The Heart of the Mirage (40 page)

I nodded.

‘Why is that?’

‘If you sought to return to the coast that way, you would all fall to sorcery, without exception. There is no other way back to Tyrans for you but this one.’ I nodded to the mountains.

‘By your silence you ensure that we have no choice. Yet it is not the task of the Brotherhood to make decisions on behalf of legionnaires. You exceed your authority. Do you persist in withholding the information?’

‘I do.’

He sat there looking at me in silence for a long minute. From his emotions, I had a fair idea of what he was thinking. He wondered if he could force me at sword point to tell him what he wanted to know.

I stared back. ‘I’m a Compeer of the Brotherhood, Legate. You know my reputation.’

He nodded, resigned. A compeer would die rather than talk under torture. Or they’d give the wrong information. And then he’d have to face the wrath of the Magister Officii. He said, ‘I shall be making a complaint to the Brotherhood about your lack of cooperation.’

‘That is your privilege.’

He nodded curtly and rode on.

I said quietly to Brand, ‘Rathrox will make animal mash out of him if he starts talking about what the Brotherhood should and should not do.’

Favonius was one of the last to ride by and he, too, halted his mount in front of me. His face twisted unpleasantly. ‘I told no one here of what you are, but I will make you a promise, Ligea. The Brotherhood will
be told all I know when I return to Tyr. If you dare to show your face again within any civilised portion of the Exaltarchy, you will have to deal with them. And if I ever hear of your return, I shall ride after you personally. You may be clever with that gem in your hand, but I doubt even you are immune to an arrow in the back.’

I was overwhelmed by a need to explain, to try to eradicate that expression of vicious hate on his face. ‘Favonius—’ I began, not knowing what I was going to say, but he didn’t let me finish anyway.

‘There is nothing—nothing!—that you could say to excuse what you have done.’ He waved savagely at the line of men now fording the shallowest reach of the river. ‘How many of them do you think will be alive when we reach Tyrans? Without shelter, food supplies, weapons?’

‘A great many more than would have ultimately survived an incursion into the Mirage.’ I didn’t know whether that was true or not, but I wanted him to believe it.

‘But at least they would have died in a fight, with swords in their hands! They would have fallen with honour, not perished slowly of cold and hunger and fatigue.’

‘With
honour
? Is there honour in killing children, Favo? Anyway, what does honour matter to the dead? Some of you will survive this way.’

‘Goddess, you understand nothing. Nothing! We are the
Stalwarts
—’ He choked on the words, his anger silencing him. He jerked the reins brutally to swing his mount away from me, then dug in his heels and plunged the beast down the riverbank.

Brand glanced at me. I stood, shoulders slumped, in a posture of defeat rather than triumph. My face felt pinched; I knew I looked older, and ill.

‘There would have been no honour in what they would have done to the Kardis and the Mirage,’ he said gently.

‘No. None.’

He took hold of me and began to help me back towards the building. I could hardly walk. ‘Will he really go to the Brotherhood, do you think?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes. Pride won’t let him tell his fellow Stalwarts about me, but it won’t stop him telling the Brotherhood. It is necessary for his self-esteem that he does so. He must exact his revenge at being bested by a woman, bested by someone he once trusted. Wouldn’t you do that if you walked his road?’

He laughed. ‘I have my pride, but it doesn’t need to be fed by revenge. And as long as I have done my best within the limits of my knowledge and abilities, my pride remains intact. To be bested under those circumstances is not to be shamed. Just as it is no shame to the slave to be enslaved.’

‘But to stay enslaved?’

He was still smiling. ‘That was my choice. No one would have kept me a slave for very long if it hadn’t been my wish. But I think I begin to understand your lack of interest in me as a man up until recently. It had nothing to do with being a “brother”, did it? It had more to do with being just a shade contemptuous of a man who allowed himself to be a slave.’

I looked away, shamefaced. ‘Perhaps. You are a remarkable man, Brand, and I was both insensitive and blind.’

He nodded in amicable agreement. ‘And I was undoubtedly a little stupid. I should have made things clearer long ago. Instead, I waited, and you fell in love with another man.’

‘That would have happened eventually anyway.’

‘Because you are both Magor? Yes, you are right. Too bad for me. And now let us change the subject—is what Favonius said true?
Are
you vulnerable to an arrow in the back?’

‘Oh yes. Although I should be able to sense the approach of an assassin.’

‘So, are you going to return to Tyrans?’

‘Yes. We must get to Tyr before they do. I have to sell my property and secure my money before Favonius or the Legate talks to the Brotherhood and that bastard Rathrox Ligatan has my assets impounded.’ I smiled without mirth. ‘Otherwise you’ll be claiming what is yours from empty coffers, my friend. You will have nothing to get you back to Altan. And I will have nothing to give my son when he is born.’

