The Heart of the Mirage (15 page)

He waylaid me before I reached the well, grinning. He took the ewer from me, as well as the small bag of clothing I had brought along—but he was looking at the other item I carried. The sword, well wrapped to disguise its shape, was tucked under my arm. He touched it reverently, and the smile he gave was as joyful as a child’s laughter. ‘That’s it!’ he said, almost as if he were afraid to believe it. And then, awed, ‘You just walked out of the Governor’s residence with it under your arm?’

I nodded. ‘Who was there to question me? The Legata went out herself this morning. Anyone else seeing me leave the villa would have assumed I was on her business. And believe me, no one would question her orders.’ The evasions slipped off my tongue as easily as water rolls from a gorclak’s hide. I had to be careful with my wording; this man had a lump on his palm. What if he could read lies the way I could? Temellin would know I hid my emotions from him, of course, but then he did that to me too. I had to assume that was normal behaviour for one of the Magor. For one of us. Goddess but that
expression stuck in my craw, as unwelcome as a fishbone.

‘You didn’t have any problems getting it?’

‘None. She didn’t think any of the slaves could lift it, let alone steal it!’

He gave back the ewer and took the sword from me instead, his hands caressing the hide covering, but he didn’t unwrap it. Tears glistened and his fingers shook.

Tears?
What in all of hellish Acheron was it about this sword that was so damned special?

‘I was worried about you,’ he said. He was trying to change the subject, to give himself time to regain control of himself. I thought he was acting more as if he’d just had a reprieve from death, than a man who had just retrieved a weapon for his ruler; I could sense relief so deep, nothing less seemed to make sense. Maybe that’s it, I thought. Maybe this Mirager was going to kill him if he didn’t find it. Maybe it was Temellin’s fault it was lost in the first place. He’d told me the day before that I’d saved his life, but I hadn’t taken him seriously. Now, I wondered.

I said, ‘I’ve looked after myself for quite a while.’ I had to curb the desire to reach out and touch him, I had to hide the way I was ridiculously stirred by his smile, by his hair curling this way and that over his ears…

‘So I noticed. You did kill that man yesterday, you know.’

‘Did I? Are you sure? I mean—I guess I hit him really hard, then.’ My eyes widened and I gave a slight shiver. It was meant for Temellin’s benefit, but suddenly it seemed genuine; I had gone straight from a killing to this man’s pallet.

‘Don’t think about it. Here, let’s be on our way.’ He took my arm and guided me down a narrow laneway I hadn’t used before.

‘Temel, I’m scared. I know so little about you, or about what I am—’ My voice wavered. I could be quite a good actress when I put my mind to it. It was all true anyway; I
was
scared, but I was also exhilarated. I was a compeer on the hunt…

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me about the Mirager. And about me—us. What are we?’

‘We are Magor. And the Mirager is the, well, monarch, for want of a better word. The ruler of Kardiastan by right of his bloodline and his Magor rank. There is no need to fear
him;
he’s very happy with you.’

‘How can that be? Temel, I am from Tyrans. I don’t remember any other kind of life. I am so—so
ignorant
.’ And that was true too. Rathrox had not mentioned the word Magor to me. No one had, until Aemid used the term on the ship.

‘Turn right here; down the steps.’ There were two legionnaires coming up towards us, and he was silent until we had passed them. Then he said, ‘Someone taught you the Kardi tongue.’

‘A fellow slave. But she said nothing of what I am. She was afraid General Gayed would find out, I suppose.’

‘You are returning the Mirager’s sword; believe me, he is delighted with you.’ He was laughing at me, and I laughed with him and slipped my hand into his. Acting…or was I? In truth, I felt as though I was fifteen again and all those years of being a Compeer Brother had never been. The woman who had killed and maimed and plotted and connived on her way to the top? She didn’t exist, not then. That woman would never have felt this way, so swayed by desire, by a sense of light-hearted self-discovery. I strove to remember what I was supposed to be doing.

An occasional backward mental glance told me Brand still followed; I hoped he had a better idea of where we were than I did. The lanes we followed twisted and turned and divided confusingly.

The house we finally entered was a simple adobe place of two storeys with a number of small rooms. ‘This is one of our safe houses,’ he said, ‘and it has access to the escapeway, the route for freed slaves. Here you will meet some of the other Magor.’

