The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  ‘What’s your point, Gevenan?’

  ‘My point? I want to know who I’m dealing with. Just who is this Ligea Gayed, and why should I trust her? Is she just a slave-owning bitch who’s chasing power for reasons of her own? A Kardi numen with a whole repertoire of vicious magic at her disposal? A handmaiden of the gods who calls the Goddess herself to rain down fire on Tyr from Elysium? Do you lead this rebellion, or someone else? Who supplies the gold, Ligea? You? Or some other malcontent of a highborn bastard who wants what Bator Korbus has?’

  He reached out and touched the side of her neck, running a calloused thumb up and down her throat. An overt threat, deliberately rough, backed by the spill-over of his suppressed anger. ‘Our lives depend on the choices we make right now, right here.’

  Ironic, she thought, I know a lie when I hear it, but at the moment I wish others had that ability, not me. I wish he could read me…

  ‘If there truly are gods, I’ve never met them,’ she said. ‘I’m just a Kardi who will use her power to bring the Exaltarchy to its knees in order to end slavery and free my nation. That’s all. There’s no one else. I would like to leave Ligea Gayed behind and I’d appreciate it if you forgot her too. Now I must talk to everyone. Listen, and decide, Gevenan of Inge.’

  She jerked away from his touch, and crossed to the food wagon, where people were already gathering. She climbed onto the wagon to talk to them, and gestured for Gevenan to climb up beside her. His lip curled, but he did as she asked. She could sense other things in him now. He was intrigued, wondering what she was up to. He was attracted to what she was, a woman of power, who had something to offer him. He didn’t intend to betray, but there was no idea of loyalty in him, either.

  She stared at the crowd, waiting for them to quieten. She let a smidgeon of power leak from her cabochon to colour her skin. In the deepening dusk, she glowed with a silvery light that the sword gradually augmented to the richness of gold. Conversation died away, replaced by shock. Only when she had them all staring at her, hushed and nervous, did she start to speak.

  She began, ‘You may call me simply Domina. Like many of you, I once had a name bestowed by Tyranians who stole me from my country. I am not proud of the person who answered to that name. But, the gods be thanked, even the worst of men—or women—can change and be changed. I am now here to lead you and it is as your Domina that I will do so. And it is here, tonight, in this place, that you will make the choice to follow, or go your own way.’

  There was a murmur of disbelief, and she sensed their alarm. They hadn’t expected to be led by a woman. She read their unspoken words in their emotions. She can’t be serious! Is this what we risked our lives for? A woman’s delusions of grandeur? And yet they saw the glow along her skin. They remembered the whirlwind. They remembered the promises whispered in the rumours.

  She continued, ‘Tonight you make a choice to be soldiers, or to support those who will be soldiers. Soldiers will be paid the same amount as a legionnaire of equivalent rank, payment to be made on the first day of each month. Those who serve in other capacities will also be paid. And when we are more numerous and when we are ready, we will fight and defeat Bator Korbus. Some of you will die. But those who see this through to the end will be forever free.’

  ‘Let’s see the gold, Domina!’ someone called from the back of the crowd.

  ‘What makes you think a woman can win against the Exaltarch’s legions?’ another asked from the front row, his expression a mixture of contempt and bitterness.

  ‘Not just any woman,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘You will follow me, and I command the whirlwind!’ She drew her sword out of its sheath, filled it with light, and aimed it at the ground in front of her. A dust devil formed, spinning. People edged away and a rush of anxiety fanned out through the crowd. She lifted the tiny whirlwind to where it could be better seen, touching her sword to it as it passed, so that it flared into a gyre of whirling light. It was still small and hardly a danger to even a child, but she hoped she had made a point.

  ‘My weapons are to be feared by our enemies. But the whirlwind is on your side and it will fight for you. You know its power. You saw it spin out its chaos yesterday.’ Just as well they don’t know I can’t do that every day…

  ‘Are you Melete, Domina?’ someone asked in awe.

