The Heart of the mirage mm-1

by Glenda Larke

  loved him. The rules were of my own making, but I kept them.

  "Why indeed?' agreed the Magister Officii. T 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-'Hegave a half-smile. 'Perhaps one day you will be a heroine ofTyr, 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 ofme…

  The scent of blossom 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?

  ^HF 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 witii the betrayal of memory.. ' ' A r‹

  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 non-human 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 f
or 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.'

  T 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, Tern? Is what you do here worth the risk?' To add a little verisimilitude to my anxiety, I added, T don't want to see you dead.'

  He grinned at me. T 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?'

  'And yet, from what Garis and others have told me, the ordinary Kardi never did rule. Ruling was the prerogative of the Magor.' That's right, Ligea. Slide the knife in, right where it hurts.

  He was silent for a moment. I glanced across at him, and he was staring straight ahead, his face grim. He didn't like the implied criticism. 'Yes,' he said. 'That's correct. And I'm not going to apologise for it. We at least are Kardi. We speak the same language, and live by the same code. We have special abilities that make us eminently suited to rule. And we ourselves are governed by laws of service to all.'

  'That last is exactly what Legata Ligea would say about the Tyranian authorities.'

  He almost spat his contempt. 'Can you really believe we have anything in common with their methods of governance and commerce? You've lived in Tyr! You've seen what happens there, surely.'

  'Yes,' I said. 'And I know what slavery is.'

  He was instantly contrite. 'Ah, by the Mirage, I'm sorry. Of course you do. Better by far than I.' He looked at me then, and smiled his apology. 'You are right to question, for only by questioning can we learn. You have come far for someone who was brought up a slave.'

  Something unpleasant crawled across my skin to nibble at my soul. My own lies, perhaps, so cleverly

  ".-'¦¦¦;».*. «r «*-.».,». ¦•'..

  worded to be sure he wouldn't sense the falsehoods. I said, 'Don't think of me as someone who emptied the chamberpots or scrubbed the dishpans. Ligea took her slave with her everywhere – to school as a child, and then later to the theatre and the debates and the poetry evenings. Her slave learned along with her.' True enough, although the slave had been Brand. I hoped Temellin would believe it of Derya.

  He stopped and stared at me. Almost immediately, the ice beneath his mount began to melt, and the sands stirred. I halted alongside, wondering just what part of my statement had put that peculiar expression on his face. 'I've been a fool,' he said quietly. 'You have been her companion all your remembered life. You love her, don't you? She is as an older sister to you. You don't want to betray her.'

  'Slaves don't find it so hard to betray their owners,' I said woodenly. My mount shuffled uneasily as sand grains bubbled around its feet.

  'Nonetheless. If you had to choose between the two of us, Ligea or me, who would it be?'

  'I already have chosen.'

  'No. You chose between freedom and slavery.'

  'I would not willingly see anything happen to Ligea. But then – I wouldn't want anything to happen to you, either.' And that was true enough. Derya had vanquished Ligea in that particular battle.

  He nodded, accepting I could go no further than that, and we continued on.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Brand and I looked upon the Mirage and did not believe what we saw.

  'It is not real,' I said flatly. 'How can anything like this be real?'

  'You are right,' Temellin replied. 'In one sense it is not real. Why else would it be called the Mirage? What is a mirage if not an illusion, a dream that is not there?'

  'I don't understand.'

  Temellin signalled Garis to ride on with Brand, leaving the two of us mounted on our shleths looking out over a landscape that could not exist. He reached across and took my hand. 'It is the creation of entities we call the Mirage Makers. They have made a land including everything that pleases them, and because they are who they are, what they create has reality. I can eat the fruit and be sustained, drink the water and have my thirst slaked. But if the Mirage Makers decide they want a change, then the lake you see here today will be gone tomorrow; the leaves that are purple now might be white in an hour's time, the road that runs across this valley may not exist two seconds hence – or it may last a thousand years. If they want music,

  there will be music; if they want silence, they will have it. As a matter of courtesy, they do not usually remove the buildings from around us without warning, nor do they banish a chair that's in use, nor do they build a wall across a road just as we ride do
wn it.'

  I remembered the shapes I'd thought I had seen in the. dancing sands. 'These entities – where do they live?'

  'They are the Mirage, all that you see before you now. It is impossible to think of them as being creatures like us, Derya. They have none of our limitations, none of our frailties. They do not need a form to move, nor sustenance to survive, nor a mouth to speak, nor eyes to see. They do not give birth or die, they just are. They are as much found in every grain of the soil beneath us as they are found in every leaf of that tree over there, or every stone in that wall, in every feather of that bird you see.'

  He spoke almost as if I weren't there, with a lyricism that spoke of his deep love for this place, the orator coming to the fore again. He continued, 'To our Kardi forebears, the Mirage Makers were enemies to be feared because they were so far beyond ordinary Kardis, so unknowable. In those days patches of the Mirage were found throughout Kardiastan. Those places were dangerous. The Mirage could kill us, and did, without even noticing we were gone. And then the first of the Magor was born. She passed on her skills to her children and her children's children. They were also mirage makers of a kind, people with the power to make what did not exist seem to have reality. Probably you and I also have that latent ability, although we do not know how to use it.

  'The illusions our forebears made had none of the – the solidness of the Mirage you see around you, but

  they could create mirages on a vast scale. And did. They regarded them as an art form, and those who rendered them were revered, just as Tyrans reveres its sculptors. But for some reason, this Magor ability confused the true Mirage Makers, sending them mad with visions of a world that might or might not be. It became the weapon of the Magor, a weapon they turned against the Mirage Makers to punish them for their illusory world so treacherous to us. As more and more Magor were born, the Mirage Makers suffered immeasurable distress. And in their distress – no, in their madness – they damaged the land and its people still more. It was not a situation which benefited either side. Nor was it a conflict that could ever be won.