Mirror 04 The Way Between the Worlds (15 page)

cared.
'Stinging-tree sap!' Maigraith gasped.
'Pass my bag, Rebban,' said the old woman.
The albino handed it to her and she bathed the affected skin in a liquid like
milk, dried it, then applied a green, mint-smelling unguent which took the
worst of the pain away. She was quite gentle.
'My name is Quissan,' she said.
'Why do you care?' asked Maigraith.
'Rulke ordered us to treat you with courtesy,' said Quissan.
In an hour or so the swelling began to go down, though the burning sensation
persisted. They fed her and questioned her into the night, particularly about
Faelamor, her plans and whereabouts. Maigraith answered their questions
truthfully, for the most part, for lying was not one of her skills. Besides,
she knew little about what Faelamor was up to and what she did know could make
no difference. One thing she did conceal, - that Faelamor had made a gate, and
that she, Maigraith, had also mastered that art. They would certainly want to
know that.
Maigraith lay under a rude shelter - a piece of canvas stretched between four
stakes - listening to the mutter of talk over by the fire. The Ghashad had
been afraid of her and could not believe their good fortune to have caught her
so easily.
She could not believe her stupidity. She imagined explaining this disaster to
Faelamor - the humiliation, the contempt in Faelamor's eyes. I've not gone far
with my new life, she thought, if just the idea of her fury can so intimidate
me.
Maigraith would do anything to avoid that degrading experience. How, though?
Rebban the albino was squatting just outside the shelter and his pink eyes had
not once left her face. He seemed to be a rare kind of sensitive, set to watch
for any trick or attempt at escape.
This was a problem as difficult as any of Calliat's Chrighms that she had
solved previously. What weaknesses did they have that she could work on, in
her condition? The Ghashad were sensitive when they linked minds in the
square. In that state their minds were very powerful, though their bodies were
correspondingly weakened. Perhaps that was the way to attack them.
First, make them so afraid that they would go into formation to defend
themselves. They must! To lose her would be a humiliating defeat. Second, to
strike before they were ready. Their principal weakness, as far as she knew,
was a sensitivity to bright sunlight. It hurt their eyes and burned their
delicate skin, for they were creatures of the far south, of cold and ice.
Maigraith felt helpless. Her wrists were bound and the pain in her hands and
chest persisted, taking the edge off her thinking. How could she use their
weakness to overcome them?
The fire was well stacked with wood, lighting up the whole area. Fire and
light! Could she make something of that? Maigraith thought herself into the
heart of the blaze, into the greedy, inanimate creature that fire was:
Consume! Consume! That was all it wanted, to leap from stick to stick, drive
out the volatile gases then devour them in blue and yellow flames above the
pyre. But what it had could never be enough. It always wanted more - more
fuel, more air.
Air was not difficult to move with the Secret Art. It was hard to control
though. Maigraith stared at the stacked wood, concentrating on the air around
it which was slowly being drawn into the base of the fire. She sought out the
motions of the air. It had the beginnings of a pattern, curving across the
ground into the fire, then up. She tried to order that structure, to amplify
the little tendril currents and feed the pattern back on itself. Whirl, wind!
Imperceptibly the air began to organise itself into currents and lazily to
coil inward. It was hard work. Stronger! Faster! It began to form solid
streams that riffled the dead grass around the fire.
Her head began to ache, and as she continued a blaze grew behind her forehead.
The air kept wanting to resume its turbulent and random motions. She forced

