The Heart of the Mirage (17 page)

Garis looked unhappy. ‘I can’t say. Perhaps not, if the injuries were very bad. All we have is the ability to hurry along the healing process. We can’t work miracles, you know. But your man wouldn’t have died in pain.’

The woman shook her head sadly. ‘It will be good when the Magor rule our land once more. Don’t let it be too long, Magori. We are tired of waiting.’

Brand bent to whisper in my ear. ‘So much for all the things Tyrans offers: the peace, the trade, the stability, the prosperity. Take note, Derya: nothing is more important than being free. Free to choose one’s own form of government, one’s own way of living—or dying.’

Garis, who had caught the end of this, said with
suppressed savagery, ‘They will have it, and soon. We, too, are tired of waiting.’

I wanted to reply, to defend Tyrans. To defend a way of life. But I couldn’t, not if I wanted to maintain my new identity. And I had an uncomfortable feeling that any argument I used would sound worn anyway. I thought sourly:
They’d rather have anarchy and war than stability. They don’t know how to rule themselves. They don’t know when they are better off.

As if he’d heard me, Brand added in a whisper, ‘Did you enjoy your own taste of slavery, Derya?’

We walked for two hours in the semi-darkness and then the passage disgorged us into that brilliant sunlight and blue sky of Kardiastan. I looked around for Temellin, to see him giving orders, organising, directing the crowd. The others of the Magor were equally busy, and there were still more of them I hadn’t seen before. The bare earth in front of us was crowded with pack shleths, howdah shleths and shleth riding hacks. I marvelled at how all of this had been brought together in such a short time.

It seemed the escapeway emerged at the edge of the vale of Madrinya, because beyond the shleths a dry plateau stretched into the distance, the brown sands marbled through with red and gold, the windsculpted rocks standing guard over the patterning. When I glanced in the other direction, I could see the city already separated from us by the green of fields and trees.

‘We came
that
far under the ground?’ Brand asked in awe. ‘And their organisation—Vortex take it, Derya, no wonder the legionnaires can’t catch them.’

I didn’t reply.

Someone handed me a waterskin and I drank deeply before passing it on; it was followed by some grain-cakes. Only when I bit into one did I know I had been hungry.

In a surprisingly short time we were all mounted, the children and the more elderly or infirm in howdahs, everyone else on shlethback. I saw Temellin cajoling an aged man up into a howdah and heard him say gently, ‘Yes, I know you’d rather ride, but I need you to keep an eye on these children in the howdah. They need a strong hand.’

Several of the Magor stayed behind; others, including Korden, rode in the lead as guides. Garis remained with Brand and me, chatting cheerfully on inconsequential subjects as we rode, ignoring the fact that neither Brand nor I had much to say. Gradually Madrinya dropped out of sight behind us.

Just before nightfall we rode down into another valley and made camp not far from the edge of a lake. There were no signs of habitation, no farms, no tracks—nothing to indicate anyone had ever been that way before. On the valley slopes, thick forest alternated with scrubby meadow; along the lake edge, marsh-willows jostled reed beds for access to the water. By the time Garis, Brand and I rode in past the outermost guards, hobbled shleths were spreading out along the shoreline to drink and feed, fires had been lit and meals cooked. Men were collecting dried reeds to use as bedding. Fourwinged fisherbirds trailing long legs wheeled over the water in their evening gathering flights, while tiny marsh monkeys, scampering along the reed tops, chattered warning.

Before dismounting, I paused a moment to watch Temellin. He was cutting reeds with his sword, his bare back glistening with sweat, the swinging movement of
his arm fluid and strong. Desire tingled my skin unasked, and I clamped down on my straying thoughts. When a small girl toddled past on her way to the water, Temellin dropped his sword and scooped the child up; she was far too young to be heading for a lake by herself. As I swung down from my mount, his laugh rang out over the camp.

It was not until I was sitting by the fire eating the hot coal-baked bread stuffed with desert beans that I saw him again. He was making his way across the camp, stopping first at one fire, then another. His voice reached me in snatches: ‘Don’t worry, it’s only a small cut…No, you’re not slowing us down…He’s a real handful, isn’t he? But lots of fun…Take care of that sprain of yours, Vessa…’

He had a cheerful word for everyone and people responded accordingly, their faces breaking into smiles as he approached, their eyes following him warmly as he left. I felt a pang of envy. He had something I did not: the ability to inspire trust and respect in the people he helped to lead. All I had ever done was make people fear me. In that, I was more like Korden. Sternfaced and more taciturn, he also moved among the assembled crowd. They listened carefully when he spoke, nodding their acquiescence, their acceptance of his leadership—but their eyes didn’t shine.

