Dreams of the Compass Rose (15 page)

It had taken him many moons and the cycles of many seasons. During that time Lord Urar-Tuan had become an esoteric man. In the course of this, he had also taken a herbal draft of ancient ritual potency and impregnated a wife who bore him a very extraordinary child.

That child was human but on the verge of
otherness,
and that child was his means of calling forth Illusion. She was none other than the little Egiras, a thing of wicked beauty and a creature bound to the Lord of Illusion from the moment of her conception.

“
I hate her,” said Nadir, interrupting the tale. “She is the one who caused Lord Urar-Tuan to mock me and take away Ris’s cup from me. She is a horrible little beast!”

“
Ah, but she is much more than that, and she is worse than you think,” Zuaren said with a rueful smile. “Be wary of her, boy, even more so than of her father. For she belongs not to her father but to
Him
.”

And then Zuaren continued to tell what he had learned.

After Egiras was born, and when she was old enough to walk—a mere toddler with precocious eyes—Lord Urar-Tuan began the ritual of seducing the Lord of Illusion.

What one thing could there be that would tempt Illusion Himself? What would draw
Him
into the mortal world to fully manifest in the flesh, and to remain thus, bound?

It is said that Illusion is drawn to more Illusion out of curiosity, for it recognizes itself and wants to look and admire and fathom it from the outside.

Lord Urar-Tuan had observed during his sometime travels through the deserts of the South that upon occasion, when the temperature of the air grows to a nearly unbearable point, the air begins to take on a translucent form. It shimmers, warps, and often acts like a great wondrous mirror standing upright in the desert and reflecting from afar places and objects that are not really there but hundreds of miles away.

The desert nomads call it a mirage.

For many it is a true Illusion.

And Lord Urar-Tuan had a marvelous moment of insight. He would create a unique mirage that would be irresistible to the Lord of Illusion, even in the middle of day. That mirage would seduce and trap
Him
in the mortal world, and then Urar-Tuan would have at his disposal terrifying wonder. . . .

And thus the Lord traveled with a richly laden caravan from his distant homeland to the deepest desert, here. And he had brought his daughter with him on the journey.

Egiras, the little girl of five summers, had come eagerly, paying not a moment of heed to her weeping mother, who was sure she’d never see her child again.

At some point among the scalding sands, when the sun stood mercilessly at the zenith, Lord Urar-Tuan determined that this was the precise location and moment that was pointed to in his esoteric calculations.

“
Stop here,” he told the caravan leader and his men. “And now, I want you to build me a fire.”

The Lord’s retainers looked at him with confusion, but obeyed nevertheless. They selected a flat place on the sands and set out in a particular arrangement the specially prepared logs of wood painted with a resin that contained in it bits of divine sorcery. Then they poured a flask of pure distilled alcohol in the center of the woodpile.

When all had been made ready according to the meticulous instructions, Lord Urar-Tuan stepped forward, leading his small daughter by the hand, and took out a tiny dagger—as tiny and sharp as a needle. This he used to prick the little index finger of Egiras, at which she cried out once in anger, but then was oddly silent and unlike a child of her age.

Lord Urar-Tuan guided her forward and extended her hand over the center of the woodpile. He squeezed her finger until several drops of dark blood came falling and stained the amber resin coating of the wood.

One last drop he directed to the very middle of the woodpile, to fall upon the alcohol-stained sand.

When he was done, Egiras stood back and sucked her finger with a blank expression on her face, and her lips were colored with a bit of her own lifeblood.

Then the Lord motioned for all but his daughter to retreat, and they obeyed so that Urar-Tuan stood alone with her. Hiding in the wagons of the caravan, they watched from a distance, seeing their Lord take out something pale and glittering from the folds of his clothing.

Some swore it was a rare transparent diamond. Others claimed it was nothing but a piece of ordinary glass brightly polished and shaped by artisans into a plump convex shape.

No matter. Because Lord Urar-Tuan raised the object before him at arm’s length and pointed it between the woodpile and the sun.

Within seconds the wood began to smoke. And as the ordinary caravan folk watched in wonder, a bright orange-gold flame burst forth from the wood.

And then the flame took form. . . . The form was vague at first, a bare flicker of deviation from ordinary fire, a merest hint of otherness. But then it began to solidify, and in moments it took on the distinct shape of a horse.

It stood before them, the fire horse, wrought of licking flames, semi-transparent, elegant and menacing. For it had the same dark eyes as did Egiras. There appeared to be two spots of dark deep crimson akin to her blood in the eye-sockets of the flame-creature. And though in reality the girl’s eyes were jet, they bore a resemblance to the fire eyes in slanted form and expression.

“
Behold the Fire Horse! She is your kin spirit, Egiras!” exclaimed Lord Urar-Tuan in his native tongue. “Can you feel the bond?”

But Egiras stared coldly at the creature of flames, and she replied sullenly, also in the language of their homeland, for it was the only one she knew as yet, “No, father.” And then she added, “This thing is nothing, temporary and fickle—while my own fire burns forever.”

And saying that she turned away from the marvelous sight of flames in living form, the streaming warping air currents all around. And she was thus to miss the soft fluctuation in the fabric of the air just behind the flaming mare.

For, beyond the smoke and the licking flames, another equine form began to grow. . . .

They say that Lord Urar-Tuan was heard to gasp in that instant, the only time he had shown emotional vulnerability. He took several steps forward and reached out with his hand in an almost pitiful gesture of longing.

Here before him was the moment of fulfillment, the point for which he’d been studying the most ancient wisdom for endless seasons. Before him, Illusion Himself wavered in and out of time and place,
His
bluish equine form—chosen to complement the golden form of the mare, which was a mystical representation of the year of birth of Egiras, and which was incidentally known to be a particular temptation to Illusion—
His
form was burning with a different, cooler fire than the flame that had created the fire-mare out of the blood of Egiras.