the particles back into the flow.
The fire blazed higher, drawing the air in. Whirl, faster! Now the current was
hissing through the grass, spiralling in, being drawn up through the network
of logs and, heated to burning, rushing out the top. The flames leapt high and
bright. Faster! Burn harder and hotter!
Now it was going of its own accord. One of the Ghashad jumped up, shielding
his eyes. Burn! Burn everything to ashes! The wind became a whirlwind, a
mini-tornado that roared into the pyre. The flames grew so bright that they
hurt Maigraith's eyes.
'What is she doing?' the man cried. He was reeling about, shielding his skin
from the glare, and his eyes were watering to flood his cheeks.
'The square, quickly!' screamed Quissan.
'Burn them all to bones!' Maigraith shrieked, rising and throwing out her
bound hands. The fire lit up like a bolt of lightning, shrivelling the high
leaves of an overhanging tree.
The Ghashad shrieked and covered their eyes as they scrambled into position
around her. Quissan passed something around, they swallowed and all linked
hands. Maigraith felt the power of the square growing. She abandoned the fire,
which was now roaring its fuel into oblivion. It needed her Art no longer, for
the whirlwind was sucking leaves, bark and twigs into it from right across the
clearing. She made ready a link, to strike at them before they could overpower
her. To attack them in their weakness - a mental blast as bright as the fire.
The square was formed. They moved in on her from all directions, their bony
hands reaching out. They were too strong for her. Maigraith felt a spasm of
nausea and her concentration weakened. With a roar that turned into a yelp she
sent her mental flare over the link. It was not strong
enough. They pushed against her, six pairs of hands surrounding her skull,
taking control of her and sensing what she tried to conceal.
'What are you really doing here?' cried a fanatical-looking young woman whose
bony head was shaven to a day-old stubble. 'What is Faelamor up to?'
Maigraith struggled. 'Hold her, Culiss!' yelled Quissan, the old woman who had
treated her.
The pressure was unbearable. The square was much too strong for her. The gate
popped into her mind. Maigraith pushed it away again. The square, sensing
victory, forced harder. Maigraith shrieked and folded up on the ground. As she
did so, the aura of the gate leaked out, and the image of the cave nearby.
Maigraith closed it off again but not quickly enough. The faces of the Ghashad
were lit up in exultation. She rolled across the ground, trying to get away.
Her brain hurt, but the knowledge of her blunder was worse.
She rolled onto the discarded shirt and a plan to recover from the disaster
flashed into her mind. She rubbed the sap-stained cloth over her wrists and
arms, then allowed the Ghashad to catch her.
They collected together, talking excitedly about the gate and the honour that
would await them when they carried Maigraith and the secret back to Rulke.
Maigraith suddenly began to scream and tear at her wrists. She wasn't
pretending - the second dose of sap was agony. She came to her knees, holding
her arms out.
Seeing the bloody blisters rising up on her hands and arms, someone untied her
bonds while two others held her secure. Maigraith released another mental
blast. It wasn't enough to harm anyone, but it shocked them enough for her to
wriggle free. She ran upriver, toward her gate-stones.
They called back and forth to one another, their harsh cries ringing off the
cliffs. Maigraith had to force herself to stay calm, not to fear them.
She was staggering as she turned away from the river toward the gate-stones
and the cave. Let them think she was trying to flee through the gate. Her
hands and arms burned unbearably. A faint path led to the cave, enough for
them to follow. As she dragged herself up the hill Maigraith fumbled the
four-piece stone egg out of her pocket. It was the key to the gate. She warmed
it in her hands.
They approached, two by two by two. When they were near, Maigraith slipped

between the two standing spires of ironstone, swung her egg between the stones
and called out for her gate. Suddenly it came alive. Not yet! she thought.
Seeing the destination was her problem, but one place in the world was burned
into her mind forever. She called up that basement room in Fiz Gorgo where
Vartila had tormented her after Karan escaped with the Mirror.
The room flashed into her inner eye. Maigraith ducked out the other side of
the spires, making sure that they saw her heading up to her cave. Then, as the
Ghashad bunched up to pass between the stones, she fixed the image and flung
open the gate. There came a roar, a tornado of dust and they vanished - one,
two, three, four, five. Where was the sixth? A little way behind. Culiss, the
stubble-headed young woman, was staring at the space, suspicious of the gate.
Culiss went forward tentatively, then stopped just before the two pillars. Her
long neck darted this way and that. She wasn't going to go in. It would all be
for nothing if she didn't. Her heart hammering, Maigraith crept around the
other side of the stone. The gate was thinning. She ran up behind the woman
and thrust her in the back. Culiss propped, whirled and caught Maigraith by
the hair.
Maigraith struggled desperately. Behind Culiss she could see faces in the gate