When Temellin reached us he lifted a hand to Garis and Brand, then touched my shoulder in greeting, unstrapped his sword and sat down. Someone produced some food for him and he accepted gratefully.

‘Everything all right?’ he asked Garis, but didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Brand, you must be the only person here who is still wearing a slave collar; let’s get rid of that, shall we?’ He unsheathed his weapon,
touched it to the collar and in a brief flash of light the bronze circlet dropped away just as mine had.

Brand picked up the pieces, held them in his hands for a moment, his knuckles white, then flung them into the heart of the fire. ‘Thank you,’ he said quietly. ‘A little earlier than I anticipated, but why the turd not?’ He looked up and grinned at us all. ‘Goddess, that feels good. Can I assume I am going to be allowed to keep my head on my shoulders?’

‘If Derya trusts you,’ Temellin said between mouthfuls of bread and beans.

‘I do. And I have known Brand since he was twelve.’

‘Then that is good enough for me.’ Temellin looked at me. ‘Derya, I’m sorry I’ve had to neglect you; there has been much to do.’

I smiled at him, surprised by the amount of pleasure I took in knowing he felt there was a need to apologise. ‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘But I do have a great many questions.’

He stood, brushing the last of the crumbs from his trousers. ‘Come for a walk with me.’ I jumped up with alacrity and he handed me my travelling cloak. ‘Take this; it’s always cold out here at night.’

We walked away from the campfires down towards the water’s edge. In the darkness the lake was a purple sheet, the only noise the occasional burp of frogs. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ he asked. ‘These vales, they are all part of what we are. We don’t believe in Tyranian gods. We believe that every living thing has a life-force we call the essensa, a sort of personal spirit, or personality. Therefore we must treat every living thing with respect.’

I almost snorted. ‘You cut the reeds. You kill to eat. Is that respectful?’

He laughed. ‘Maybe not. We are also very pragmatic in our faith. But it’s a pleasing belief anyway, because
it stops us from waste, or taking life unnecessarily. It’s better than having a god of war in the pantheon, surely! And to be respectful to a living being seems better than kissing the feet of a marble statue and praying for selfish desires to be granted, doesn’t it?’ It crossed my mind that this man had been well schooled, and back in Tyr he would have made a fine orator.

‘I suppose so. I’ve never been much of a one for worshipping Melete. Or any other deity.’

Now that we were away from the light of the fires, he put his arm around my shoulders. ‘It seems a year since yesterday,’ he said. He touched his left palm to mine and I was awash with knowledge of his desire for me.

‘Tem—’ I tried to remain detached. ‘Is it always like it was yesterday?’

‘Between those of the Magor? Yes, it can be. But yesterday, yesterday was—I’ve never felt quite that way.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I’ve never
behaved
quite like that before. I’ve never met anyone who had such an immediate physical effect on me.’

Neither had I. I was silent, aware of his bemused embarrassment seeping into the air around me.

‘Derya,’ he said finally. ‘I think we were both taken by surprise. The Magor are drawn—physically drawn—to one another through the power of their cabochons. Usually we keep…well, we keep an almost unconscious rein on that kind of desire. But you knew nothing of that, and I responded to what I felt from you without thought. Next time, if there is a next time, I want it to be a conscious decision on your part, not just a gut reaction to a stimulus. Besides, there are some things you should know before you tie yourself to me, to anyone of us, with those kind of ties.’

‘What sort of things?’

The hesitation before he spoke was telling. ‘I am a Magori. After the invasion, there were only ten of the Magoroth left—all children, of whom Korden was the oldest. It is imperative more such are born, but the only way we can be sure that will happen is for a Magoria to have children by a Magori. In any combination of ranks, the children are more likely to be of the lesser rank. But we need the golds, the Magoroth. We need them desperately, Derya, because they are the ones who have the real power.’

‘And you think I am not a Magoria? How can you know that?’

