by Glenda Larke
‘I don’t expect it to be easy.’
Gevenan laughed, mocking. Finishing his wine and pushing his plate away, he leaned back in his chair. ‘You’ll be dead in the first month. Probably killed when a slave who’s scared pissless turns you in to his master.’
Ligea, sensing other emotions, better hidden, frowned. And glared a warning at Garis, who had stopped shielding his own annoyance.
‘I may be raw but I am not stupid, and I’m not defenceless,’ Garis said, riled.
‘No? You couldn’t take on a real fighting man and last five seconds—’
‘No?’ Garis drawled in return. With a casual gesture, he flared the gem in his hand into a brilliant flash of light, aimed right into the Ingean’s eyes. At the same time, he hooked his foot behind the front leg of the man’s chair and yanked it towards him. Gevenan and the chair toppled over backwards. Still blinded, lying on his back, Gevenan had no chance. Garis pinned him down with pain-giving light. The Ingean gave a gasp.
‘That’s enough,’ Ligea said.
Garis took a deep breath and withdrew the light. ‘Sorry, but I had a really, really tough journey here, and I’m not in the mood to be mocked.’
Gevenan clambered to his feet, wincing.
‘Leave us, please,’ Ligea said to him.
He rubbed an elbow ruefully and nodded. She caught the slightest glimmer of a smile as he left and felt his tinge of satisfaction. She turned to Brand. ‘Brand, I want to talk to Garis alone, if you don’t mind. Go and see what that idiot Ingean was really up to, will you?’
She watched Brand leave the room and then said, ‘I don’t know what I will do without him.’
‘Gevenan?’
‘No. Brand.’
‘Brand? He’s leaving?’
‘Yes.’ She met his gaze, her expression troubled. ‘Garis, aren’t you here to pick up Arrant?’
He looked uncomfortable and shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid not. You haven’t read Temellin’s letter yet, obviously.’
‘No. I wanted, um, time to myself to do that…what’s going on? What aren’t you telling me?’ He didn’t reply immediately, and she said, exasperated, ‘Do you know how much you leak what you feel? I’m not going to eat you, you know.’
‘I never was too good at hiding emotion,’ he admitted. He sighed. ‘I just wish you’d read the letter first—all right, all right! Temellin wants you to keep Arrant until he reaches an age for his Magor sword. Which is usually about twelve or thirteen. In the meantime, he wants you to put the cabochon in the babe’s palm.’
‘That’s ridiculous. Arrant is heir to Kardiastan! He has to be brought up there, not in Tyrans.’
‘And he will be, once he’s older.’
‘But why wait?’
‘Temel didn’t explain his reasons to me, Sarana.’
‘Oh, Vortexdamn the man. Garis, I’ve been so worried about him. About Arrant, I mean. So many things happened to me while I was carrying him. He seems all right, but I can’t be certain. He should be back in Kardiastan, where there are so many Magoroth who could help, just in case…’
‘Babies need their mothers.’
She looked at him, feeling helpless. What was Temellin up to now? ‘Why is he sending you out to the provinces and vassal states? Surely he needs every Magori he can get.’
‘Yes, he does. But he also needs Tyrans’ legions to be overstretched. So do you, for that matter. He thinks that someone with Magoroth power has more chance of surviving such a journey. And more chance of persuading any rebel elements to full-scale rebellion.’
She wanted to say, But you are so young! but thought better of it.
A sadness in his eyes belied his youth. ‘I’m married now, you know. Magoria Tavia.’
Her breath caught. ‘She can’t be more than seventeen!’ Sweet Melete. The necessity of breeding a new generation of Magoroth.
But he had caught her unguarded moment of distaste. ‘It’s not what you think…no one pressured us to marry. There never was anyone else for me, not really.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. Congratulations. I remember her: pretty girl with dimples.’ Vortexdamn. There’s got to be something he’s not telling me. The situation in Kardiastan must be more dire than he is saying. She stood up, stifling emotions. ‘All right, Garis. I guess I do not have much choice. Yet, anyway. But the first chance I get, I will deliver Arrant to his father myself. And I am going to ask Brand if he’d like to go with you—if you’ll have him.’
