Glenda Larke - The Heart of the mirage

Who had loved me?

Brand? Yes, certainly. The slave boy – from Altan. The eighteen-year-old who had looked up at me in concern from the back of the roan, worried I wouldn't be able to control a half-broken stallion. (He'd been right, too, damn him; the animal had thrown me more than once and I'd been lucky to escape with no more than bruises and a broken collarbone.)

I thought of Rathrox Ligatan, mentor, but never friend.

About him, I'd never had any illusions. He'd used me, again and again, but then, I'd been willing enough to be used. Willing enough to learn from him and in return to use my abilities to bring him the traitors, the criminals and the enemies he sought. Until one day he'd learned to fear me and sent me to the one place where there was no Brotherhood to help me.

To Kardiastan.

To get rid of me? Perhaps. Or perhaps because he wanted me to exact revenge on the people he hated… With the sudden cold of realisation, I knew why I had been remembering that sixteenth anniversary day of mine – because that was the day Rathrox had shown – me his intention. That was the day he'd told me I was nothing to him but the future instrument of his revenge on Kardiastan. Perhaps he hadn't used words to say it, but he'd told me nonetheless. I just hadn't listened.

And Gayed had been there that day. Gayed, General of Tyrans, the only father I could remember.

Perhaps one day you will be of inestimable service to us -

The cold tightened its grip in my chest. Those had been Gayed's words…

But Gayed had taken me into his home, given me his name, made me a citizen of Tyrans, shared his wealth with me. He had raised me, educated me, given me everything he would have given a true daughter.

Would he have given a true daughter to the Brotherhood? An unbidden, unwanted thought, and suddenly it was impossible to think of any child of Gayed and Salacia's becoming a Compeer of the Brotherhood. Gayed would never have allowed such a thing… Would never have even contemplated it.

Had he loved me? That proud man who'd given a sixteen-year-old daughter a horse too tough for her to handle because he'd wanted her challenged? The man who'd urged that same sixteen-year-old into the Brotherhood, into the manipulative hands of Rathrox Ligatan, to be trained and hardened and taught how to kill? A proud man who had once been part of a defeated army, an army humiliated by Kardiastan. The only time he'd been on the losing side. The only time treachery rather than military might had provided the ultimate victory.

Would such a man have taken a three-year-old enemy child into his family for reasons of love or compassion?

Of course not. Delusion.

Then what was the truth?

A far-sighted man, he'd taken a child of Kardiastan and made her a woman of Tyrans. A man of vision, he'd taken one of the Magor and made her a

Brotherhood Compeer. A man of foresight and planning, he had moulded me, the malleable, eager child; wrought me into his instrument of revenge. One day you'll be of service to us…

I'd mourned him when he died. I'd wept at his burial griefs.

I lay there, and my blood froze witii the betrayal of memory.. ' ' A r‹

I had been betrayed by a man I'd loved as my father. By the man who had been my father. Whom I had loved. Who had used me. Who had doubtless despised all I was…

Tears trickled unbidden down my cheeks. Tears from Ligea Gayed? She never cried. But I'd never been so utterly bereft before. I'd never felt that choking in my throat, that crushing sense of betrayal turning my whole life into a lie.

Yet they'd forged their weapon well, those two brutal men of Tyr. I was still a woman of Tyrans… wasn't I?

My clothes weren't made for those nights. The still air was cold and the bitterness of it seeped into my bones. Under the feet of the shleths, the sands were hard with ice; ahead the last of the Rakes clawed at a purple sky pricked through with stars, stars as bright as sparkles of sunlight on the sea. The Shiver Barrens: a land that burned with vicious heat by day, and stole the warmth from our bodies by night, a land that killed so easily, yet possessed a beguiling beauty destined to linger on in memory.

A land frightening in its mysteries.

My head pounded. Yesterday's strangeness had been real; I had the sword to prove it. And those visions, they must have been real too. I had walked under these killer sands, and lived. Something non-human had spoken to me. Something had shown me a vision of unspeakable brutality. And something had told me that thing I didn't want to think about.

I felt sick. Confused. Afraid.

And then those memories Brand had coaxed out of me with his taunting words… Had he any idea of what he had done to me? He had scoured my life of its

illusions. What did I have now to replace the mockery of destroyed childhood dreams? The love of a slave, perhaps? I thought not. Or the love of an enemy, a man destined to marry another? Hardly that either. No, all I had in that empty space was the blight left behind by the deepest of betrayals.

I shivered.

'Are you cold?' Temellin asked.

We were walking our mounts, because apparently this last band of the sands was narrow, and there was no need to hurry. Garis and Brand were ahead of us, leading the pack shleth, and having their own conversation. By the sound of it, Garis was being amusing.

'Cold? Yes, a little.' In the vast emptiness of that landscape, my voice seemed frail, the whimper of a worm before the might of a god.

He fumbled in one of his saddlebags, and tossed me a blanket woven of shleth wool. 'Put this around you.'

I smiled my thanks, draped it over my shoulders and asked the first thing that popped into my head. Anything to stop thinking about what had happened the day before. Anything to be Ligea Gayed again.

'Is slavery the only reason you fight Tyr?' I asked.

I had previously avoided talking about Kardi politics. I had been wary of doing anything out of keeping with the personality of a woman brought up as a slave, but the time for that kind of caution was over. I hoped that by now Temellin trusted me, and I needed to know a lot more than I did. A lot more than what I could find out from observation and judicious eavesdropping.

'Why do you ask?' Temellin countered.

'You risk so much,' I said, choosing my words with care. 'All of you. Have you any idea what can happen to you?'

He shrugged, apparently indifferent.

'I don't think you really understand,' I told him, and the urgency I felt was genuine. 'Listen, let me tell you about a place called Crestos. General Gayed's brother was the Governor there for some years, and the Gayed family used to holiday there. It's a large island in the Sea of Iss. The Crestians rebelled against Tyranian rule, oh, about ten years ago. They drove the legions out, slaughtered every Tyranian they could find on the island. They were left alone for a year or two, but the Exaltarch was just planning his revenge. He built a new fleet, landed legionnaires on every beach of Crestos, and killed every man between the ages of twelve and sixty. Then he repopulated the place with Tyranian soldiers who were retiring from military life. They were granted land or town properties. The only catch was that they weren't allowed to take any women with them. So you can imagine what happened. Every child born on Crestos thereafter was half-Tyranian.'

He nodded, his emotions sober. 'I've heard the story.'

T was on Crestos once, with the Gayed family, when I was about thirteen, before all this happened. I remember a peaceful, prosperous nation with a thriving commercial centre and port, a fine theatre and some of the best sculptors in the Exaltarchy. They had a good life then. They ended up with nothing. Not even their bloodlines. Was it worth it, Tern? Is what you do here worth the risk?' To add a little verisimilitude to my anxiety, I added, T don't want to see you dead.'