He made a gesture of dismissal. ‘Better you forget your money. Stay here, Ligea. Explain to Temellin. Now that you have turned back the Stalwarts, he will know where your loyalty lies.’

I gave a hollow laugh. ‘Ah, I fear I have done my work too well, Brand. Where is the proof the Stalwarts were ever here?’

He turned to point at the remains of the camp, only to have the gesture die half made. Behind us the grass of the plains rippled in the breeze unburnt, unmarked. The discarded weapons and broken gear had vanished. Even the legionnaire graves had been smoothed over, wiped away as if they had never existed.

‘Goddessdamn.’

‘As you say.’

‘So what will we do? We can’t cross the Alps—’

‘No, I know. It would take too long. We will ride south to the edge of the Mirage, cross the Shiver Barrens there, and so on to the coast. To a place called
Ordensa. It’s a fishing village near the border. We’ll ask a fisherman to take us to Tyr.’

‘And he’ll do it, just like that? A Kardi, sailing to Tyrans of his own free will?’

I raised my palm to show him my cabochon. ‘I am still a Magoria. Any Kardi would be glad to serve me.’ We had reached the building, and he opened the door for me. I collapsed gratefully onto my pallet. ‘We’ll stay here a couple of days so I can rest. Then we’ll ride south. Right now, all I want to do is sleep.’

Dusk came early to that part of the plains in the shadow of the mountains, but the twilight was long. Brand and I ate our evening meal sitting on the stoop in the half-light, then—still tired as a result of my use of my cabochon and sword against the Stalwarts four days earlier—I went to my pallet. Brand was pottering around, stoking up the fire, repairing a broken harness, feeding the red-eyed bird. We were intending to make an early start on our ride south to Ordensa the next morning.

I watched him and wondered at the newness of what I felt. A sort of fond affection, something more than what there had been, something less than what I knew was possible. There was no trace of Magorness about him now, and the scar on his stomach was fading. His lovemaking had become a joy to me, smoothing away some of the ache of Temellin’s absence. We both knew it would end sooner or later, but the thought worried neither of us. It was something we had for now, it was precious to both of us, but not so absorbing that we would not be able to walk away from it when the time came.

I watched him, and knew he was trying to find the right words to tell me something. I said, ‘You still think I should go to him, don’t you?’

He looked up, relieved I had been the one to bring up the subject. ‘You belong in Kardiastan, Ligea. Look, if you want, I can go to Tyr, alone. You still have your seal and your papers on you. I can carry your instructions to Tyr, with your seal on them. I can pick up what you owe me, I can arrange to have your money transferred here, anything you like.’

I shook my head. ‘No. As soon as I’m able, we’ll ride for Ordensa—and Tyr.’

‘But what of Temellin? Sooner or later he must find out what you have done to the Stalwarts, surely, and then he’ll want you—and your son—here, if you’ll forgive him for his distrust.’

‘Forgive him? I never did blame him!’ I turned from him so he could not see my face. ‘He will have his son when the time comes.’

‘And do you think he will sit quietly in Kardiastan and let you ride away? He’s not that sort of man, Ligea. He’ll follow you.’

‘He can’t leave Kardiastan. He is their Mirager, Brand. He is needed here. Anyway, they are about to take on Tyrans. They are about to begin the disintegration of the Exaltarchy; he has more to do than worry about me.’ I added for good measure, ‘Just as you will have, when you continue the process in Altan one day. And I, too—when I do my part, in Tyrans.’ Perhaps I’d be able to forget Temellin in the process, and expiate some of the guilt I felt. Guilt at what I had been, guilt at the evil Solad had done to save me. I had perfected the art of persuading others to betrayal, when betrayal had been the basis of my life, had I but known it.

Brand radiated worry. Quite deliberately, of course. ‘In Tyrans, you will be alone. Condemned, if they catch you. Stay here. Here at least you’ll have power, position. In Tyrans you would be forever on the run, always hiding. Rathrox Ligatan will have your head on a stake at Tyr’s main gate if ever he catches up with you.’

I turned back to him, smiling. ‘No power, Brand?’ I raised my hand and showed him my cabochon. It had already regained much of its colour. ‘What of this? What of my Magor sword? I have all the power I need.’

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Finally he said carefully, ‘Er, may I ask just what you are planning?’

