The Heart of the Mirage (25 page)

I thought:
If I go back to the Brotherhood, I can rule this land. I can have whatever I want. Power. Wealth. Respect. The things I’ve always wanted. The Oracle’s predictions, all come true. Goddessdamn.

Once that knowledge would have set me dreaming. Once that would have brought a sparkle of triumph into my eyes. Instead, all I heard were questions. Nasty, provocative little questions demanding answers, refusing to go away.
The power to do what? The respect of whom? Why would you want more wealth than you already have? And would the puppeteer be any different this time around?

When Brand returned, I said softly, ‘I have decided. I will stay here. I will learn the ways of the Magor and be Kardi. If you are wise, you will leave. Make a life for yourself somewhere else. Go to Tyr, claim the money awaiting you from my estate, then go back to Altan. Lead your own people to freedom.’

‘Just like that, eh?’ He gave an unbelieving, sardonic chuckle. ‘And am I still a brother to you, Ligea-Derya-Shirin?’

‘No—no. That was a stupidity. Now I have felt the real thing, now I know the revulsion of real…incest. You are a friend, Brand. The best friend I have ever had, or ever will have. That is why I ask you to leave. There is nothing I can offer you. You are better away from me, building your own life.’

‘My answer is the same as always. I stay, at least for now. You need a friend, Ligea. Derya. Shirin. Whoever. Perhaps now more than ever. Have you given a thought to what Temellin and the others will do when you tell them you are the Legata Ligea Gayed?’

‘What will that matter? It is past. I will tell them when the time is right.’ I hardened myself. ‘For the past week or so I have been thinking with my loins. You were right, Brand: it was insanity. But I’m back to my senses now. Power, that’s what it’s all about. That was why the Brotherhood fascinated me: it gave me the power of life and death over my fellow citizens, it made me feared, even to those who had money and position and political power. As compeer I used that power—yes, and sometimes
mis
used that power, on Tyrans’ behalf.’ I added, surprised at its truth, ‘I couldn’t do that any more. But I don’t love power any less. It’s what I am. And I will wield it.’
And no one’s going to kill me for my child, either.

I wandered over to the window again and looked down on the dark cobbled street below without really seeing it. ‘I feel as if I used to walk around with my head under a pail. Why couldn’t I see, long before this, that there are better ways to use power? Why couldn’t I see the iniquity of slavery? The inherent injustice of Exaltarchy rule?’ The shards of past possibilities scored
furrows of sadness deep into my spirit.‘The Exaltarchy has many fine things to offer its tribute states, but the price is too high. Kardiastan would be—
will
be—better without Tyrans.’

‘You’re too hard on yourself,’ Brand said. He came to stand by me, and the gentle touch of his hand on my arm told me more about his concern than his shrouded feelings did. ‘Firstly, you were brought up to be Tyranian. You were
supposed
to believe those things. Secondly, there was always a part of you that fought the iniquities anyway. You tried to use your power to ensure that there was no injustice. That the innocent went free. That torture was not used.’

‘I can’t absolve myself of guilt so easily. You are too generous, my friend.’

‘I don’t happen to think I am,’ he said and his certainty was comforting. ‘And so, what next, Magoria?’

I took a deep breath. ‘I am sister to the Mirager and mother of the heir. Pinar can be his wife and consort, but it is I who will have the greater power. Perhaps this time I’ll use it better. We will make something of this Goddessforsaken land.’ I straightened and turned to face him. ‘I am ready to see Temellin.’

He shook his head, his dismay tinged with reluctant admiration. ‘I might have known. You are rock-strong, Ligea.’

I was still standing by the window when Temellin entered and I didn’t feel rock-strong. I felt empty, an outer shell of fragility that could be shattered by the wrong word, the wrong touch.

He entered and began to cross the room towards me.

‘Don’t touch me, Temellin,’ I said. ‘Not ever again.’

He stopped, his body rigid. ‘Der—Shirin, don’t think of it as wrong. How could anything so beautiful be wrong?’