I cast around and felt their presence: five people, two women and three men. All their emotions as unreadable as Temellin’s—or my own. ‘One of them is the Mirager?’

‘He is here.’

‘Temel, how many Magor are there?’

He knew I wasn’t asking about the group in the room at the top of the stairs, and his face darkened subtly. ‘Adults of all ranks? Not even five hundred.’

The question had upset him, but I had no way of guessing why. I had no time to think about it, either; he was already ushering me up the steps. I was still wearing my sandals and not only had no one come forward to wash our feet, but there hadn’t been any water or bowls in the entrance hall so we could do it ourselves. My feet felt dirty and the unfamiliarity of wearing shoes indoors grated on me. Did these Kardis have no sense of even the most elementary hygiene? I couldn’t understand why something as basic as welcoming ablutions and going barefoot inside the house had not become part of daily life under our rule. I had to hide a shudder of disgust and yet was glad of it. It enabled me to remember I was Tyranian, serving my Exaltarch and on a mission to cut into the heart of Kardi resistance.

A moment later, we joined the others. I knew without looking that they all had swellings on their palms; I could sense that kinship to me. In appearance
there was a sameness about them: they were all under middle years—tall, brown-skinned, brown-eyed, brown-haired, handsome people with strength and health in their bodies. But their likenesses went deeper than that. Their facial structure, the tilt of their eyes—Temellin included, they could have been siblings. With shock, I was aware of my own physical similarity to all of them.

‘Here she is,’ Temellin said. ‘Derya.’ I set the ewer on the table and he laid the weapon, still in its covering, beside it. ‘And here’s the sword back safe and sound.’

The oldest of them, a tall, lean man with premature slashes of silver-grey through his hair, stared at it and whispered, ‘Just like that? I can’t believe it!’ He touched the cover, biting his lip. ‘I suppose they must have hidden it underground,’ he added finally, ‘which is why we could never trace it when we tried back in Sandmurram.’ He carefully unrolled the hide. They all crowded around to look, expressions rapt, some of them even reaching out to touch the blade as though they could not accept it was real. If ever I had needed confirmation the sword was important to them, I had it then.

The older man appeared to be the most moved. He, too, had tears in his eyes as he touched the blade with his long fingers, the emotion oddly at divergence with the hard, aristocratic lines of his face. ‘You always did say you had a feeling they hadn’t thrown it into the sea,’ he said to Temellin, his voice unsteady. ‘You will never know how glad I am to see this. It would have been an ill day for me if my hand had ever had to close around the hilt of a new sword.’ There was relief in his voice, but I thought I caught an odd furtiveness of guilt as well. There was something faintly skewed about him, as if two warring parts within never quite meshed into the perfect whole he wanted himself to be.

Temellin gave a gentle smile. ‘At least you can stop worrying about that baby of yours,’ he said cryptically, ‘and Gretha can rest easy.’

The older man turned to me. ‘We are indeed grateful to you. My name is Korden. You are welcome, for all that you were raised in Tyrans and know nothing of what it is to be Magor.’

‘Well met,’ I murmured, aware his verbal welcome wasn’t quite reflected in his eyes.

‘And this is Pinar,’ Temellin said. He indicated the person standing next to Korden: a full-bodied woman of about thirty-five, wide in the shoulders and hips, with generous breasts and long lithe legs. Her face would have been beautiful had she been able to keep it serene; as it was, lines of discontent had tugged at the corners of her mouth and eyes so often they threatened to become permanent. She inclined her head to me, but didn’t smile.

The next man—hardly more than a youth—was a fascinating mixture of adult muscle, boyish enthusiasm and virile charm. He did not wait for an introduction, but gave a broad smile and said, ‘Well met indeed, Derya. I’m Garis.’ He was startlingly handsome, with tawny-brown eyes of a lighter shade than most Kardis, and long curling eyelashes any woman would have coveted. He took my left hand in his and touched palms. A warm wash of welcome ebbed through me with the touch. I was moved, then suspicious. A trick, I thought. It could all be fakery. These people have powers you know nothing about…

The remaining couple were introduced as husband and wife: Jahan and Jessah. They, too, touched hands with me, and their welcome seemed genuine, if a little more restrained than Garis’s. Jahan seemed familiar to me, but then, he looked a lot like
Temellin. I certainly couldn’t remember ever having seen him before.