‘Well, I’d like to have a hand in seeing Rathrox Ligatan gets what’s due to him. At one time I would have liked to be Magister Officii, but not now. Why should I aim so low? And what better way of ending slavery, of helping Kardiastan—or even your Altan for that matter—than being the rooster at the top of the midden rather than one halfway down?’ It was an idea I had been playing with for some time now, and it had been growing more and more attractive as time went by.

Brand stared, puzzled. Then his jaw dropped. ‘Sweet Goddess!’

I arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Have I finally managed to penetrate that inhuman calm of yours, my Altani friend?’

‘The
Exaltarch
? You want to be the
Exaltarch
?’

‘And why not?’

He continued to stare. Then laughter bubbled up from inside him. He slapped his thigh and roared. I had never heard Brand laugh quite like that before. I waited patiently until the gasping whoops reduced
themselves, via more manageable guffaws, to the occasional chuckle.

‘When you’ve
quite
finished—’ I said.

He gave a final laugh. ‘Ah, Ligea, you are really something. The compeer who was a general’s daughter might be long gone, but for all that, there’s still some of that old Ligea—indomitable, irrepressible Ligea—in this new one. And she’s much more likeable.’

‘You think I’m being ridiculous.’

He thought about that and then shook his head. ‘No. No, I don’t. If you say you’re going to be Exaltarch, then that’s just what you will be. If you say you’re going to break the Empire into a thousand pieces, then I’ll believe that too. I just wish I could be there to see Ligatan’s face when you wave that sword of yours under his skinny nose.’

We both smiled at the thought.

It was Brand who splintered the moment. ‘I must go and start the packing while there’s still a bit of light in the sky,’ he said. He picked up the saddlebags and strolled out.

I lay back on the pallet, planning. There should be a way to preserve the best of the Exaltarchy while doing away with this whole idea of enslaved or tributary states. A loose trade federation, perhaps, with some kind of voluntary tax to maintain peacekeeping forces and tradeways. Yes, that might be possible. The hard thing would be to change an economy and a culture dependent on slave labour…

I drowsed while I waited for him, enjoying my laziness. And was jerked back to alertness by a sound. A rumbling, a deep-throated thundering, a growl, as if the ground itself were venting its rage. My head jerked up in shock, just in time to feel the pallet beneath me take on a life of its own. First it twisted, then it slewed
sideways, humping up at the same time so that I had to grab hold of it to avoid being tumbled onto the floor. I was more puzzled than frightened; I thought it was another trick of the Mirage Makers—until something black flapped by my head, giving out frantic kitten-mews of terror. The red-eyed bird the Mirage Makers had supplied with the house. It wouldn’t have been frightened of a change wrought by its makers.

I leapt to my feet, sword already in my hand and flaming into light—and gagged on my horror. A foul stench soured the air around me.

The Ravage.

The floor of the room between me and the door dissolved into writhing blackish slime. The far wall was already crumbling into the foulness, sliding stone by stone under the surface scum. The flagstones beneath the pallet heaved and cracked. The pinions of the black bird scraped my face as it swooped towards the broken wall on its way out; I envied it its wings. I knew I had only moments before the floor disintegrated and plunged me into the corruption of the Ravage.

I whirled, pointing my weapon at the wall closest to me. I sent the power forth to smash against the stones, praying they would give before the onslaught and provide a way to escape. The Mirage was on my side: a hole appeared that was more like a window and far too symmetrical to be wholly the result of my sword-bolt. Even as the floor disappeared from beneath my feet, I pulled myself up into the gap. The wall was thick and there was plenty of room to sit comfortably. I had no intention of lingering, however, and went to jump down on the other side.

And stopped myself just in time.

There was no ground there. Even in the neardarkness I could see that for twenty paces on the other side of the wall there was only the heaving surface of the Ravage. Shock blanched me.

I looked down. By the light of my sword I could see the monsters thrashing in the depths, swelling with obscene triumph as they tried to reach me with their slavering muzzles. I screamed then: Brand’s name.

His voice came back to me out of the darkness, surprisingly calm. ‘I’m here. I see you. I’m getting a rope.’

I directed a beam of light his way and found him kneeling at the edge of the Ravage, rummaging through a saddlebag with desperate haste. Behind me the roof of the building toppled, dragging much of the wall I was crouched on with it. Somewhere inside my head I heard a scream of pain that was not mine. The stones I knelt on shifted slightly; narrow cracks opened up under me. A battle, the like of which I could only guess at, raged beneath the wall. And the Mirage Makers were losing.

‘Hurry!’ I cried, unable to keep the panic out of my voice. This was one time when there was no pleasure in the excitement. A stone tumbled, and I heard the glugging plop it made as it hit the surface of the Ravage and was sucked under.