-Rebban and Quissan, trying to get back out. Culiss dragged Maigraith to her

-she was far stronger. At the last instant, Maigraith flung her head up under
the woman's jaw.
Culiss's head snapped backwards and Maigraith pushed her in the chest with all
her strength. The woman toppled into Rebban and Quissan. Maigraith slammed the
gate closed.
She fell down between the stones, gasping. A very near thing, but she'd done
it. Fiz Gorgo was two months away at this time of year. Enough, surely! But as
she trudged down to the river to bathe her throbbing arms, she couldn't help
but wonder why Rulke wanted her. Her heart raced at the thought of seeing him
again, but it must be on her own terms.
The Faellem
A few days later Maigraith was sitting beside the river, mending a basket,
enjoying the rare winter sunshine on her back and the music of the river over
the stones, when she became aware of a presence behind her. Turning slowly,
because she felt in no danger, she saw three people standing beside the camp.
They were two women and a man, neither young nor old.
The women were smaller than her, the man barely her own height. Their posture
told of their anxiety. They were various in build, hair colour and appearance,
but all were Faellem. Each had the glowing, rosewood skin and the old eyes.
Besides, she knew the women.
Maigraith came to her feet abruptly. It had been decades since she had seen
any of them, save Faelamor, and she felt as much in awe of them as she had as
a child. But she would not let them see that.
The Faellem seemed disconcerted at this confident young woman striding toward
them, her glossy chestnut hair streaming out behind her, where they had
expected Faelamor. They knew her, but she was not the timid, downcast child
they had known.
As a rule it was not their custom to shake hands, but now the first woman put
out her hand. 'Greetings, Maigraith. I
am Ellami. You know my sister Hallal, and cousin Gethren.'
Maigraith took the offered hand, then embraced each in the proper Faellem way,
her arms enclosing their shoulders, her cheek laid to each of their cheeks.
She took their packs and offered fermented nectar in wooden mugs. They saluted
her with the brew, and praised it, observing all the formalities. Only then
did Hallal, the taller of the two women, speak the words Maigraith had been
expecting.
'Where is Faelamor?' The question came out like ground-up ice. 'We ordered her
to remain here.' Hallal's tight mouth opened, then closed again. She shot a
furious glance to the other two.
'She went to Carcharon to spy on Rulke,' said Maigraith. Months had passed
since they'd communicated with Faelamor via the link; since Faelamor had told

them about her gate-borne visit to Havissard, the dreadful book she'd found
there, and how she had lost it to Mendark. In spite of herself, Maigraith
trembled.
'Why?' choked Hallal, almost incoherent in her fury. 'Why has she disobeyed
the Faellem?'
'Rulke is in Carcharon. She was afraid what he was up to. And she was
desperate to recover a book - '
'Enough of that!' snapped Gethren. Then, more kindly, 'You may tell us the
story later - the full story, in the correct order. But first we must eat.'
'Are more of you coming?'
The three exchanged troubled glances. 'Near half of our number - some
hundreds. They are well behind. We came in haste to make a place ready. We
have marched from Mirrilladell, the best part of three hundred leagues,
without a day's rest.'
Mirrilladell was a vast land partly embraced by the southward sweep of the
Great Mountains that extended across half of the continent of Lauralin, and
partly enclosed by the northward barrier of the inland seas of Milmillamel and
Tallallamel. Mirrilladell was a land of endless forests, of
countless lakes and bogs, of rocky hills bare of soil. It was punishingly cold
in the winter, hot and sticky and riddled with every kind of crawling and
biting insect on Santhenar in summer. The Faellem had dwelt there since the
time of the Forbidding, and having lived there as a child Maigraith had few
pleasant memories of the place. To the east Mirrilladell merged into
Tarralladell, indistinguishable except that it was even bleaker.
Hallal looked exhausted. She rubbed her hand across her face (she had small
hands with plump fingers, and her wrists were tiny), brushing the dark hair
out of her eyes. She looked across at her sister, Ellami. Ellami shook her
head.
Maigraith wondered at the lack of likeness between them. Ellami was the
younger, but her hair was colourless, quite transparent, her eyes were grey
instead of brown and though small she was solidly built. Her face at rest had
a kind of impish quality, whereas Hallal just looked weary and worried. They
both signalled with their eyes to the man. Gethren was different again, his
hair a glossy brown, and he had striking dark eyebrows, long lashes and deep
golden eyes, but his forehead was lined.
Gethren answered their unspoken question. His voice was melodic and very soft.
'We don't know anything*. Let us hear her story first.1
Maigraith felt intimidated. Faelamor often seemed unbalanced, pursuing her
objective blindly whatever the consequences. These folk were not. They were
the best of an old wise race, and they would not do anything without weighing
every option. They had a natural arrogance too. They were used to commanding
and being obeyed. She tried to put the moment off.
'Would you care to wash, or rest, while I prepare food for you?' she said.
Hallal flicked her fingers, meaning 'No!' 'To be here is rest enough. Sit
down. We will prepare dinner.'
By this simple reversal Maigraith was stripped of authority.
She sat awkwardly, feeling like a guest in her own camp, while the Faellem
unpacked their goods out of remarkably capacious packs. In a short time she
was eating their delicious food that she had not tasted in many years.
Their cuisine was largely vegetarian. Not that they did not eat meat or fish
or fowl: they relished meats of every kind, but only in tiny portions, as
flavourings. Normally they ate the freshest of vegetables, beautifully
presented and subtly flavoured, but more often than not raw or only seared on
the outside. On the road, however, they had to eat preserved food, unlike
their usual fare.
Their cookery was flavoured with any of hundreds, if not thousands, of herbs,
spices and essences, most unknown to any other people. They spiced their
dishes with a hundred kinds of wood, as splinters thrust into a vegetable or
shavings tossed into a braise, as wood dust sprinkled on the plate before
serving or raspings steeped in vinegar or oil. The flavours were