The Heart of the Mirage (21 page)

Instead, I said, searching for calm, for reason, ‘What passion? It’s just lust, Brand. No different to the needs I slake with Favonius. Or the others, over the years.’
Dear Goddess, what about that other thing they told you?

He gave a disbelieving snort and said, still angry, still grieving, ‘I don’t understand you. These people—those who call themselves Magor, I mean—for all their strange customs, they are an improvement on those you served in Tyr. I don’t know why, because they have terrible power. I’m not going to forget in a hurry what Garis did to me that first day! But somehow they are not corrupt, the way those of Tyrans are. And if they win here, they won’t be basing the nation they build on slavery as Tyrans does. Tyrans is
sick,
Ligea. Don’t you know that yet? And what loyalty do you owe to such as Rathrox anyway?’ He gave another snort of disgust. ‘Vortex take it, how could someone who can see through a lie as easily as you can, let themselves be fooled the way you were?
Think, Ligea. Think.
Think about Gayed, about your childhood. Think about who it was who loved you. There’s no more time for self-deception, not now. Now is the time for decisions, no matter how difficult they are to make.’

‘And what’s your decision to be?’ I asked levelly. ‘Will you leave me, to stay with these people, when I return to Madrinya?’ I had deliberately emphasised the ‘when’.

He winced, an expression of both pain and exasperation. ‘Why are you so blind to the things and people that touch you closest, Ligea, when you see other, more distant things and people so clearly? I
love
you. I love you so much that I can stand here and watch your eyes hunger for another man, and listen to your cries of joy in his arms, and still take the pain rather than leave you. I make myself less than a man for you. I serve you, not Tyrans. I am so besotted, so
weak
, that I put you before what I know is right.’

His words cut at me, slashed me with their tragedy. Tears blurred my image of him, but were not shed. I reached out to touch his arm. ‘Brand—oh Goddessdamn, Brand, this is not right. You will come to hate me. When we reach our destination, you must leave. For your own good. How can I ask any loyalty of you when I give so little; no, when I give you
nothing,
in return?’

His lips twisted bitterly. ‘That would be my ultimate punishment. I would rather live in pain than in loss.’

He turned away, leaving me to return to my cave. I made a hole in my sleeping pallet and thrust the sword inside. I was responsible for the packing of my own things and stowing them on the pack shleth, so I had no fear anyone would find it. Then I crept back into Temellin’s arms, trying not to think because thinking was painful. Because I didn’t
want
to think about that other thing I knew.

An hour later, I knew the pain had to be faced because I couldn’t sleep. Because I couldn’t push away the sound of Brand’s voice.
Think, Ligea. Think about who it was who loved you?

Memories…the journey inside oneself can be the loneliest journey of all…

I loved the terrace of the Gayed villa; it had the best views in all of Tyr. From there I could see the Meletian Temple on a neighbouring hill, with the Desert-Season Theatre tiered beneath it; from there I could see the river and the life of the docks and the sea beyond; from there
I could watch for visitors coming up to our house. I could be the first to know Pater was on his way home.

I loved the terrace best of all in the desert-season when it was heady with the smell of flowers and the warmth of the sun—as it was today, my sixteenth anniversary day.

The mellowbirds droned their somnolent call in the garden, mocking my impatience. I was waiting for Pater to come back from the city; I was waiting for his news concerning my future, and I wanted to thank him for his anniversary gift. I’d even put on my best wrap, the one with garnets sewn along the hem, just to please him, although I didn’t like it much. It was too stiff and uncomfortable. Besides, it stopped me from doing what I most wanted to do right then: ride the big roan stallion stalking its proud way along the garden path just below the terrace.

I had to be content to lean against the balustrade and gaze instead. The roan coat shone in the sunlight, the muscles of his shoulders and neck and legs spoke to me of power and speed. I gave a slight shiver of excitement.

‘Ah, Goddess, Brand,’ I said. ‘Isn’t he
magnificent
? Can you believe he’s really mine? Isn’t Pater
wonderful
to have bought him for me?’

Brand, who was walking the horse, halted and looked up, squinting against the light. ‘The General doubtless had excellent reasons for buying you such an unsuitable mount,’ he said.

I pouted, trying to decide exactly what he was telling me. Brand often said things that never meant quite what I thought they did at first; it was an annoying habit of his. ‘I hope you are not criticising Pater,’ I said severely and then, not wanting anything to spoil my day, turned my attention back to the horse. ‘Oh mount him, for
Goddess’ sake, Brand, although I shall be jealous—I just have to see how he moves.’

