I’d never understood before what a wondrous fabric silk is, spun from dreams and clouds, as light as wishes.

  When we joined together at last, there was a rightness to it, an inevitability. We became truly one person, one body, one soul. Soul mates. Bonded to each other beyond the purely physical. This is what love is, I realised in that delirious moment. This union of two into one, this is what the poets speak of, what every man and every woman strives for but so few achieve. And I had found it. Zak and I had found love.

  Afterwards, as we lay tangled in silk, still touching, still kissing, I told him all this, the words tumbling over each other. He listened gravely, saying nothing, letting me babble excitedly, a little smile on his lips even as his eyelids drooped. Eventually he fell asleep. By the One, he was so beautiful! I didn’t dare touch him, in case I woke him, so I just gazed at him, soaking in the smooth, dark skin, the long lashes, the angular line of his jaw. I only allowed myself to touch his hair where it spread over the pillow, glorying in the feel of it – so warm, so vibrant, shimmering with health to my newly-acute eye.

  When the moon had gone at last, I lay in the dark, whispering “I love you, I love you” over and over. I couldn’t sleep. How could I possibly sleep when the world was so wondrous, so astonishingly alive? So I curled up beside my lover, whispering my adoration into his unhearing ears, until the sun rose once more. Then I stroked him awake and made love to him again. He didn’t seem to mind.

  And then, finally, I fell asleep.

  31: Unwelcome

  It took three days before the hassalma wore off me. For three entire days I drifted in a cloud of enchantment, lost in love. My senses were too heightened for me to be any use around the barge. Xando’s miserable face and Renni’s screeching whine were too much for me, so I retreated to the bedroom, emerging only for meals and fleeing as soon as I’d gulped down my food. I slept all morning, then passed the long afternoon hours curled up in the basket chair with a book. Zak’s collection was quite odd – more map books and guides to towns and cities than anything else, as if his life were a perpetual holiday – but I found plenty to interest me. When I tired of the books, Zak brushed out my growing hair and carefully trimmed the sides to a proper Mesanthian style. When I was too restless even to sit, he listened patiently to my ramblings. And then the nights – my days were just waiting time, the interval between one glorious bed session and the next.

  I should have been worried. Did the hassalma always last this long? Maybe it would never wear off. Would I always be in this state, half out of the real world? But I was too happy to care. The loss of my ability to feel other minds bothered me not at all. It had always been a burden to me, and now I felt liberated. I was a little sorry that I couldn’t read Zak any more, for his mind was a delight, but then I had his love, I knew it every time he looked at me, and what more could I possibly want?

  Zak’s hassalma wore off long before mine, but he never rushed me when we were alone together. He patiently allowed me to spin the moments into hours, savouring the scents and textures and the astonishingly vibrant colours. The effect weakened, softening the intensity, but it still made the world a mesmerising place. Then he held me while I chattered unstoppably about how much I loved him, and the wonderful life we would have together.

  For three days I loved him passionately. Then the hassalma wore off.

  At first I didn’t realise. I woke to voices murmuring in the cabin, the clink of plates, the pungent smell of goat’s cheese. I dressed quickly, hunger prodding my stomach, reminding me I’d missed first table.

  Then something else prodded me, in my mind this time. Renni. My connection was back, and the first mind I brushed against was hers, filled with jealousy and frustration and chronic low-level anger. As usual. Today there was a new note; she was quite pleased with life, in her narrow, selfish way.

  I’d never been able to read Xando, but I searched eagerly for the mind I wanted to find – Zak. He was further away – tending to the horse, perhaps – but I could read him as clearly as ever. The hassalma hadn’t affected that. There was the merriment and mischief I loved, which I’d missed more than I’d realised.

  I bounced down into the cabin, gazing around me with normal sight again. The room seemed unbearably drab now, the colours muted, the sounds muffled to my ears. Xando and Renni turned to stare at me, Xando with great, sad eyes, Renni scowling, as usual. I smiled at them, too happy to allow them to affect my mood.

  “Allandra?” Xando said tentatively. “How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m absolutely fine. Starving. Is there any fresh bread?”

  He smiled. “Thank the Spirit! You are better at last. We thought you would never be yourself again.”

  The barge shifted as Zak jumped aboard, and a moment later his head appeared in the hatchway. “Ah, you’re up. Excellent timing, we’re just about to eat.”

  It was puzzling. I couldn’t work out what was missing, at first. We sat round the table, passing bread and cheese and some dates we’d picked up along the way. Renni poured ale, and we listened to Zak talk about the plans for the next few days. I felt completely normal again, except for the adoration bursting out of me whenever I looked at Zak. Yet there was something not right. I looked round at them, trying to work it out. Xando was the same, Renni was the same, Zak was the same…

  Yet he shouldn’t be. After all
we’d shared, all we’d felt, he should be changed by that, as I was. When he looked at me, when he gazed into my eyes and smiled, his eyes crinkling so delightfully at the corners, he should be swept by love.

  Except that he wasn’t. There was no love in him at all. I’d been loved before, deeply and unquestioningly, I knew what that was like. There was nothing of the sort in his mind. The usual amused attitude was there, and an undercurrent of worry, about the journey, presumably. There was a burst of irritation whenever Renni spoke, and a tinge of pity towards Xando. But when he looked at me – what was that? Desire, certainly. Smugness, perhaps. Self-satisfaction. Yes, he was pleased with himself.

  Whatever it was, it wasn’t love. He didn’t love me at all.

  I threw down my bread and stamped out of the cabin and up the steps. Jumping ashore, I found a patch of shade and hurled myself to the ground. Tears pricked my eyelids, but I blinked them away with fierce anger. I wouldn’t cry, not for him, I would not.

  He took his time coming to find me. Sitting cross-legged beside me, he stared out across the water to the field on the other side, the grain already harvested, the stubble feeding the goats. There was puzzlement in his mind, but also some fear. What was that about?

  “The hassalma has gone, then?” I didn’t answer him. “It’s always a bit strange, coming back to reality afterwards.”

  So he thought I was just disoriented. Well, he could think what he liked. I wasn’t going to enlighten him.

  I couldn’t trust myself to speak, anyway. My whole body was trembling. If I said anything, even a single word, I’d spew out the whole of it, all my anger, my sense of betrayal, my hatred. Was that too strong a word? For what I felt then, no. Love and hate: two sides of the painting, as the saying was. Love was the face, all smooth lines and glowing colours and mesmerising images; hate was the ugly back, all rough wood and splinters and random blobs of paint. I’d flipped from one to the other in a heartbeat.