The Heart of the Mirage (37 page)

My breathing quickened, my heart thumped. Temellin’s son…it could have been mine.
Don’t think about all that could go wrong. Don’t think.

I continued, ‘I was surrounded by such love, such caring. Perhaps I should have spoken to Garis, told him to tell Temellin it went well.’

‘I didn’t know whether I should say anything about the baby, about why you did it, or not. In the end, I didn’t.’

‘He probably wouldn’t have believed you anyway. And Temellin will, I think, know what I have done once Garis says what he saw.’ I looked down at my hands. They were red with dried blood. ‘Pinar’s…’ I said and added, puzzled: ‘Ah, Goddess, Brand, why do I feel as though I killed part of myself? I hated her. I shouldn’t feel this way…’

I staggered against him and he caught me, holding me with gentle tenderness. ‘You are ill.’

‘I don’t think so, but I must rest. A few days…I’ve overextended my use of power.’

‘Vortexdamn it, Ligea! I loathe this stuff. Look at you! You are as weak as an unweaned kitten.’

‘Are you still with me, Brand?’

He sighed, then nodded. ‘So far.’ But even as he said the words I sensed an unease inside him: a strange reluctance which I couldn’t put a name to, but which fingered me with sorrow.

It was three days before I was strong enough to ride on, before I had renewed enough of what my battle with Pinar had taken from me. I was still Magor-weak, but my body at least was sufficiently strong to continue the journey.

That third morning, when I came down the stairs carrying my saddlebags, I knew something was wrong even before I stepped outside. I could smell it. The stink of the Ravage, that vicious hate for me, personally mine—it hung in the air like the stench of sewerage in the Snarls of Tyr on a hot day.

Pinar’s grave had disappeared. In its place, another foul green-black sore. The Ravage had evidently searched for the source of its doom-bringer, traced her—and found her already dead. It had erupted in a baffled magma of rage, swallowed her remains and grave into a new seething inflammation in the skin of its host. Now I felt its delight in its consumption of dead flesh; I felt its rejoicing in the silent agony of the Mirage Makers.

I could feel it casting around for me, the one who had brought its doom into the weave of the Mirage. It was a disease in search of a victim, an assassin in search of its supposed nemesis: in search of me. Damn them to Acheron’s deepest hell, I hadn’t solved my problem at all.

Brand looked over my shoulder at the place where the grave had been.‘Ah,’ he said, in that thoughtful way of his. ‘I think perhaps you were right, Ligea. About the reason for the Mirage Makers wanting a Magor baby, I mean. I don’t think the Ravage liked what happened one little bit.’

Brand and I sat on our shleths at the top of an escarpment and looked across at the Alps. Neither of us had ever seen anything like these mountains before. Ragged peaks scarified the sky, ploughs to snag and shred the wisps of clouds forming there. Mountainsides plunged down, sheer-walled, into shadowed canyons. Snow whipped away from crests in wind-blasted flurries. A landscape of extremes, ruggedly beautiful or grimly forbidding, scenery to be enjoyed—or a barrier to be conquered.

‘They crossed those?’ Brand asked. ‘On gorclaks? By all that’s holy, how was it possible?’

‘Vortex knows. Yet they are here.’ I looked down on the narrow alluvial plain below me. Unlike the Alps, the plains were clearly still part of the Mirage. The grass glittered with silver as if it had been sprinkled with mica; the wind played across it to make waves. Grass crests broke in splatters of silver only to swell, whole again, a moment later. I scarcely noticed. I was gazing at the legionnaire camp erected on the plains, next to the snow-fed river dividing Mirage from alpine foothills. I now had no problem using my enhanced
sight to scan the army camp; I may have been thinner than before, but otherwise I’d recovered the strength drained from me several weeks earlier. ‘Holy Goddess,’ I whispered. ‘Favonius said a legion—three thousand men or more.’

‘There’s not three thousand there, surely.’