‘It wasn’t wrong then. It is now. I’m sorry, Temellin, but it’s over. I can’t bed my brother, nor ever will be able to. Any desire I felt for you has vanished.’
Liar. Vortex take you, Ligea, even now your loins crawl with longing—and yet the touch of him would have you heaving up your stomach
. ‘Forgive me.’

His hands hung loose at his sides as though he feared what they would do if he moved them. ‘I love you, Derya.’

‘Just lust, Temellin. Just lust.’

He shook his head. ‘No. Don’t tell me how I felt. Feel. It was more than that.
Is
more than that. Certainly I want you on my pallet, but I also want you by my side as my partner—my consort—my wife.’

‘You will have me as your sister.’

‘I don’t feel brotherly. It takes a lifetime to feel brotherly. We haven’t had a lifetime of growing up together; we’ve had a week of lying in each other’s arms, of talking about things that matter—’

I cut him off brutally. ‘We will be siblings or nothing, Tem. I’d leave Kardiastan rather than come back to your arms.
I can’t
. Can you understand that? I can’t love you that way any more. Just as something would have died in you, had I proved to be Sarana and usurped your position.’

He opened his mouth to deny it, but his inherent honesty wouldn’t allow him to give voice to the words. He was human enough not to like having it pointed out to him, though. He said, his timing a petty cruelty I knew he would later regret, ‘I shall have to marry Pinar.’

‘Yes, I know.’
And I shall hate her
.

‘Ravage hells, you really mean it, don’t you?’

‘I mean it.’ I saw the slump of his shoulders and had to curb that treacherous desire to go to him. I opened my mouth to tell him about his son, and then changed my mind. It wasn’t the time. It could wait. No point in adding another burden to him right then.

His eyes fell away from mine, and saw the sword I had put on the table. Confused, he touched the blade as if to identify it. He must have felt its power through his fingers because his head jerked up. ‘
Yours?
How—?’

‘I walked beneath the Shiver Barrens.’

As I had suspected he would, he accepted this as being within the bounds of possibility, but surprise flitted across his face nonetheless. His conclusion was not quite the one I had expected. ‘Then you knew all along you were a Magoria?’

‘No. Why should I know—?’

‘Only the Magoroth have Magor swords.’

‘No one told me that! I thought it must be something that happened to all Magor.’ Only now did it occur to me I’d never seen an Illusos or Theuros wearing a Magor sword. I chided myself for missing the significance. Ligea the compeer was indeed slipping.

‘Why didn’t you tell me at the time?’ He sounded more puzzled than suspicious.

‘I—’ There was no rational answer I could give him. I settled for a vague: ‘It seemed such a private thing.’

He explained, talking for the sake of talking, because it was better than thinking, remembering. ‘It happens to all Magoroth, usually around puberty. It has always been so, even before we came to live in the Mirage. We have walked the Shiver Barrens, just at the edge, for generations—long before we knew how to cross them.
It is usually the only time any of us meet with the Mirage Makers. Except for the Mirager: he walks the Barrens a second time, when he inherits. There are certain things he has to be told—’ He paused before adding, ‘Not me, though. I inherited the job when I was five years old, long before I had my sword. I walked the Barrens only once, when I was ten. I was given my weapon and told what I had to know then.’

I nodded at the sword. ‘I want to learn how to use it.’

‘Yes, you should.’ His voice was carefully neutral. ‘Garis will teach you the elementary things.’ He took a breath, grew taller, more in command. ‘This ought to be the happiest day of my life—the day my sister is returned to me. I can remember you, you know. I can remember loving you. Grieving for you. I should be happy. It is wonderful to have you back, Shirin.’

‘Thank you.’ My voice was small, the thanks ridiculous. If there had ever been anything wonderful in my homecoming, it had all been lost.

My room had a spartan but pleasing decor relying on natural wood and stone to achieve a warm attractiveness, or that was the way it was when I fell asleep that night. I woke the next morning to a riot of colour blazing forth from flounces and frills and preposterous ornamentation; a richness of absurdity and lunatic juxtapositions that brought forth a gasp of reluctant laughter from me.