‘I don’t think it’s possible. There weren’t all that many Magoroth children even at the time of the invasion. We know who they were, and how they died, if they did indeed die. As for those who lived, well, we know where they are, too.’

I was flooded with disappointment; it would have been advantageous to have as much power as they did. Then I woke up to the significance of what he’d said, and almost laughed. The man was worried about me forming an attachment to him. Me—a Compeer of the Brotherhood! The idea of losing my heart to him, to any of them, was ludicrous. I kept a straight face. ‘So what you are saying is that our, um, union has no future. That sooner or later you will choose a life-mate from the Magorias.’ As if I cared.

His lips twisted. ‘There’s not all that much
choice.
There’s only one unmarried Magoria who’s more than twenty years old.’ He bent to pick up a stone and then flipped it away across the water, where it bounced several times before disappearing into the darkness. ‘We—those of the Ten—we lead these people, Derya. One day we will lead this country.
None of us get to have that many choices.’ He turned towards me, his face shadowed and emotions concealed.

In spite of my amusement, I felt an unexpected lurch of regret at the loss of what might have been. What I had felt in his arms had been physically wondrous, and I was sorry I might never know it again. Still, I hardly knew this man, certainly wasn’t contemplating a lifetime commitment, was even intending to betray all he held dear: so why did what he was telling me matter? ‘Never mind. I can live for the present and face the future when it comes.’ I looked down at my palm. ‘We’re not
born
with these things implanted, are we? You said something about mine having been in my palm since just after I was born.’
Tell me I am not a god, or an immortal. Tell me this is something done to me, by ordinary men.

‘Yes. Our powers are usually latent or hard to access; it is the implanting of the cabochon, the sooner the better, that allows the powers to reach their potential. Children are later trained to use those powers. I’m not going to tell you right now about how the cabochons are implanted, or how the colour of the cabochon is decided upon. The cabochons are what make the Magor what we are; without them, we would be mere shadows of what is possible.’

‘At death, what happens to the cabochon?’

‘It falls to powder. It can never be used again. And if it is removed while you live, your death follows. If it is accidentally cracked, then your powers leak away.’

I changed the subject. ‘Korden doesn’t like me. But you said he would be delighted to see me—’

He was puzzled. ‘No, I don’t remember saying that. Whatever gave you that idea?’

‘You said the Mirager would—’

‘The—oh!’ He laughed. ‘Korden is not the Mirager, Derya.’

‘He’s not? Then who is?’ But I knew already. ‘Oh, sweet Melete—
you
? You’re the—?’ The one they couldn’t torture, the one they couldn’t burn. He was the man I was sent to capture. I was so shocked at my error, my knees buckled and he had to put out a hand to hold me. How could I have made such an elementary mistake?
Stupidity like that could cost me my life
. I felt a numbing shame. Where in all the mists had I laid my commonsense? Between my legs, for me to have been so easily overwhelmed by my physical response to a handsome man?

‘Derya, what’s wrong? Does it matter that much?’

‘I—No, I don’t suppose so.’ It was hard to speak, to put the coherent deception together without uttering a lie. ‘It’s—just that—yesterday I was just me. And now I find I’ve lain in a—a ruler’s arms—’ I gave a weak laugh. ‘I’m such a fool.’ You could say that again.

He took me in his arms once more and held me, brushing my hair with kisses, crooning to me as though I were a child. I
felt
like a child. Where was the compeer of the Brotherhood now? Where was my strength, my objectivity, my wits? Not so long ago, I had been one of the most powerful women in the Exaltarchy, now I was just a stupid female so caught up in the net cast by an attractive man that I was no longer in command of my senses.

‘Was it you they tried to burn in Sandmurram?’ I asked finally
. Is it possible?

He nodded briefly, dismissing the incident as unimportant. ‘Don’t blame Korden for his mistrust of you,’ he said. ‘Or Pinar, either. They are both old enough to remember the invasion, the parents they
lost, the world that was destroyed. Korden is the oldest of the Magoroth, another nephew of the last Mirager, just as I am, yet I was the heir, not him, simply because my father was older than his. He finds that hard to remember sometimes. He thinks he could do a better job than me, you see. It is a situation that has made him more than my friend: he is my conscience. He feels it is his duty to keep me from making mistakes. And it is hard for him—for Pinar too—to trust you because they look at you and see Tyrans.’