Hope flared within him. ‘I thought he was going to Altan, to join the rebels there?’
‘Yes. That was his original plan. But he has a withered arm now.’ Saving me. Risking his life to pull me out of the Ravage. Gods, the courage of that! As a soldier, he’d be limited—yet he would be of use to you. He was sold on the slave blocks in both Cormel and Pythia. He has a smattering of five or six different languages, as well as Altani and Kardi and Tyranian. He’s well read and knowledgeable about so many things, and yet he has lived in the slave underbelly of the Exaltarchy. He may be only thirty—no, thirty-one now—but he has lived a lifetime…He will be able to help you in so many ways, and you will be able to keep him out of trouble with your powers. It sounds like a good combination to me.’
Garis couldn’t hide his relief. ‘I have been…lonely,’ he agreed. ‘It would be good to have a travelling companion. Especially one I happen to like as much as I like him. I hope he’ll agree.’
She stood up. ‘Good. Then I will mention it to him. But right now I want to go and read this letter from Tem.’
First she opened the presents he’d sent. One parcel contained clothing. Several anoudain, practical outfits in shades of brown. A pair of sandals made of shleth leather. A pair of fingerless gloves, flesh-coloured, so that she would find it easy to hide her cabochon if need be. Practical things, from a practical man who understood her so well. One item in the other parcel, though, she didn’t understand.
It had been wrapped in rough-made cloth, and it looked like a lump of dark brown clay the size of an orange, dried out and hard. She touched it with a tentative finger and for a moment it gave under the pressure, like the surface of a jellyfish. She picked it up, cupping it on her palm. And dropped it as it started to move. Back on the cloth again, it was lifeless and dull, a pile of hard earth. When she picked it up once more, it softened and began to re-form. This time she continued to hold it, to watch it take shape as if an invisible sculptor was working it, unseen hands kneading the lump into the form, unseen fingers pinching and moulding. A head, a man’s head. Temellin. Looking at her, so real, so lifelike, a half-smile on his lips.
She cried then, and it was some time before she could see well enough to read what he had written.
The letter was not as enlightening as she’d hoped. His love touched her from every page—but the explanation she sought was not there. Temellin said all that Garis had already mentioned, and no more. She felt the ache in him for his son, even though his distress was understated; and yet his rejection was also there. I do not want him here, not yet, he wrote. There will come a time when that is right, but a baby should be with his mother. It gives me comfort to know that he is with you…
When she read the last words of the letter, tears again spilled to smudge the ink. The lump of clay, he continued, is from the Mirage Makers, for you. They gave it to me when I was passing through the Shiver Barrens. They said it was part of themselves. I do not know what it signifies, but I hope it is something that will remind you of us here.
For such a short time I knew again what it was like to love and be loved; I knew it tenfold. I knew possibility fulfilled. I shall always remember that. I shall always love you.
She read the letter once again, and again. And then she picked up the clay once more. Each time she held it, it re-formed to show Temellin, and each time it was different. She saw him laughing, smiling, serious. With his face raised to the sky, with his head propped in his hand, his expression thoughtful. Each time she put it do
wn, it became a formless lump.
Remember him, it said. Remember him, and return.
And each time she saw his face, it tore a little of her heart.
The next night she bestowed a cabochon on Arrant.
She fasted all day and spent long hours in silent prayer. Not praying to any deity, but in reverent prayer for the safety of her son, for his acceptance into the world of the Magor, for the proper ordering of the world to occur so that a child would receive his birthright. And above all praying—with deep-felt longing—that she had not damaged him by the life she had led while he was part of her.
Some time deep in the night, she brought throbbing colour into her sword, she spoke the conjurations given to her in the Shiver Barrens by the Mirage Makers, and she placed the gem that materialised in the hollow of her sword hilt into the palm of her son. He gave a sharp cry, but then snuggled deeper into sleep. By morning the cabochon was part of his body, melded to his being in ways she could not understand, and never would. It was the Mirage Makers’ legacy, not hers.
