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. lahan 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 – stoneV
'You don't knowY
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 skin-covered, 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.'