Brand smiled, an indulgent, teasing smile of the kind that usually infuriated me into throwing something at him, but today I refused to be even mildly irritated. He swung himself up onto the animal’s back, apparently unconcerned by the lack of a saddle. His strong square hands gathered up the reins and held the roan in tight as it stamped a front foot in annoyance and tried to swing its head free. It occurred to me Brand looked almost as magnificent as the horse, but I pushed that thought away. That was not the kind of thing one should think about a slave.

He moved the roan from a walk to a trot to a canter, swinging it around through the garden in a wide figure of eight and then jumping it across the fishpond as a finale.

‘Well, what do you think?’ I asked as he reined in beneath the terrace. ‘
I
think he’s perfect.’

He patted the roan’s neck and looked up at me. ‘He’s edgy. You’ll need wrists of steel for this one, Miss Ligea. I don’t think you should ride him until he’s more schooled.’

‘Oh, nonsense! My wrists are strong—don’t I ride nearly every day? I shall school him myself.’

He slid down to the grass, frowning slightly. ‘Well, I don’t think you ought to ride him yet a while. He ought to be, um, cut. If he gets a whiff of a mare, you’d never hold him. He’s no mount for a sixteen-year-old girl—’

A voice at my elbow said coldly, ‘And I don’t think you should say any more, thrall. It’s not your place to pass judgement on the General’s gift to his…his daughter.’

Salacia, my adoptive mother. One of the most beautiful women of Tyr, or so everyone told me. I knew she was fifty years old, but she looked fifteen years
younger, mostly because her skin was white, kept from the sun and unblemished by wrinkles. She never frowned, never laughed and rarely smiled; a face so devoid of animation had no chance to develop creases. I could never look at her without thinking of a statue, perfectly polished but incapable of showing emotion. Perhaps that was why I invariably felt gauche in her presence, all arms and legs and ungainly height. I knew the emotions were there of course; I might not have seen them on that alabaster mask of hers, but I could feel them. Cold indifference usually predominated, occasionally laced with a strangely impersonal spite. I wasn’t enough of an object in her life even to arouse her dislike.

‘Take that animal away, Brand,’ she ordered, ‘and get on with your work.’ She turned back to me, her malice momentarily satisfied.

As a child I had been constantly bewildered by her lack of interest, but I was older now. Sixteen…Old enough to understand and pity her. She’d wanted a child of her own; instead, I’d arrived in her household to mock her desire. Fortunately for me, she had been far too proud ever to allow herself to care overmuch, and even her verbal jibes were muted. Mostly she ignored me; only occasionally did she rouse herself enough to deprive me of something I enjoyed, such as admiring the stallion. They were the petty tyrannies of a petty woman and I was used to them.

I almost smiled. I felt very adult. What Salacia did didn’t matter; Pater made up for everything…

He wasn’t alone when he came back; he’d brought the Magister Officii with him. I knew Rathrox Ligatan by sight and I knew why Pater had brought him to the house: to meet me. Pater had promised to ask the Magister if I could train to be a Brotherhood Compeer.
My heart beat uncomfortably fast. The Brotherhood did not usually accept women as trainees at the compeer level, or accept non-Tyranians at any level—and I’d been born a Kardi. Gayed had never made any secret of my origins.

I performed the welcoming ablutions myself, and tried to assess the Magister Officii’s thoughts. His emotions were complex; a tangle of conflicting feelings that were hard to interpret. I could sense strong amusement, a touch of contempt—but mostly he was smug. I didn’t think I liked him very much.

‘Well,’ Pater asked me, his dark blue eyes mocking gently, ‘how do you like your horse?’

‘He’s wonderful! But Brand says he’ll be too much for me.’

‘For my Ligea? You must accept the challenge, child. There’s no place for weaklings among the Brotherhood, is there, eh, Rathrox? Ocrastes’ balls, what does an ignorant thrall know about horseflesh anyway? That beast is not too much for you!’

‘Among the Brotherhood?’ I stammered, seizing on the most significant thing he’d said. The roan suddenly seemed unimportant.

I turned to Rathrox Ligatan. ‘Magister Officii? The—the Brotherhood will take me?’

He inclined his head, smiling faintly. ‘I don’t see that being Kardi-born will be a disadvantage, do you, Gayed?’

The two men exchanged glances. ‘Why should it?’ Pater asked. His voice was smooth, his features relaxed, yet I caught an undercurrent of something I didn’t altogether like. I could have deliberately opened my mind to his emotions—I could have listened for a lie, but I didn’t. I never did with him. It would have been disloyal, dishonourable even. He was my father and I
loved him. The rules were of my own making, but I kept them.

‘Why indeed?’ agreed the Magister Officii. ‘I 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—’ He gave a half-smile. ‘Perhaps one day you will be a heroine of Tyr, 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 of me…

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?

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.