I wanted to ask Temellin,
And which one is the Mirager?
but was reluctant to have my fears confirmed. From what had been said, it must be the serious-faced Korden, already turning his attention away from me and back to the sword. He picked it up by the base of the blade and handed it, hilt first, to Temellin. ‘Let’s see if it has been damaged,’ he said.

Temellin fitted the hilt into his left hand. For a moment it stayed as it was, then the blade was filled with glowing gold light and was translucent no longer. A golden glow played along his skin, and memory awoke in me. That golden woman, my real mother…I tried to focus on that haunting recollection, but details remained elusive.

‘Are you particularly attached to your ewer, Derya?’ Temellin asked.

Blinking in surprise at the question, I shook my head.

He pointed the sword at the jug and a beam of yellow light shot across the room to burn a hole the size of a child’s fist in its side. ‘It works,’ he said laconically. Then, before I could move, he touched the sword point to my slave collar. ‘Let’s get rid of this, shall we?’ There was a flash of cold light and the collar fell away into pieces on the floor.

‘Sweet Melete,’ I blurted, and sat down abruptly on the only available stool. I raised my hands to my neck in unfeigned wonder.

‘What rank are you, Derya?’ Korden asked.

Shock froze my heart.
Surely they couldn’t know!
I licked dry lips. ‘Rank? In—in what?’

‘What colour is your cabochon?’

I looked at him doubtfully and began to breathe again. ‘I don’t know what you mean. What’s a cabochon?’ I had come across the word before, but I couldn’t think what it had to do with me. As far as I knew, it was an unfaceted, polished gemstone.

‘The stone in your hand, the gem—what colour is it?’

‘I—
stone
?’

‘You don’t
know
?’

I shook my head and looked down at my hand. ‘There’s a
gemstone
in there?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. It would have been there since just after you were born.’

‘I didn’t know. Or I don’t remember knowing. It was always like this…I think. Or was it?’ I raised my eyes, confused by tendrils of half-memory. ‘There’s very little I remember about the time before I left Kardiastan. I was only three or so when I was taken to Tyrans.’

Pinar interrupted, her voice harsh. ‘That wasn’t what you told the girl Parvana. You only changed your story when you spoke to Temellin. Why?’

I returned her stare, hoping an honest answer would vanquish the obvious doubts she had about me. ‘I was afraid she wouldn’t trust me if I said I had actually been raised in Tyr.’ I looked down at my hand again and touched the lump. ‘Apparently, for the first few months I was in Tyrans I refused to open my hand. I think someone—my mother?—had told me not to show it to anyone. Oh, Goddess, was that because the gemstone was
uncovered
then?’ Memory fluttered once more. ‘Was
that
why I kept my hand covered so long? Until the skin grew over the stone that was there?’

It was Temellin who replied. ‘It could be. Until the invasion, everyone wore their cabochons openly. We
kept the skin pushed back. Now we all keep them skincovered, because we feel the less the Tyranians know about them, the better. It doesn’t make any difference to their efficiency if they’re covered or not. Can’t you remember
anything
about your life here in Kardiastan?’

Efficiency? At what? I shook my head. ‘Not really. There was a woman, some fighting, but it’s all very vague now. What does the colour of the stone—cabochon—mean?’

‘Anyone who has a gem is one of the Magor. But there are three colours. The most common is green. It is not as powerful as the others. Those who wear the green we term the Theuros. If you are a woman and of the Theuros, you are called Theura; a man, Theuri. The next most powerful is red, and that makes you of the Illusos: an Illusa or an Illuser. The highest rank is that of the Magoroth. A Magoroth woman is a Magoria, the man a Magori. Their cabochons are gold. It is the rarest power of all. It is from among the Magoroth that the ruler—whether Mirager or female Miragerin—comes.’ He waved a hand around at the group. ‘We here all have gold cabochons. We are all of the Magoroth.’

I tried to absorb all that at once, but there were too many blanks. Powerful? The gems had some power? Their hereditary ruler could be a
woman
? Acheron’s hells,
what colour was my stone
? I itched to haul out my knife and cut the skin of my palm to take a look. I suppressed the desire. To start with, I didn’t want to reveal I carried a knife, and, anyway, the action might not have been in keeping with the character of Derya. I preferred them to think of her as meek, not aggressive.