I was still smiling when my maid, an ex-slave called Caleh, came in with my hot water and tea. The girl was so astounded she almost dropped the tray.

‘I thought perhaps it wouldn’t be such a surprise to you,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t this sort of thing happen all the time?’

‘Well, yes, sometimes. But not quite like this in someone’s bedroom.’ She looked around in bewilderment. ‘I mean, this is wild.’ She reached up to touch a tumble of glass wind chimes that glowed with colour. The music they played was tuneful, a delightful gaiety of notes. Indicating the mobile bouncing on the other side of the room, she added, ‘I’ve never seen hanging chamberpots before.’

I waved my hand helplessly. ‘Why, do you think?’

Caleh considered. ‘I think it was to make you laugh, Magoria.’ And that was perhaps the best explanation I was ever to receive.

I thought back to my time inside the sands of the Shiver Barrens. There, the Mirage Makers had not seemed to be entities given to humour, but the Mirage itself did seem to be a collection of the amusing, the absurd: the bridges that crossed nothing, the road that went nowhere, the street that became a river. Perhaps the Mirage Makers had been touched by my desolation, the bleakness of my lonely, dream-haunted night.

I dressed and readied myself to meet this new world, this new life.

It was Garis who told me, just after breakfast, that the first thing I had to do was to take part in a dedication ceremony, a ritual of allegiance all Magor had to undergo, usually around puberty. ‘But you sort of missed out then,’ he said cheerfully, ‘so Temellin has arranged it for you this morning. That is—’ He gave me a sharp look. ‘You don’t look so well. Would you rather wait till some other day?’

I was touched by his concern; he was only eighteen—still partly naive boy, still partly feckless adolescent and quixotic romantic—but partly responsible adult too, with an adult’s understanding. I liked his exuberance and humour, his eagerness to make something of me.

‘I’ll be all right,’ I said. ‘What do I have to do?’

‘Oh, nothing much,’ he said vaguely. ‘Just wait in your room for the time being. I’ll fix it all.’

He must have spoken to Caleh, because fifteen minutes later she came in with five or six borrowed anoudain over her arm. ‘You have to wear something nice for your dedication ceremony,’ she said. ‘It’s a very important day for one of the Magor.’

Thankfully, I reflected that at least I wouldn’t look as ridiculous in a ceremonial anoudain as I did in a ceremonial wrap. The green outfit I chose was plain, but it hung softly and, although the Mirage Makers had neglected to supply my room with a mirror, I suspected it made me appear more feminine than usual. I also wore my sword, in a borrowed scabbard sent around by Garis, for the first time. It felt strange hanging there at my hip and had a tendency to get in the way. As a compeer I’d always relied on a knife for protection, preferring the stealth possible in its use and disliking the cumbersome obviousness of a sword. Besides, Tyranian women did not wear swords, and the last thing I had wanted to do in Tyr was draw attention to my oddities.

Shortly afterwards, Garis escorted me down to the main meeting hall where all the Magoroth were waiting for me. The moment I entered the room, they drew their swords and held them aloft in salute so that the hall blazed, the light so bright I found myself blinking like a night bird in sunlight.

Temellin stepped forward out of the crowd to smile at me, a gentle smile of encouragement and support. ‘We, the Magoroth of Kardiastan, have come to escort you to the Chamber of the Tablets of the Covenant,’ he said formally. He indicated I should take his arm, but he was careful not to look at me as I did so.

We walked in procession, Temellin and I in front, the Magoroth behind, their swords still drawn and held aloft to light our way. No one spoke. In Tyr, at any ceremonial procession, there would have been rose petals strewn in our path and horn fanfares as we passed—but this was Kardiastan, and the emphasis was on the solemnity of the occasion rather than any grandiose display or pointless ritual.

Within minutes, I was lost. We proceeded along one passage after another, many of them sloping downwards, others passing through tunnels or crossing bridges or leading down steps—and still more steps—until I was sure we must be somewhere under the ground. I wanted to ask, but faced with the funereal silence around me, I didn’t dare. Finally we halted in a large windowless hall. At one end there were massive wooden doors, now closed.