‘I have it,’ Brand said. ‘Listen, Ligea. I’m saddling up a shleth and attaching one end of the rope to the saddle horn. I’ll throw the other end to you. Tie it to the wall, as high as you can. That should give it some height. Then you’ll have to come across hand over hand as best you can.’

‘Yes.’ The word was a croak, not my voice at all. I reached up with my sword and used its power to punch a hole through the wall above my head. Rock
dust showered me. Somewhere to my right several more stones fell into the Ravage. Behind me the rest of the building had disappeared; my part of the wall was all that remained. I began to shake.

My brief hope that the Mirage Makers would help—build a bridge for me perhaps—had long since died. They were already doing all they could just to maintain this section of the wall so I might live a little longer. I felt their agony and thought of Pinar’s son.

Inside my womb my own baby stirred, making itself felt for the first time. My concern for him was real and compelling—and a revelation. Perhaps there was something of the mother in me after all, but I had no time to think about it.

‘Are you ready?’ Brand asked.

‘Ready.’

The rope sailed across the blackness and I caught it easily. Goddess be thanked for Brand. I threaded the rope through the hole and tied it fast.

‘When you’re ready,’ Brand said.

A portion from the end of the wall tumbled and the rest trembled. I thrust my sword through my belt and seized the rope in both hands. At his end, Brand urged his shleth forward to keep the rope taut, but even so I found my bare toes skimming the surface of the Ravage. I hoisted my feet up and began to swing my way across the horror.

More stones fell, from both ends of the wall this time. The remaining portion was only five or six paces long now. Along the rope I could feel the way the stones shivered.

Something scraped against my leg, drawing blood. I looked down. A green scaled arm, stick-thin and dribbling slime, had reached up to me, raking me with razored claws. It gripped my ankle, digging in
viciously, pulling me down towards an open gape of curved teeth and serrated jaw waiting just below the surface. My forward movement was halted.

I let myself hang by one arm and aimed my cabochon at the creature’s body, bringing the gem to light, then changing light to burning coldfire. The golden stream hit the surface of the Ravage and dissipated in a spatter of molten sparks, none of which seemed to harm the thing holding me. In terror, I kicked at it with my free foot, but my bare toes connected only ineffectually with its snout and I ripped my sole open on its serrations. Moreover, the movement made me bounce, dipping me towards the surface simmering below.

‘
Sod you
,’ I told it and drew my sword. I slashed down, severing the creature’s limb at the wrist. The clawed portion remained fastened to my ankle; the rest of the arm fell away into a roiling whirl of blood and slime.

I gagged, forced myself to return the fouled sword to my belt, then swung my legs up to lock my ankles over the rope.

‘Ligea.’ Brand’s anguish hit me. ‘
The wall
—
!
’

I was already moving, still slung below the rope, but I was only halfway across. At Brand’s warning I looked back. The wall was heaving as the last of its foundations dissolved into the corruption. Cracks ripped through the stonework; blocks toppled.

I felt the triumph of the Ravage. I was not going to make it.

Snarling my frustration, I reached once more for my sword and slashed my connection to the wall.

Brand’s howl of warning echoed in the air as I hit the surface of the Ravage. My actions were instinctive. I twisted the rope slack around my right wrist. My sword was fitted into my left hand, my cabochon in its place…The blade flared into a blaze of gold, bathing me in its
light as I was sucked into the fester. I was still screaming the conjurations of self-warding as I was dragged under.

And even while I cried out the words, I knew the limitations of their value. Any movement of mine would negate such warding: the wards might still stand, but I wouldn’t be inside them…

And so it was. First there was shock: the disbelief of a body struck by more agony than it was possible for a human being to bear. I was on fire. My skin screamed out its pain; my inner organs shrivelled with their burning; anguish tore my mind, shattering my knowledge of myself. My hands spasmed, tightening my hold on both sword and rope. My body convulsed, twisting me into a foetal travesty. I felt the core of my being, my soul, was touched by the Vortex of the Dead. I diverted as much power as I could to keep the pain at bay.

I slowed my heartbeat, slowed my breathing. I had to use power to push fluid away from my face in order to breathe at all. My sword still flamed to stave off the creatures homing in on me. Through blurred, uncomprehending eyes I saw them: twisted bodies of organic dross, twisted intelligences thriving on my suffering, watchful eyes shining with carnal glee. The beam of power from my blade sputtered ineffectually. Still, they were wary of it. Or perhaps it was the wards that held them off.

I looked upwards. As a fish might see a fisherman on the edge of a lake, I saw Brand: a dark, distorted figure, looking down. The light of my sword glowed beneath the surface, illuminating my agony for him. He was shouting to me, but the words were lost and I didn’t have the strength left to enhance my hearing.