Mistress of the Empire (57 page)

‘So these lofty aims are really simply the needs of survival?’

Mara looked hard at the old woman, realising that here was as sharp a mind as Lady Isashani’s. ‘Perhaps. I like to think that I would have pursued the proper course for my people’s best interests even if my own house and loved ones were not at risk –’

‘You turned outside your lands to Thuril,’ Mirana broke in. ‘Why?’

Mara turned the near-empty mug between nervous fingers. ‘The cho-ja gave me riddles that pointed to the East. A lesser-path magician who had a bitter heart toward the Assembly pleaded that I search here for answers. I came to Thuril because my line will die if I do not find answers, and because I have seen too much misery in the name of politics and the Game of the Council – many I have loved are in the Red God’s halls because of our lust for power.
Injustice and murder in the name of honor will not cease if the Assembly is allowed to overrule the Emperor and reinstate the Warlord’s office.’

Mirana seemed to ponder this, her eyes on the crumb-littered table and her hands quietly folded. At length she reached some inner decision. ‘You shall be heard.’

Mara was given no time to puzzle over how Mirana might influence the men’s council. Neither did she see any sign exchanged, or sent, but the next minute the flap door to the bread shop swept open, admitting a gust of icy air. Three of the oil lamps that lit the empty bread shop extinguished in the blast.

An ancient highlander in a heavy cloak entered. Backlit by the remaining lamp, the newcomer’s features were only faintly discernible by the rose glow of the oven’s dying embers. Multiple layers of woollen robes smelled of querdidra, and the ears just visible beneath the hood were hung with disks of corcara shell that twisted and flashed at each step. Of the face, Mara could see little but wizened skin under the hood’s enveloping shadow.

‘Stand,’ Mirana whispered urgently. ‘Show respect, for come to hear you is the Kaliane.’

Mara raised eyebrows at the unknown foreign word.

‘Kaliane is the traditional name for the strongest among those versed in the mysteries,’ Mirana explained to ease her confusion.

The cloaked figure stepped closer, and a sparkle and flash showed the mage’s mantle to be bordered in costly, rare sequins of silver. The patterns seemed to form runes, or maybe totems of a more complex sort than adorned the doorposts of the houses. Mara bowed with the same respect she might show to a Great One come to visit her estate.

The Thuril magician did not acknowledge with any gesture beyond raising one withered hand to claw back the voluminous hood. Mara saw revealed a shock of silver
hair, looped into braids like Mirana’s, but knotted in ritual bindings. Beneath this crownlike arrangement was the aged face of a crone.

A woman! Forgetting manners, the Lady of the Acoma gasped. ‘Your assembly of magicians allows females?’

The ancient woman tossed her head with a click of her heavy earrings, her manner dangerously vexed. ‘We have nothing like your Assembly in this land, thank the gods, Mara of the Acoma.’

Two townswomen appeared at the bread-shop door, to complete a late errand. On the point of entering, they spied the cloaked enchantress, bobbed a hasty obeisance, and backed out into the street in silence. A young man on their heels also turned and hurried away. The hide flap slapped shut, but the room felt drained of warmth.

‘Forgive me,’ Mara murmured, almost stammering. ‘Lady Kaliane, I am sorry, but I never guessed –’

‘I have no title. You may address me as the Kaliane,’ the crone snapped back, seating herself with a swish of robes. She arranged her long sleeves, folded tiny hands, and suddenly looked very human and sad. ‘I know that your Empire’s Assembly’ – she all but spit the word – ‘kills all girls who are discovered to have the talent. My predecessor in this office was a refugee from Lash Province who barely escaped with her life. Her three sisters were not so fortunate.’

Faintly ill from nerves and wine that did not sit well with worry, Mara bit her lip. ‘I was told such by a magician of the lesser path who hated the Assembly. But in my heart I could not force myself to believe it.’

The Kaliane’s pale eyes were deep as she locked her gaze with Mara’s. ‘Believe it, for it is true.’

Shaken, and infused with fresh fear for the loved ones left behind, Mara locked her teeth to keep from shaking. Though the Kaliane was slight, and bundled up like an
aged grandmother in layers against the draft, her presence radiated a power sharper than the bite of any mountain frost. Aware that her every word would be weighed in judgment, Mara spoke before the last of her courage ebbed away. ‘I was told the Assembly fears you. Why?’

