Glenda Larke - The Heart of the mirage

mat somewnere out mere was me Kavage, wnicn apparently loathed us all; that right here within the Maze, the man I loved was about to marry a woman who had tried to kill me.

And so I was grateful for those nights when I was so tired I would collapse onto my pallet and drop into an exhausted sleep that kept me insensible till dawn.

Inevitably, when I awoke in the first light of the day, it was to find a new room waiting for me. The Mirage Makers were trying everything in their repertoire – a whole gamut of humorous idiocies – to find something to drive away the hollowness inside me. I knew there was nothing that would help, but they went on trying. Far from making me happy, however, their attention sent shivers of dark fear through me. I remembered walking the Shiver Barrens; I remembered the visions. I touched the place where my child grew, and wondered if the Mirage Makers worked to please me because they wanted him healthy – for them to take. I tried to take comfort from knowing the Convenant forbade them to kill. In my more optimistic moments I thought perhaps they just wanted to show their benevolence so that I would never use my powers against them, never use my Magor sword to spill their lifeblood as one vision had shown.

I remembered it vividly. My hand clasping another that was the representation of the Mirage Makers. Then two images: one where the hands melted into one another in unity, the other where I severed the Mirage Maker's hand in a way that suggested I killed him. Them. Killed them all…

The future wasn't sure. I had a choice. I just had to work out which choice was best for me. For my son. The trouble was, how could I tell?

I saw little of Brand during those days. He had elected to join the troops the Magor were training,

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troops to be used against Tyranian legions. The ordinary Kardis were enthusiastic soldiers, and Brand was an apt pupil even though he was coming to it relatively old. He was soon promoted to officer rank, and was a popular leader, inspiring loyalty in spite of his foreign blood.

He no longer had a problem with the language. Ever since we'd arrived in Kardiastan, he'd been building on what he'd already learned from Aemid and me over the years, improving every day until now he was fluent. He never lost his accent, but as far as I could see, most of the Kardi girls seemed to think that was part of his charm.

I wondered sometimes why he elected to become a soldier. Boredom? Or revenge? Perhaps a little of both. Tyrans had made him a slave, now here was a chance for him to fight the Exaltarchy and help bring about a nation's freedom. I wondered, too, why the Magor trusted him so much. I asked Garis that, and he laughed. 'Brand may be able to hide his feelings from you, Shirin, and sometimes from us too. But he can't hide lies. Temellin believes Brand is an honourable man.'

I watched the troops exercise one morning, and it was a revelation. Just to see his rapport with the men, the clever way he could manipulate the small squad under his command into doing better, and still have them admire him as a man. He wasn't like Temellin – he had none of Temellin's easy camaraderie – but he'd earned their respect and admiration in spite of being an outsider.

Yet as I watched, I felt sick inside. This man had been a slave for most of his life, deemed to be unworthy of my friendship, considered to be the property of others, with no recourse to the very laws

that Tyrans considered its finest achievements. For twenty years he'd had the same rights as an animal: none. I could have had him whipped, or sold, or starved, or killed. I could have given him away to one of my friends to bed.

In Tyr, we referred to our slaves not as men or women, but as 'speaking tools'.

And as I watched Brand, that memory made me sick with shame. Twenty years. What a Vortexdamned waste. And then another thought came, so obvious, yet revelatory nonetheless: how much untapped potential there was in Tyrans's thousands of slaves…

Now, at least, Brand seemed content enough, and had taken up with my maid, Caleh: a vivacious girl with a kind heart. She had been badly abused during her time as a slave and had been man-shy, until Brand helped her, with infinite gentleness and complete lack of his usual cynicism, to forget.

Yet sometimes when he looked at me, even with his emotions shielded, I could tell his desire was as strong as ever.

The day before the scheduled wedding of the Mirager and his cousin, two incidents broke the routine of the previous days for me. The first occurred when I was alone in the training hall after Garis and I had been practising some swordplay. I put my weapon down on a bench and wiped my sweaty face and neck with a towel, thinking of a hot bath and a rest, trying not to think of the ceremony planned for the next day.

When I heard the sound of the door opening behind me I did not bother to turn, or even to reach out with my mind to see who it was – until a sudden pain shot into my hand from my cabochon.

I whirled to find Pinar standing there, smiling, her

left hand fitting tight around the hilt of my sword.

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'First rule of a wise Magor, Shirin. Keep your sword in its sheath at your belt.'

I felt like a lump of mountain ice on sale along Tyr's Marketwalk. She could have killed me, right then, and we both knew it. I said, 'I did not think I needed to do so here.'

'And I never thought I would need to protect myself by fitting my cabochon to another's hilt.'

'You have no need to fear me, Pinar. I would not hurt my brother's wife.' At least, I didn't think I would. Not if she behaved herself…

'You know the significance of what I have just done, I think. Your sword cannot harm me.'

'I am more concerned I cannot build a ward to keep you out,' I said and wrested the weapon from her hand. She didn't resist. I took a deep controlling breath and raised my eyes to her face, expecting to see her aglow with triumph at what she had done, but there was no exultation there. Only a wrenching anxiety.

'I can't make them see what you are -' she whispered. 'You're going to destroy us all, and I can't make them see it.' I think we both heard the unspoken words she could have added: and I can't make him love me. For a moment I was touched by her tragedy. Then she turned on her heel and walked out.

My anger died, but I still loathed the woman.

I made my way out of the practice room just as Selwith and his wife Markess, two of the original Ten, came in. They were followed by their students, an unruly group of Kardi youths about to have instruction in the art of swordplay. I brushed by them rudely, still feeling the warmth Pinar's hand had left on my sword hilt.

The second incident occurred that night, some time after I had fallen asleep. A sound awoke me and I opened my eyes, knowing someone had entered my room. My first thought was of Pinar, but an instant later I knew it was not the Magoria who stood just inside my door, no more than a black outline.

I did not speak and neither of us moved.

'All you have to do is say one word, Shirin,' he said finally. 'Give me hope.'

I wet my lips, but even so, my whisper was scarcely audible above the sound of my breathing. 'I can't!

He left without another word and the door closed silently behind him, yet the action was as final as the last breath of a dying man.

The formal bonding of Mirager-temellin and his cousin Magoria-pinar was not unlike similar Tyranian ceremonies. It was brief, a recital of legal vows rather than emotional pledges. The celebration was more in the feasting that followed; a jubilant night of eating, drinking and entertainment that seemed to be endless. All the Magor were there, and many ordinary Kardis as well, and I – who would have liked to have avoided it altogether – found myself seated next to my brother at the head table, on display with all my pain. Once again I was grateful for my Brotherhood training; I was damned if I would show any of them how much I cared. I listened to the music but never heard it, I watched the dancing but never saw it, I drank steadily, ate little, and was sure I must still be cold sober because the pain grew worse, not better, as the night wore on. My only satisfaction stemmed from the sight of Temellin beside me matching me drink for drink with more obvious results. By the time the wedding couple finally left the hall I doubted if he were in much of a state to serve his bride.