‘There’s not
half
that number. Vortex, but they are battered, Brand. Some are barely hobbling. Frostbite perhaps? They seem to have most of their gorclaks, though. But where are the camp followers? The support people? These are all soldiers!’ I could see no proper kitchen tents set up, no blacksmith’s travelling forge, no store, no slaves. I shook my head. ‘They have had a hard time, and yet they are here.’

‘Can you see Favonius?’ Brand could not make out any detail at all, but he no longer questioned my ability to do so.

‘Not from this distance. Let’s ride down.’

He was surprised. ‘Just like that?’

‘Just like that.’ I set my shleth at the slope.

‘Ocrastes’ balls, are you
sure
, Ligea?’

I grinned at him. I was beginning to feel like my old self again.

There were guards, of course. We were challenged long before we reached the camp, but I spoke to them and one deferentially escorted us to the verandahed tent of the commanding officer, Legate Kilmar. There we dismounted and waited while Kilmar was informed of our arrival. A moment later, we were ushered inside.

The interior had none of the usual luxury of an officer’s tent. There was no furniture, just a few cushions and saddle pelts on the floor. The Legate lounged back on some of these, a goblet in one hand and the remains of a meal spread out on a pelt in front
of him. He was a man of fifty, thick and muscular and tough-skinned, his face rough and scarred by a lifetime of campaigns. One of his ankles was bandaged; blood seeped through.

Behind him and to one side stood Favonius, his blue eyes startled, the slant of his nose accentuated by the increased leanness of his face. His tunic was ragged, his cuirass and greaves scored, but apart from that he appeared unhurt. Military protocol permitted him nothing more than a suggestion of a smile in my direction, but his amazement, his tender regard, the quick climb of his desire were all as obvious to me as if he’d shouted them to the world. I nodded slightly, then ignored him, turning all my attention to the Legate.

‘Legate Kilmar? I am Legata Ligea Gayed, Compeer of the Brotherhood.’ I did not introduce Brand; to the Legate, a free Altani could never have been anything more than a minor servant. Brand remained by the entrance with his hands clasped behind his back and his face expressionless. Favonius stared at his bare neck and gave a wondering frown.

‘Greetings, Legata,’ the Legate said. ‘It is indeed an honour to receive you. You will please forgive my reluctance to rise. As you can see, I had a slight mishap—a rockfall.’ He dismissed the injury with a wave. ‘Please be seated. Can I offer you a meal?’ ‘I have not long eaten,’ I said politely. ‘A drink would not go amiss, however.’

The Legate nodded to Favonius, who poured some wine from a skin. It had been well watered down and splashed pinkly into a dented goblet. Legionnaires were not known for the moderation of their drinking habits; I could only assume they were low on supplies. ‘You know the Tribune, I believe?’ he asked.

‘I’ve had the pleasure. Well met, Tribune Favonius.’

‘Well met indeed, Legata. It seems you found a way to cross the Shiver Barrens after all?’

‘And you found a way to cross the Alps. Not without cost, though, I think.’

The Legate grimaced. ‘There was an avalanche. Those at the back of the column were cut off. More than two thousand men are behind us somewhere, together with the camp followers, most of our supplies and our support slaves. It will take them weeks to clear the route. And that will mean they will have to send back for more supplies before they can join us.’ He looked at his foot ruefully. ‘There have also been injuries. And deaths. But even a weakened Stalwart legion is better than a legion of ordinary men. We have our gorclaks and our weapons; that’s all we need. We can pillage on our way across the Mirage.’

‘Perhaps. But you have a bare quarter of a legion, I think. Will you allow me to look at your injury, Legate? I have some experience with doctoring.’

‘I would be grateful.’ His face tautened, belying his words. He knew any unwrapping of his bandages would hurt him. ‘Neither of our physicians made it this far,’ he added.

‘Get some clean bandages from our pack, Brand,’ I said and knelt beside the Legate. I began to unwind the bloodied cloth.