‘Truth,’ the Kaliane rapped back. She loosed a cracked cackle that inspired chills. ‘In your Empire, slaves are mistreated, and told it is the will of your gods. Your Lords contend and kill for honor, but what do they accomplish? Not glory. Not the favor of heaven, no. They lose sons, engage in war, even fall upon their swords, and for nothing, Lady Mara. They have been duped. Their vaunted honor is naught but the shackle that keeps the power of the nations fragmented. While house contends against house in the Game of the Council, the Assembly is left free rein. Its power is vast, but it is not without limit, nor has it always been so strong.’

Touched by hope in the light of such a frank admission, Mara said, ‘Then you might help me?’

At this the Kaliane’s face became a mask of inscrutable wrinkles. ‘Help you? This has yet to be determined. You must accompany me upon a short journey.’

Afraid to leave Lujan, Saric, and, worst of all, Kamlio in the hands of highlander captors without her, Mara knew a stab of dread. ‘Where would we go?’

‘There are things you must see. A council of my peers must hear your reasons and your history, and question you.’ Then, as if sensing the source of Mara’s discomfort directly, the Kaliane softened her unequivocal demand. ‘We shall be gone no longer than the time it takes two women to talk, lest your warriors become fearful for you, and try something stupid in desperation.’

‘I am in your hands, then,’ Mara said, her resolve forced over the indecision in her heart. Tsurani in upbringing, and not yet so immersed in desire for change that she
could discount all the codes of her people’s honor as false, still she could not escape the awareness that she would not be offered another chance. She embraced the Kaliane’s option in desperation, but was unprepared for how swiftly her acquiescence would be followed up. The Thuril crone reached across the narrow table, took Mara’s wrist in dry, sure fingers, and spoke a word.

Mara heard only the first sibilant syllable. A rushing in her ears drowned the rest, fierce as the buffet of a sea gale. The floor dropped away from her feet, as did the chair she perched upon. The shadowy walls of the bread shop also vanished, replaced for an eye’s blink by an expanse of a howling grey void.

Time froze. The air went icy and thin. Mara might have shamed her ancestors and cried out in terror for her life, but the passage through the void ended suddenly, leaving only an impression.

Restored jarringly to firm soil, she found herself standing in a plaza lit by cho-ja globes. Her wrist was still clasped by the Kaliane’s hand, which was steady, whereas her own shook like storm-blown reeds. Where Tsurani cities were built upon level ground, the buildings here had been carved in tiers into the steep granite face of the hills. On the valley floor, the open square that surrounded Mara was circled by terraces, each level fronted by doorways, windows, and shops. Her eyes lifted to follow the lines of columns, buttresses, and arches, arrayed in breathtaking artistry against the backdrop of night. Totems supported galleries with wood and stone railings, some carved into dragons or the great serpents of sea and sky that figured prominently in Thuril myth. Spires and domes speared upward against starry skies, or pierced through lamplit streamers of mist. Mara caught her breath in delight at a beauty her Tsurani-bred mind could not have imagined. Never had she expected such a city in these barren uplands!
The streets were peopled with highlanders in plain kilts and trousers. Most young warriors went bare-chested, despite the evening chill, but a few sported brightly woven shirts. Women wore long skirts and loose-fitting overblouses, the youthful ones offering glimpses of slender arm or rounded bosom to draw admiring glances from passing young men.

‘What is this place?’ Mara murmured, drawing in a deep breath of incense, and staring upon wonders like a farm yokel on her first trip into town.

‘Dorales,’ said the Kaliane. ‘You are the first Tsurani to see this city, perhaps.’ More ominously, she added, ‘You could be the last, as well.’

The enchantress’s quaint phrasing caused Mara a shiver. She felt as if she were dreaming, so alien was this place, and so vast; like a vision too beautiful to be real. The slender spires, the thousands of brightly lit windows and doorways, the leering totems, and the press and jostle of street life – all lent a feeling of precariousness, as if at any moment she might be swept unconsenting into nightmare. Amazement and uneasiness would have held the Lady frozen in place had the Kaliane not tugged her forward with the same brusque impatience a mother might show a reluctant child.