Temellin released my hand. ‘Beyond those doors are the Tablets of the Covenant,’ he explained. ‘You are to read them all. Once you have done so, you will return here. We will not enter with you, but it is customary for whoever enters to select someone of the Magor to accompany him or her, someone who will testify you have read all the tablets and understood their meaning. Who would you like to accompany you?’

Over his shoulder I saw Pinar looking at me, eyes smouldering. ‘Garis,’ I said.

If Temellin thought I had slighted him by naming another, he did not let it show. He inclined his head and beckoned the youth forward. Garis stared at Temellin in consternation, then, as the Mirager did not react, looked in my direction with a pleased smile, before finally managing a more solemn demeanour as he remembered the seriousness of the occasion.

‘Unbuckle your sword and leave it with me,’ Temellin said. ‘It will only be returned to you if you take the oath to obey the terms of the Covenant.’ I did as he asked, and felt a pang as I surrendered up the weapon; I had felt it was already rightfully mine.

Then Garis and I turned towards the door at the other end of the hall. It swung open as we approached, although no one had touched it, to reveal an immense cavern beyond. Just over the threshold I paused,
momentarily unable, in my awe, to move. While I stood rooted, the doors swung shut behind us.

The cavern itself appeared to be a natural chamber of rock and, although large, there was nothing spectacular about it; what caught my attention was what it contained. At its centre a number of shapes glowed with a gentle silver light, a glow as beautiful as starlight, and each of the shapes was as large as a man. Five of them rising up out of the sandy floor of the cavern like moonlit standing stones on a moor.

I walked forward, Garis beside me.

The shapes were tablets, not—as I had expected—of clay, but of light; of starlight if that were possible. And the texts on each of them were etched with the blackness of a lack of light, as if the letters had been written with the darkness of night.

‘Holy shit,’ Garis said at my side, with a distinct lack of reverence, ‘the Mirage Makers have been mucking about with things again. When I came to read the Covenant a couple of years ago, it was carved on ordinary stone tablets—now look at it!’

‘I’m sure this must be much prettier.’ I peered at the first of the tablets. ‘I’m not sure it’s going to be easier, though. Garis, this is all written in Kardi.’

‘Of course! What did you expect?’

‘I didn’t expect anything,’ I confessed. ‘But I don’t read Kardi well, and this stuff is archaic—’ Laboriously, I began to spell out the words, hesitating and stumbling over unfamiliar letters. ‘
And where is
—no,
whereas thou who shalt thine eyes
—It’ll take me a week to read all this, and then I’m not sure I’ll understand it.’

No sooner had I made the complaint than the language on the tablets changed, and I was reading good modern Tyranian. ‘Ah, now that’s more like it,’ I said. ‘
And you who read this
—’

Garis looked taken aback. ‘I hope the Mirage Makers remember to change it to Kardi again,’ he said finally. ‘Korden would have a fit if he ever found out the Covenant was written in Tyranian!’

I read silently on.

Part of what was there—the reasons for the necessity of such a covenant—I knew already because Temellin had told me. The first tablet related the story of how the Mirage Makers and the Magor had been hurting one another with their different forms of mirage-making, and how this Covenant had been drawn up to solve the problem.

It seemed to me, as I read the second, third and fourth tablets, that the Magor had been the recipients of the better end of the bargain: they’d acquired the Magor swords and, through the swords, the cabochons, which enhanced their power. At the same time, the Mirage Makers promised they’d take every care their mirage-making would not harm people, whether Magor or not. In order to ensure there were no accidental deaths as a result of their mirages, the Mirage Makers would withdraw to the land beyond the Shiver Barrens. In return, the Magor promised not to indulge in mirage-making anywhere in any form, and not to cross the Shiver Barrens. And they were to take a solemn oath, generation after generation, that their powers were not to be used for personal gain. They were to use their enhanced abilities to better the life of the non-Magor or to heal those in need; they could use their powers to protect their land, but never in the pursuit of wholly selfish motives. The Mirager was to be obliged to take an additional oath that he would always act with the consensus of the majority of his Magoroth peers.