‘What brought you here, Legata?’ Kilmar asked, gripping his leg above the knee in a valiant effort not to show his pain.

‘A warning. You must not proceed. I have come to tell you there is no question of victory here: you must turn back.’

The Legate gave a harsh laugh. ‘Legata, I’m certain I couldn’t persuade my men to cross the Alps again!
Besides, the Stalwarts do not turn back, especially when they have not yet seen the enemy.’

‘You will see them, and soon. This is a war you cannot win. Legate, the Kardi people of the Mirage make a practice of sorcery. Proceed and the death that awaits you, all of you, is the death of nightmares.’

‘
Sorcery?
Legata, since when has the Brotherhood believed in sorcery?’

‘Since we have come to Kardiastan. You’ve heard stories, I feel sure. Legate, have you ever known the information of the Brotherhood to be false in concept? A detail here and there, perhaps, but always the basis is correct. Ah, you have broken some bones, I think. Can I have that wineskin, Tribune? I need to wash away some of the infection in the wound.’

Favonius handed over the wine and I continued the conversation where I had left off. ‘The Brotherhood does not make mistakes in major matters and it is as Brotherhood Compeer that I tell you, categorically, if you do not turn back you and your men will die almost to a man, killed by the sorcery of the Kardi and their numina.’

I sensed his scepticism and sighed inwardly. This was going to be just as difficult as I had thought it might be.‘The strangeness of this land can hardly have escaped your notice. Have you had a look at the sky?’ I gestured with my hand towards the open tent flap. The sky was blue that day and the candleholders had gone, but it was still crazed with lines like the imperfections through a block of ice. ‘And haven’t you noticed that the grass glitters with silver and hums in the wind?’

‘We’ve noticed.’ The Legate shrugged. ‘“A stranger’s tongue tells strange tales.” Every land is different.’

‘Your foot should be completely immobilised. And the flesh wound itself should be exposed to the air as much as possible—’

He looked down at his feet in surprise. ‘It has stopped hurting. What did you do?’

‘Just a small manipulation to make the bones lie better,’ I said vaguely. ‘Legate, about your return to Tyrans—’

It was almost evening before I emerged from the tent. I was a little drunk, although not as drunk as the Legate had intended, thanks to the watering of the wine. Unfortunately, I had not convinced him he ought to turn back. He had ended by being patronising, treating me as if I were a hysterical woman, an attitude as exasperatingly hard to deal with as it was irrational.

Brand put a hand out to steady me when I lurched slightly. ‘Weren’t you tempted to use that on the sanctimonious bastard?’ he asked, nodding at my left hand. The cabochon was not visible: I still wore my riding gloves.

I pulled a face. ‘Almost, almost. Brand, make our camp on the other side of the gorclak lines, will you? Away from everyone else. Sorry I can’t help you, but it wouldn’t look right.’

He almost laughed. ‘Ah, you’ve come a long way, haven’t you, my love?’

I let him enjoy his mockery.

He added amiably, ‘But don’t worry about me; you go and snuggle up to Favonius. Been a while since you’ve had a man, hasn’t it?’

I gritted my teeth. ‘May you disappear into the Vortex, Brand.’ I turned away to greet Favonius, who had just come out of the tent.

The Tribune grasped my hands and raised them to his lips. ‘Goddess, Ligea, the sight of you is drink to a thirsting man! You’ve lost weight!’ He touched my face with roughened fingers. ‘You’ve been through a lot. By all that’s holy, how did you get here?’

‘Ah, it’s a boring story. I’m sure you have much more to tell. But everything I said in there was true. Favo, you must persuade the Legate to turn back. If you proceed the Stalwarts will suffer a defeat here so devastating, there will
be
no Stalwarts any more.’

‘Goddessdamn, Ligea, can’t you think of anything else? Come to my tent and I’ll take your mind off sorcery and put it on something much more interesting.’

I shook my head. ‘No, Favonius; not any more. That’s over.’