Narjemah and Garis came, to pay homage. Brand touched the golden gem with wonder, tears in his eyes. Even Gevenan came, and for once his cynicism was in abeyance.
Another Magori had entered the world.
Everything’s all right, she thought. He’s healthy and a Magor, and all that worry was for nothing.
Two days later, Ligea watched Garis and Brand ride away. She and Brand had avoided speaking of their personal feelings; there had been no point. They both knew there would be a hole in their lives because the other was not there. They both knew that Temellin’s absence meant more to her than his would. They both knew whose son lay in the cradle in the farm villa.
Yet, as she watched him go, Arrant in her arms, she felt the bruising of her heart. Brand had been part of her life since she was ten years old. He had stood by her even when she’d been at her worst. He’d had faith in her and that faith had never wavered. He’d loved her without conditions. He cared enough to love her child, fathered by another man. He had saved her life and given up the use of an arm to do so.
Long after the two men were out of sight, the dust kicked up by their mounts hung in the warm, motionless air, obscuring the tangled colours of the wildflowers that bloomed along the track. And somewhere inside herself, Ligea knew the pain of the bruising was nothing compared to the loss she would have felt had Arrant ridden with them. That would have sundered her soul.
‘Well,’ Gevenan growled in her ear, ‘now that everything personal is tidied away, can we get down to work and sort out how we are going to bring down this bloody tyrant of an Exaltarch?’
She sighed. ‘Soul of sensitivity, aren’t you?’
He snorted. ‘Me? I’m just a soldier from Inge. An island of plentiful bogs where it rains ninety-nine days out of every hundred. Where was a mud-hopping Ingean foot soldier like me ever going to learn manners?’
‘Huh. Don’t give me that, Gev. You were no common soldier when the Tyranians invaded your island. You have officer written all over you. Who were you really?’
‘What the bloody hell does it matter? It was fifteen years ago! They sold me as a slave and took me as far away as they could. I did a year in the galleys, did y’know that? It knocks the spunk out of a man, being a galley slave. It takes everything you once were, and makes you into an animal. No, worse. Into a thing. An oar. A commodity whose only value is the strength of his back. A thing that grovels when one of his conquerors passes by. Have you ever seen my back, Ligea?’
She didn’t speak, but neither did he. He knew she had indeed seen the lash scars that cobbled his skin.
Eventually, she asked, ‘Why did you needle Garis into attacking you like that?’
He shrugged. ‘I had to know if you told the truth. I had to know if all the Magor have the same abilities you do.’
‘You thought I’d lied?’
‘Well, exaggerated, anyway. I don’t have your flipping ability to tell a lie from the truth, now do I? Maybe I’ll end up nailed to a cross or burned at the stake because of you. I thought at last I had a way of checking one of your tales.’ He grinned at her. ‘No more than you do to me every damned time I open my mouth. Does the Domina forgive her humble servant?’
‘Elysium’s bliss! You are like a thorn under one’s wrap, Gevenan. Always so Vortex-blamed irritating!’
‘You want to know who I was once, Ligea? A king’s general who lost a war. And a king. And a people. I lost a whole bloody country to Tyrans! I was already less than a man when they killed my liege and his sons before my eyes. After that, I was not a man at all. Just a slave.’
The silence dragged on while she tried to think of something to say. Finally, all she could dredge up was: ‘Have you thought of going back? Finding your wife, your children? You could now.’
He said stiffly, ‘I had more sense. One should never make assumptions that a woman will wait, Ligea. Or a man, either. So I sent a message to a friend, years ago, to find out what had happened.’
He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. It wasn’t necessary; she already knew. He had nothing to go back for.
PART TWO
LIGEA AND ARRANT
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Arrant sometimes felt he had been born on the back of a horse. His earliest memories were of his cheek lying against his mother’s back as she rode. In some of those memories he was secure and happy, lulled by the jogging rhythm to sleepy contentment; in others her back was tense and there was urgency in the hoof beats beneath. Sometimes he was cold and wet and miserable, but then there’d be the happiness of being lifted down and feeling his mother’s arms about him, warming him, her soft words in his ear, her strength enfolding him, keeping him safe.
