Glenda Larke: The Heart of the mirage

When I thought about Favonius, my emotions were darker. He'd tainted something inside me that had once been good. He'd turned a pleasant past into a bitter memory, and the sadness clung in my thoughts like rot. And he'd severed more than he'd known. He'd cut the last strand of my ties to the belief that I was truly a citizen of Tyrans. Oh, I still had the paper somewhere, but if someone like Favonius could call me a shit-skinned barbarian and mean it, then what was such citizenship worth?, I wasn't a Tyranian about to go home. I was a Kardi going to a foreign land with murder in my heart.

Brand finished his investigation of the table with a sigh. 'Pickled fish,' he said, 'stale bread and some kind of sour – very sour – fruit. I was hoping for something of a similar standard to the wine.' He held out what looked to be an orange plum to the bird. Without getting up, the bird took it in one foot and proceeded to shred it and swallow the pieces, sour or not, with evident enjoyment.

'The Mirage Makers getting it wrong again,' I said with a shrug of incomprehension. T ate our own food.' I looked back over my shoulder, out of the open door to where the legionnaires struggled to repair the camp. 'They won't leave Kardiastan. I'll have to offer some more inducements, I'm afraid.' ^

Brand looked up quickly. 'What are you planning this time?' His ambivalent tone was enough to tell me he found any talk of my power both fascinating and repellent. It interested him, but he did not like it. 'You're still drained. You'll exhaust yourself.'

I shrugged. 'Can't be helped. I won't let them ride on into the Mirage, Brand. I can't. Only the Magoroth have the kind of power that could take on the Stalwarts, and the only Magoroth left in the Maze is Gretha, and she must be within a baby's kick of birthing her eleventh child. But it's more than that, too; if the legionnaires ride on into the Mirage, in the end they will have to face Temellin and the Magor somewhere. And the Magor would defeat them. Only by sending the Stalwarts back across the Alps can I save them.' I gave a half-laugh. 'Sometimes I don't know what I want, Brand. With one hand I would tumble the Exaltarchy if I could, even while I stretch out the other hand to help the Exaltarch's finest legionnaires.'

'I'm worried about you; you are still so weak.'

'I'll wait until tonight. I might feel stronger by then. I thought of trying to destroy as many of their weapons as I can. After all, what damage can an army do if it has nothing to fight with?' I gave him a wan, joyless smile and went to lie down. At least, I thought, it was days since we'd seen any sign of the Ravage. One less thing to worry about. Or was it? Perhaps it was watching, biding its time. Mostly, though, I was just too tired to spare it a thought.

The legionnaires spent their time mending tents and replenishing supplies. The purple ducks found their way into cooking pots, minus decorative ribbons, and so did a great many rabbit-like creatures scuttling around in the grass. Only when the camp had settled

into sleep that night did I turn once more to my cabochon.

Once again I moved the air, this time creating eddies to sweep the ground, catching up dust and grit. I moved this warmer air from the plains down to the riverside, cooling it along the ice-cold waters of the river, where the moisture in it became mist, then fog; a thick suffocating blanket of moisture and dust. I rolled it across what was left of the camp – there were fewer tents now – and setded it there.

'Time to go,' I said softly to Brand. 'Let's get this over and done with.'

He squinted into the fog. 'How? I can't see a thing.'

'I can sense where people are, and who they are,' I reminded him. 'And I can enhance my hearing too, if necessary. Come.' I led him past the fog-clad sentries, unseen and undetected, into the heart of the camp.

I ignored the tents and aimed for those legionnaires lying on the ground, wrapped tight in whatever blankets or pelts they had, their heads covered to escape the damp. I moved from one sleeping bundle to the next, seeking out the weaponry that lay close at hand to each legionnaire: swords, lances, spears, arrows. A short burst of cold light from my cabochon and the metals melted, rendering the weapons useless. Whenever I sensed someone was awake I avoided them. It hardly mattered; I didn't have the power to destroy every weapon they had. My aim was not to leave them entirely defenceless, but to reduce their fighting potential to a degree sufficient to force them to turn back.

By the time we had circled through most of the sleeping men, I was leaning against Brand and staggering. The flash from my palm had become a

mere gleam, the results less spectacular. 'It's time to go,' Brand whispered.

I could have used the power in my sword to continue, but it was less subtle and already people were awakening. We could hear agitated cries from the other side of the camp. I nodded my acquiescence.

'Which way is out?' he asked. The fog was as thick as ever and he had no idea where we were.

I pointed in the correct direction. 'Goddess, Brand, I am so tired…' I drooped against him, and in my fatigue, my powers failed me. I was not aware of Favonius's approach until he had actually loomed up out of the fog, close enough to touch.

His enraged voice lashed at me through my tiredness. 'I knew it! It is you!' He seized my left hand and looked at my palm. The golden glow of the uncovered cabochon was just visible. He flung my arm away in a gesture of distaste. 'I knew it had to be something to do with that lump of yours; it's you who has sorcerous powers! Well, there's no way the Stalwarts will retreat before one person, and a woman at that. Go to the Goddess, Ligea -'

His sword was out and aimed at my throat before I could move. But he had forgotten Brand, forgotten Brand wasn't a slave, forgotten Brand had never had the slave mentality that would have stopped him from ever threatening a legionnaire. He moved just as quickly as Favonius, and the knife he held rested at the Tribune's throat long before Favonius's sword pricked at my neck. I stepped out of reach.

'Lower your weapon very carefully,' Brand said evenly, 'or you die right here and now. And don't doubt it, Favonius.'

It was the insolent use of Favo's given name, an unthinkable liberty for a slave or even a servant, that

convinced the Tribune of Brand's sincerity, more than the threat or his tone. Favonius dropped his sword point and stood still, shocked. 'I'll see you dead for this, thrall,' he said at last, his anger so strong I could taste it in the back of my throat.

'But not now, I think,' Brand replied, his voice full of quiet menace. He did not move his knife. 'What shall I do with him, Ligea?'

I straightened, almost too tired to care what he did. 'Let him go. I shall deal with him.' This time I used my sword.

Brand stepped back. Instantly, Favonius raised his sword, only to find the blade of it was no longer useable. It was a travesty of a weapon, a tangle of knobbed metal. His jaw sagged.

He took a deep breath and regained his equilibrium with a supreme effort of will. 'You can't think we will retreat before any barbarian scum, let alone one of their bitches.'

"Why not? Think of it this way, Favo: if you are right, then they sent only one, their newest, most inexperienced recruit, to stop the Stalwarts. Go on, and you'll face the whole population of the Mirage. They will turn you all to dust.'

'How do we know others even exist?'

'You've heard enough tales to know they do. Think back, Favo. I'm sure you've heard stories about the early conquest of Kardiastan. I'm equally certain you've heard more recent stories from your fellow officers about what happens in this land.'

He paled at that and strove to understand. 'I don't know you any more. And I don't understand, Ligea. Why? Was it all a sham, right from the beginning? Were you always a Kardi^barbarian at heart, bent on,