  ‘No. Just a woman who has been granted power and will use that power on your behalf. Will this be an easy road? No. If you expect to be rich and powerful by next desert-season, then this rebellion is not for you. First we have a long journey to a place of safety. Then there will be years of training and preparation.’

  The man in the front row, braver than most, called out loud enough for all to hear, ‘We need more than just promises and a pretty wind, Domina! How can a rabble like us defeat the likes of the Exaltarch’s legions? I’ve never held a flipping blade in me life! And there’s not one of us but don’t know the penalty for treason for them that gets caught. T’aint a pretty death.’

  A murmur of agreement swept the group like wind across a wheat field.

  She indicated Gevenan, even though his expression was grim rather than supportive. She said, ‘You will be trained by soldiers like this man. You will fight with the best weaponry money can buy. And you will be led by me.’ She wrapped herself in self-warding as she spoke, then nodded to Brand where he stood at the side of the cart. ‘Give the staff to Gevenan.’

  Brand handed it up and the Ingean weighed it in his hands, then whirled it, testing it for balance.

  ‘Gevenan,’ she said, ‘hit me with it as hard as you know how.’

  His eyes widened. ‘You serious?’

  The crowd hushed as they held a collective breath.

  ‘Do it,’ she snapped.

  He shrugged. ‘Your funeral. Or is it mine?’ He swung the staff back over his right shoulder and then swept it down in a vicious cut at her arm, aiming for a point halfway between her shoulder and her elbow. It never connected. It cracked against the invisible ward she’d just put in place, and snapped. The outer half spun out over the crowd. Gevenan was left holding the stump. He shook his jarred hand and swore, his astonishment clear to all.

  Ligea turned to the silent, wary crowd. ‘In a moment, I will speak to you, one by one,’ she continued. ‘You will give me your loyalty, or you will leave. And bear this in mind: I can read a lie as easily as a scholar reads the written word.’

  Before they could react to that, she dissipated the whirlwind and filled her sword with the dregs of power she had held back for this last demonstration. She pointed it at the trunk of a tree nearby and punched the beam of power into the wood. A hole as wide as a man’s fist pierced the trunk from one side to the other. Splinters showered the ground. Sap oozed stickily as the gold light faded. ‘That will be the fate of your enemies!’ she cried.

  At her side, Gevenan snorted.

  No one appeared to move, yet a tremor went through the crowd. She whirled, and turned the light on Gevenan. Before he could react, she had sliced the slave collar from him with her sword.

  He leaped back crying, ‘Jumping Ocrastes!’ The two pieces of the collar spun away into the hushed crowd. Two men picked up the separate pieces of the collar and, as one, they offered them to Gevenan. He bent to take hold of them and she felt his emotions, turbid with conflicting sentiments as he stood again, turning the pieces over and over in his hands, the symbol of his enslavement broken so easily by the woman who stood beside him.

  Perhaps to hide his unease with mockery, he said under the cover of the babble of excitement that burst from the crowd, ‘Do I get a sword like that one, Domina?’

  She met his stare with a grimness of her own. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘And if I were to ask why, when you are so damn powerful, you couldn’t stop your cheek being ripped up the way it was, would you answer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then it’s to be hoped no one else thinks of that question.’ When he spoke again, still too quietly to be heard by o
thers, it was to give her his decision. Not as much as she had hoped for, but nor was it as little as it could have been. ‘Don’t ever take me for granted, Domina Ligea Gayed. I will follow you for now, but you will have to prove yourself, over and over again, before you have my loyalty. I’m no Brand. I don’t ankle-rub my way onto a lady’s lap, to be petted and teased and fed with titbits. Gevenan of Inge does not give allegiance to the first woman who comes by with a pretty blade, sweet promises and a gold coin. I’ll teach your soldiers, but I’m not inclined to fight for you, not yet.’

  His suspicion tainted the air about him, but she could sense no intention of treachery. ‘That’s enough for me, for now, Legate,’ she said, keeping her tone as cold as mountain ice. He had managed to insult both her and Brand, after all.

  ‘Legate?’