He called her Mater, because that was what people said he should do, and other people mostly knew her as the Domina, but that wasn’t her real name, he knew that. Gev called her Ligea when no one else was listening, and sometimes Narjemah called her Sarana, but they both said he wasn’t to use those names, so he didn’t, not out loud—but in his head, to himself, he thought of her as Ligea.
The second most important person in his life was Narjemah. Arrant was never too sure which of the two women he loved the most. Ligea was safety. She was magic. But Narjemah was kindly and often spoiled him with sweetmeats and presents. When he fell down and hurt himself, it was wisest to run to Narjemah; he was always assured of a hug and a treat, especially if he scraped his knees or bumped his head. His mother was more likely to tell him to stop crying and go and wash off the blood, quickly now, there’s a good boy.
But Narjemah could be irritating, too; she never let him do anything, even though he was five years old. In fact, she was always telling him not to do things. ‘Don’t climb the tree, Arrant, you’ll fall and hurt yourself. Don’t go near the river, you might drown. Don’t play with the slave children, Arrant, they might have lice.’ Ligea said they weren’t slaves any more and he shouldn’t use that word. And of course he could play with them, whenever he liked.
Ligea could be much more fun. She took him swimming in the river and taught him to stay afloat and move his arms and legs so he wouldn’t drown. She helped him climb trees. She brought him a pony all of his own, although he only rode it when they were at First Farm. And best of all, she talked to him as though he was a real grown-up. She explained things to him. Mostly he didn’t understand, but it was better than treating him like a baby, the way Narjemah did.
Narjemah was old. She had lines on her face like a gourd. Although she was soft and sort of squashy compared to Ligea, she could get mad sometimes. She got mad with his mother, often—usually over him. Narjemah scolded every time Ligea took him away from the Stronghold or First Farm. Still, he loved Narjemah. She made very good cakes and she hugged him a lot. She was a Magor too, a Theura. He didn’t think it was a bit fair that her green cabochon was pretty, all crazed with sparkly lines like sunlight on water, even though it didn’t glow. His gold one was skin-covered and it did
n’t glow much either. But it would one day, when they won a big fight and his mother cut back the skin. Then it would shine gold. Maybe when he was six.
Narjemah used to worry that he didn’t know what it was like to have a home. That was true: he didn’t. Sometimes he and Ligea and Narjemah stayed at First Farm, which was down at the bottom of the mountain where the land went all flat like unleavened bread. He liked that, because he got to ride a lot and Gevenan was teaching him to jump over logs on his pony. If he wore his Quyriot necklet, he didn’t fall off. Well, hardly ever. But Gevenan said necklets were for girls. Gevenan was fun, especially when he used naughty words. He said he’d once had boys of his own in a far-off place. He taught Arrant to fight with the wooden practice sword his father, Temellin, had sent him when he turned five. Gevenan said Arrant would be a fine warrior one day.
Arrant had never met his father. He knew what he looked like, though. His mother had this funny lump of clay, and when he took it in his hand, it became a face. She said that face was his father’s. Sort of like the head of a statue of him, only smaller. He loved to play with it, because every time he put it down and then picked it up again, it looked different.
His mother had other things his father had sent her over the years: a necklace she sometimes wore made of Kardi agates. And a map of Kardiastan. And a clear glass bottle of coloured sand. He liked that gift especially, because if you listened very carefully, in a very quiet room, you could hear the sands singing in the bottle. They moved all by themselves, too, and made pretty patterns against the glass.
Mostly he lived in the Stronghold above the stonecutters’ village of Prianus. He liked that place, too. The Stronghold was cold in the snow-season when ice hung from the eaves like polished daggers. It was best in the desert-season when eagles nested on the roof of the watchtower and jackdaws in the crannies of the roof. Ligea said the Stronghold had been first built hundreds of years ago, by a great king of Tyrans. Before the wicked Exaltarch had been born. Everyone relaxed at the Stronghold, and ate lots, and laughed. Except the soldiers who were being trained. They had to work all the time, even when it was cold.