He was incredulous. ‘Over? What do you mean, over? You ride across the Shiver Barrens, cross this place called the Mirage, all to warn me of the danger, and you say it’s over?’

I nodded, wondering why his arrogant certainty that I had done all this for him surprised me. I had always known his faults, as well as his strengths, after all. ‘I’m sorry. But that’s the way it is.’

He gazed at me, face blank. Then he looked after Brand in disbelief. The emotion that followed the realisation was unpleasant. ‘It’s him, isn’t it? I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw he wasn’t wearing his slave collar. You’ve taken up with your own Altani slave! Goddessdamn, Ligea, to think I never used to believe those rumours about you. Where’s your pride? You’re a citizen of Tyrans, a Legata! He’s an Altani barbarian—and a
slave
. Or he was last time I saw him.’

‘Don’t be tiresome, Favonius,’ I said, my voice tight with warning. ‘Brand is a friend, a slave no longer.
Please bear that in mind next time you refer to him. He is not—and never has been—my lover. However, you are right about one thing: there is someone else. Who it is doesn’t matter. I’m sorry.’

The arm he had put around my shoulders had long since slipped away. Rather than see the hurt in his eyes, I turned and walked after Brand.

That night I dined with Favonius and the other tribunes. I told them stories, mostly completely untrue, of Kardi magic powers. I exaggerated and coloured and lied; anything to have them turn back. But they had been through something close to the Vortex of Death on the mountains. They had struggled and survived; faced with a fight against mere Kardis, they felt invincible. The thought of a return across the Alps, where the enemy—nature, an avalanche, the weather—was more obvious, brought them far more dread than any prospect of meeting a Kardi army.

‘We are going to wipe those bastards off the face of the earth!’ one of the tribunes boasted. ‘Every man and boy in the Mirage, right down to those in swaddling clothes.’

‘Are those your orders?’ I asked. ‘Children as well?’

‘That’s right! If they have anything dangling between their legs, they’re dead meat. Women too, if they have gemstones in their palms. Dunno what that means, m’self, but those are the orders. Direct from the Exaltarch, we heard.’ He grinned at me, ignoring a furious stare from Favonius. ‘You’d better hang onto Favo here, Domina, cos you’re going to find it hard to meet another male in the whole of the Mirage in a month or so!’

The latter part of the evening was unbearable. The men teased both me and Favonius, making me the butt
of increasingly coarse jokes, envying him his luck, wondering aloud just what it was about Favonius that had brought his woman across a hostile land to his arms. I tried to freeze them into politeness, in vain. Here, in this remote part of the Exaltarchy, to these men who had endured so much, being the daughter of a general or a compeer of the feared Brotherhood meant nothing. I read their reckless contempt for me and fumed. And I grieved; it was clear my friendship with Favonius was not going to survive the end of our physical relationship. There had been a time when he would not have tolerated my being subjected to such jokes, but I had hurt his pride and his bitterness showed. He grew more and more sullen as the evening wore on.

I conquered my anger and left. Behind me I could hear the laughter of the officers as they asked Favonius why he didn’t follow.

I didn’t go to my pallet in the tent Brand had rigged away from the main camp. Instead, I sat outside the tent flap on a patch of sand and stared at my cabochon, calling up its power. Brand watched me wordlessly. I concentrated, bringing forth the wind from nothing, turning it, whirling it, calling it across the plain towards me. The gorclaks heard it and stirred uneasily. Brand rose and went to check the tethers of the two shleths where they grazed by the river.

When the wind neared me, I unsheathed my sword, brought the blade to a blaze of light and touched it to the whirlwind. The swirl became more than just movement and sound; it was visible now, a giant gyre of sparking, flaming light, brilliant beyond imagining.

I dropped the sword and concentrated on the cabochon again. Slowly the fiery spout began to move.

It spun towards the main camp, taking in the gorclak lines on the way. It didn’t touch the animals: it
was not necessary. In desperate fear they broke their tethers and thundered away, trampling their terrorcrazed path through the camp.