  Her grin was feral mockery, without humour. ‘I’ll bet that’s the quickest promotion you’ve ever had. And here’s your first order: line up these people before me so I can talk to them one by one. I need to know if we have any potential traitors among them. The first fifteen will have their collars removed—if they want it so. The rest will have to wait until tomorrow or the next few days. Explain that to them. As soon as possible, we’ll move them off to shelter for the night on my country estate, which is about half an hour’s easy walk from here down the wagon track.’

  ‘I’ve been wondering about that. Your estate will be the first place anyone will look, if they are after you. I don’t relish waking up in the morning to find myself captured again.’

  ‘No one is looking for Ligea Gayed yet, as far as I know. Besides, as of sunset tomorrow, this place has new owners. I’ve sold it. Tomorrow morning, we’ll set off for our, um, training area. We’ll be taking horses, wagons, food from this estate—all we need for the journey. The controller and the slaves come with us. Most supplies have gone on ahead already. Now take over, Legate Gevenan.’

  ‘Yes, General,’ he murmured in her ear, the nuance an overt sneer.

  Bastard. She sighed as she climbed down from the cart. Nothing about this was going to be easy.

  ‘Right, you mob of disbelieving sandal-lickers,’ Gevenan shouted, ‘here’s your chance to see the Exaltarch get his sodding head knocked off with the pretty sword our lady general showed you! Line up to join up if you want to be on the winning side, and the first fifteen get their collars off right now—’

  Brand came across to her. He didn’t look happy. ‘Well, you managed to impress Gevenan anyway,’ he said. ‘That’s a start.’

  She shook her head. ‘The sardonic son of a bitch is just reserving his opinion. He and I still have battles to fight that have nothing whatever to do with the Exaltarchy. And what about the rest? What do you think?’

  ‘A mixed bag. There are plenty of hero-worshippers who’d follow you to Acheron even if all you wanted to do was spit on the God of the Netherworld. And there are others who will sneak away the first chance they get. They’re scared spitless by anything that smacks of the unnatural. They won’t be any great loss, though, but we’ll need to keep a strict watch to make sure they don’t try a little robbery before they leave.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll identify any troublemakers as I speak to them. My farm workers will help us keep watch tonight.’

  Nothing is going to be easy. Nothing.

  Narjemah was the last in line. Most of the others had already started for the farm by the time Ligea came to her.

  ‘It would please me if you came with me,’ she said, wondering if the woman had deliberately hung back so as to be the last.

  ‘I’ve no choice,’ the woman replied, wearing her sullenness like a cloak.

  ‘There is always choice.’

  ‘For the likes of me? I think not. Not since this.’ She indicated her cracked cabochon. ‘That rumour about Kardis and the Brotherhood: if it’s not true now, it soon will be. As soon as the Brotherhood realises it was Magor magic that wrecked the city, anyone with a cabochon in their palm will be hunted down and killed.’ She looked back at her hand. ‘I can’t remove it either—that kills us, as I am sure you know.’

  ‘How did it happen?’ Ligea asked.

  ‘Tyranians, how else?’ She shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago. I was fighting the legions in Kardiastan after the Shimmer Festival massacre. They took me down with a whirlsling, and crushed my hand while I was unconscious. Not enough to kill, but enough to leak my powers. To empty me out. I have nothing left there, Magoria. Nothing. I learned to live with it. In some ways it is better being here, in Tyrans, because I never see anyone else who has power…until now. Until you.’ Resentment bubbled up. ‘Now your very presence mocks what I have lost. Every time your cabochon flares I remember I am only half alive. Once you have lost the power of your cabochon, nothing has depth any more. Have you any idea of what it is like to no longer feel, for example, the—the—saturation of being loved and desired? No, I’m wrong—it’s not like being half alive. It is like being half dead.’

  Goddess, Ligea thought. She’s right. That’s exactly what it would be like not to have power. Half dead, half blind, half deaf.