The fifth tablet made it clear that if any of the rules mentioned on the preceding three tablets were broken
by the Magor, then future generations would not receive their swords or cabochons—which raised an interesting conundrum: the Magor now not only lived in the Mirage, but had brought ordinary Kardis here. Why, then, were the newly born still receiving their cabochons; why were the adolescent Magoroth still receiving their swords? The Covenant had been broken from the moment Solad had sent the ten Magoroth children and their teachers across the Shiver Barrens—yet the Covenant was still in force.

I stood for a long while in front of that tablet, and the conclusion I came to was as unpalatable as it was inescapable. The Mirage Makers had needed something further from the Magor, something they knew the Magor would normally deny them, something they needed so badly they had struck a new covenant with Solad to get it. Paradoxically, in so doing, the old covenant had doubtless been broken a second time: Solad had acted without the consensus of his peers. And the Mirage Makers had done nothing about that, either…

I knew then that my reasoning had been right. Temellin knew what the new covenant was. And so did I. An unborn child in exchange for safety. Nothing else made sense.

I turned away from the tablet, afraid.

At least, I thought cynically, I could tell Brand that what kept the powerful Magor from the kind of corruption found among the rulers of the Exaltarchy wasn’t entirely the kind of altruism he may have imagined. The Magor were scared that their children—that all future generations of Magor—would be denied cabochons and swords if they, the parents, misbehaved. Human nature being what it is, there would always be the odd individual who would misuse his or her
powers, but the cost was high enough that others would soon unite against them. Not such a bad idea; the Mirage Makers had been deviously clever.

I turned to Garis. ‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘I’ve read it all.’

‘And do you understand it?’

‘Yes, I think so. Seems fairly straightforward to me.’ It wasn’t the Covenant that was confusing; it was the events of recent years concerning it.

Back in the hall beyond the cavern, the Magoroth were waiting for us. When the doors swung open again, we faced Temellin once more. He looked not at me, but at Garis. ‘Has the Magoria read and understood the Tablets of the Covenant?’

‘She has,’ he replied.

Temellin turned to me. ‘Then do you solemnly swear not to indulge in mirage-making, and not to use your powers for personal gain or in pursuit of selfish motives? Do you solemnly swear to use your enhanced abilities to protect the land of Kardiastan and to better the life of the people you serve? Do you solemnly swear that once it is safe for us to leave the Mirage, you will do so, never to return, and you will do everything in your power to protect the Mirage from violation? Do you swear to uphold the decisions of your Mirager, as sanctioned by the majority of his peers?

‘If you are prepared to swear these things, place your left hand on the hilt of your sword and say: I do so swear.’

It should have been easy to say. I’d made up my mind, hadn’t I? I’d chosen Kardiastan over Tyrans, Temellin over Favonius, the Magor over the Brotherhood.

But now, faced with Temellin’s love, the ache I saw and felt in him as he stretched out my sword to me, the words were hard to enunciate. There was an
irrevocability about them—and I, who had once found it so easy to utter a falsehood or practise a deception, knew this time I could only speak the truth, although it might not have been quite the same truth everyone else in that hall envisioned.

I stretched out my hand and closed it about the hilt. My cabochon slipped into its place and the sword flamed; I could feel the power throbbing.

‘Yes,’ I said, and committed myself to a land, to a new way of life. ‘I do so swear.’

And the Magoroth, as one, cried, ‘
Fah-Ke-Cabochon-rez
! Hail the power of the cabochon!’

I had thought it would be easy enough to tell Temellin the truth about my life in Tyrans.

It wasn’t.

For a start, I never seemed to have the opportunity. I saw him often enough, that day and in the ones that followed. I usually ate in the dining hall with the other Magoroth; I attended all the Magor meetings held to discuss the strategies to be adopted against Tyrans and he was always there—but I never saw him alone. He was always surrounded by others, listening to what they had to say with his head cocked to one side in a way now so familiar to me; or talking, moving his hands to illustrate a point; or laughing and carrying others along on his amusement. He spoke to me often, asking my opinion, including me in the discussions, inquiring after my progress with my study of Magor skills.