And, seeing Illusion Himself at last, Lord Urar-Tuan howled.

He cried out his exuberance, his glory, to the incandescent skies. And then he spoke ancient words that he knew were the most powerful kind of mortal-wrought binding.

“
I attach you to me!” he repeated in all the languages known in all the lands that rimmed the horizon. “With the strength of my desire, my spirit, and my very life! In the same way, I bind myself to you—when you breathe, I breathe, when I die, you die!”

He spoke thus, knowing that what he was creating was a paradox, for a god could neither die nor need to breathe.

And thus, neither would he.

Because from this moment on, bound to the Lord of Illusion, Urar-Tuan knew he would become immortal.

The stallion in the form of electric blue flame stood at the side of the fire-mare. And then
He
approached with his muzzle to caress the mare which turned its Egiras-eyes of fathomless darkness to the Lord of Illusion.

You have what you asked for, mortal,
said a voice in the wind, like a great void, and was miraculously heard by all—to which they later swore—from their hiding places around the caravan.

And in the balance, I have you. Do you understand the arrangement?

“
I understand, oh yes!” exclaimed Urar-Tuan, an insane smile breaking out on his normally composed fine features. He took another step and reached out with his hand to touch. . . .

“
No, father!” came the thin voice of little Egiras. She still stood with her back to them, and would not turn. And yet she knew what was taking place.

“
Do not try to hold him, father. . . . You cannot hold Illusion, no one can. . . .” she whispered.

“
What do you say, foolish girl?” hissed Urar-Tuan, whipping his head to stare at her, his face a roil of madness.

“
You think you do, but you do not understand.” She finally turned around, slowly, and now the Lord could see that she was terrified but had been hiding her child-eyes.

And still looking at his daughter, Lord Urar-Tuan put his hand upon the bluish flame of Illusion.

And felt nothing.

For there was nothing to feel or to touch.

And in the burning wind, out of the void came laughter.

You have bound yourself to quite another thing, mortal. Unlike me, this is a corporeal being, and its nature is incandescent air. And while I am nothing but directed thought, he is shaped by the matter of your mortal world, and in that form he can be destroyed.

“
What . . .” whispered Lord Urar Tuan.

He is Mirage, and his true name is Tazzia. Take him, for he is my poor distant brother. Mirage often pretends to be me, and yet Mirage is the one I mock, for he is ruled by the forces of your world, and has little control over his manifestations.

But now, you’ve changed that. You have given him a ridiculous mortal form, and anchored him in the corporeal reality by the very nature of your being. Behold!

And as the voice of Illusion spoke and was somehow heard by all, a third equine shape began to shimmer into being at the center of the fire.

He was translucent at first, and then his hide acquired the gleam of mother-of-pearl and his mane and tail streamed incandescent white in the flames. He shook his head and neighed in amazed protest, and then stepped out of the flames and onto the white desert sands.

“
No!” cried Lord Urar-Tuan, “This is not what I want! I must have you, Illusion!”

In a manner of speaking, it is exactly what you have,
said the mocking divine voice, as the blue Illusion-stallion began to fade.
Enjoy Tazzia, foolish mortal. Torment him to your heart’s content, and thus give me my pleasure. Because now you are fully mine, and in your final hour I will come for you to lead you into the ultimate Illusion.
 . . .

And Lord Urar-Tuan howled once again, this time in fury, and he struck the beautiful creature Tazzia on its fair noble head. And the divine horse of mother-of-pearl cried out in pain, yet could do nothing but stand before him in shock.

Egiras turned away and began walking to the caravan. She did not watch her father call for ropes and roughly harness and bridle Tazzia, nor did she care to see that the fire continued to burn unattended, and in it still stood the golden mare of flames—an empty husk of illusion and her own drops of blood, on the border between existence and dissolution.

“
H
ow do you like the story?” said Zuaren, as the moon began to dip to the horizon. “I tell it well, and the telling inflames my blood also, to be reminded of this. For, as I serve Lord Urar-Tuan, every moment I spend with Tazzia I have to pretend cruelty. That is his way with Tazzia, and he expects no less of his hirelings. He has no use for Tazzia—he cannot sell him nor make him do his bidding nor even gain pleasure from his divine beauty. But he can cause it pain and delude himself that it is the Lord of Illusion and not Mirage that he tortures in useless revenge. . . .”

Nadir sat thinking in silence. He thought of Tazzia dissolving in the cold of night unto eternity, and yet unable to, and of its pain. He thought of this man before him, a soldier-guard who was yet oddly merciful and wanted justice.

Or did he?

Should Nadir believe this one, this Zuaren?

Who was he, in truth? What did he want?

And yet what did it matter, thought Nadir, when he had no other real choice but to accept his words. At least this one offered him a promise—he would help him get the cup back somehow.

As though Zuaren could read his mind, he said, “Now, remember what I told you earlier, that I would help you regain what is yours, what has been taken away from you?”

“
Yes. . . . But how would you do that?”

Zuaren drew close to him, and suddenly grinned. “Tomorrow,” he whispered. “You will see. But in return you must do something for me.”

“
What?” Nadir asked suspiciously.

“
You will know it when I ask you, and not any earlier.”

“
But—”

“
If you cannot do this, then admit it now, boy. I will not hold you to anything. We part our ways, and you pretend I never told you any stories.”

“
Why are you so eager to help me? How do I know you will not rob me and take the cup for yourself, just like the Lord Urar-Tuan?” said Nadir, his eyes intense. “How do I know anything? Why should I believe anything you say, or trust you?”