  ‘I don’t want to go with you, Magoria,’ Narjemah added. ‘But I have no choice. Although I’ll be confounded if I know what use I will be to you. I was just a drudge back at my master’s house in Tyr.’

  ‘I need you, Narjemah. I need you desperately. I need one of the Magor who can help me have my baby.’

  The pause that followed was filled with emotion, but every time Ligea thought she understood what the other woman felt, the mix changed. Finally Narjemah said, ‘You’re pregnant? With him?’ She nodded in Brand’s direction.

  ‘No. My son’s father is the Mirager of Kardiastan.’

  Narjemah gave a sharp intake of breath. ‘Mirageless souls! You carry a Magori? An heir to Kardiastan? You’ll have to send him back! He won’t have a cabochon otherwise.’

  ‘I need you, Narjemah.’

  ‘To take him back?’

  ‘There will be someone who will come from Kardiastan for him. I hope you will consider going with them. But it’s not just that. It’s—well, I know nothing about—’ She paused, then added weakly, ‘Anything.’

  Narjemah gave her a blank stare.

  ‘Being pregnant. Giving birth to a Magori. Looking after a baby.’

  ‘Mirageless soul, you’re drained, aren’t you? You’ve been throwing power all over the place, without a thought for your child.’

  ‘I did ask when I was back in Kardiastan about using power when you’re pregnant. They said everyone does.’

  ‘Maybe, but they sure as the sands are dry don’t use it all up till they have nothing left! Have you any idea of the damage you may have done to the poor wee mite?’

  Ligea stilled. She thought her heart stopped beating. ‘No. Do—do you know?’

  ‘No—because no Magor woman expecting a child would ever dream of doing what you did yesterday! Of being so—so reckless with your Magor strength.’

  They stared at one another, two women suddenly connected by a shared fear. ‘I’ll come with you,’ Narjemah said finally. ‘You’re right. You do need me.’

  By all that’s holy, Ligea thought, horrified all over again, have I just done something even worse to my son?

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Quyr Mountains were a herd of white horses galloping towards Kardiastan across the skyline, manes and tails whipping in the wind, heads tossed high, ears pricked, bodies shadowed purple where muscle knotted and sinew twisted, their galloping feet lost deep in the snow…

  Fanciful. And stupid. She had no time to be fanciful. What was it about giving birth to a baby that could turn a woman’s thoughts to sentimental mush?

  She stopped briefly to study the mountains that were the wall behind the farm. Still generously snowcapped by winter, the white peaks—the horses of her fancy—dipped down to the rugged slopes and canyons of the foothills. The hills, where snow was short-lived, were scantily clad with dry scrub and crisscrossed wi
th a cat’s cradle of smugglers’ paths descending from narrow mountain passes unknown to any Tyranian authority. So easy to get lost up there. So easy to lose oneself. She smiled; that’s how she had first met the smugglers.

  As she strode on through the orchard of the property they now called First Farm, careful not to stumble on the rough furrows of the hill slope, she knew a smuggler waited for her; she’d felt him trip the ward she had erected around the perimeter. She guessed he waited at the small temple devoted to Selede, Goddess of Cunning, that graced the crest beyond the fig trees.

  The presence of smugglers using paths through First Farm had been a surprise, sheer luck. She and Arcadim had bought the rundown farm in this remote spot without any idea it was the heart of a smuggling route between the vassal state of Quyr beyond the mountains, and the markets of the rest of the Exaltarchy, a route designed to avoid the hefty tax of the customs posts. And, better still, she now knew that every smuggler was a rebel at heart, hating the Exaltarch and his laws and his legions.

  Ligea already knew who waited at the temple: Berg Firegravel. She’d recognised his signature the moment he pushed his way through the ward that circled the farm. She was proud of that ward; no thicker than a silk thread, and no stronger either, a little below shoulder height, it was her warning signal yet took little strength to maintain. It did not stop intruders, of course; in fact, they would see nothing and feel little as they pushed through it, but it was all she needed to raise the alarm. And in cases like this, when she was familiar with the intruder, it was even enough to tell her who the visitor was.