‘Come! The circle of elders expect you, and there is no wisdom gained by making them wait.’

Mara stumbled numbly forward. ‘You say I am expected? How?’

But the Kaliane had little patience for what to her ears were aimless questions. She towed Mara through the crowd, drawing much attention in the process. Bystanders stared and pointed, and not a few spat in contempt. Tsurani pride caused the Lady of the Acoma to ignore such insults as beneath her dignity, but she was left in no doubt that these people considered her an unforgiven
enemy. Dreadful, creeping doubt plagued her, that imperial Lords should in contemptuous ignorance have dared call the Thuril barbarians; this city with its marvels of engineering most emphatically proved otherwise.

Curious even through shame, Mara asked, ‘Why did my people never hear of this place?’

The Kaliane hustled her past a painted wagon pulled by two sour-tempered querdidra, and driven by a wizened man wearing a cloak of patchwork colors. He carried a strange musical instrument, and passersby tossed him coins, or called out cheerful encouragement for him to play. He gave them back colorfully pungent imprecations, his red cheeks dimpled with a smile.

‘Those of your people who would hear of this place your Assembly would kill to keep silent,’ the Kaliane replied tartly. ‘The towers you behold, and all of the carving of the rock, were done by means of magic. Were you to be permitted entry to the City of the Magicians in Tsuranuanni, you might see such wonders. But in your land, the Great Ones keep the marvels their power can create to themselves.’

Mara frowned, silent. She thought of Milamber, and his reluctance to speak of his experience as a member of the Assembly. After witnessing the fearful powers he had unleashed in the Imperial Arena, she was struck by the conclusion that the oaths that bound him to the Assembly must have been fearfully strong, to force one of his stature to keep silence. She knew nothing of the characters of the magicians, but from Hokanu she had come to understand that Fumita was not a greedy man. Powerful, yes, and steeped in mystery, but not one to place selfishness above the common good of the Nations.

As if the Kaliane held uncanny means to read Mara’s thoughts, she shrugged under her heavy cloak. ‘Who knows why the magicians of your land are so secretive? Not all
of them are bad men. Most are simply scholars who wish only to pursue the mysteries of their craft. Perhaps they first formed their brotherhood to ward off some threat, or to suppress the wild, dangerous magic of renegade magicians who refused to be trained to control, or who used their powers for ill. The gods alone might say. But if there were good and cogent reasons for such a course of action in the past, time has seen them corrupted. That thousands of daughters have been murdered to suppress their talents is utterly inexcusable by Thuril law.’

Touched by an unpleasant possibility, Mara asked, ‘Am I being held on trial for the injustices of all Tsuranuanni?’

The Kaliane bobbed her head and fixed her with a glance that itself inspired dread. ‘In part, Lady Mara. If you wish our help against the Assembly, you must convince us. If we act, it will not be for Acoma survival, nor for your personal gain, nor even to make the Empire a fairer nation. For to us the honor of your ancestors, and even the lives of your children, are as meaningless as dust in the wind.’

Mara might have slammed to a stop at once, for what was more innocent than the lives of her baby daughter and her son? But the crone’s grip bound her like fetters and dragged her inexorably toward the looming arch of an imposing, many-tiered building. ‘What does move your people, if not the lives of the young?’ Despite all effort, Mara’s dismay showed through.

The Kaliane’s reply stayed as impersonal as the grind of waves on the beach. ‘If we mourn, it is for the loss of the mages who died with their talents untried. With each one of them, irrevocable knowledge was lost. And if we despair, it is for the cho-ja, masters beyond our finest initiates of mystery, that in your land are disbarred from the magic that is the glory of their race.’

‘The Forbidden!’ Spurred to excitement, Mara forgot for a moment to fear. ‘Was it arcane power that
the cho-ja Queen meant when she spoke of the Forbidden?’

Lost in shadow as she stepped under the massively carved arch, the Kaliane answered obliquely. ‘That, Lady Mara, is the secret you must unlock if you are to survive in your contention against the Great Ones. But first you must convince the Elder Circle of Thuril of your worthiness. We will hear and judge. Choose your words carefully, for once you have seen this place, the perils you face are redoubled.’