I was glad, too – for myself. For now.
We were on the fourth Rake.
I lay awake and watched the patterns of water reflections on the cave roof. A pretty dappling, a moving artwork. Beside me Temellin lay replete with lovemaking, his face young and contented in repose. I resisted the temptation to kiss him, and touched my cabochon to his instead. I felt his dreaming: pleasant dreams of contentment. I wished this journey could go on forever, that I would never have to face the decisions awaiting me on the other side of the Shiver Barrens, that I would never have to make a choice between desire and duty; between a man and an obligation; between Kardiastan and Tyrans, between the land of my birth and the land of my loyalties.
I turned my gaze back to the roof of the cave and tried not to listen to the song of the Barrens.
Something was moving the surface of the water outside to cause that dappling, and yet I'd felt no wind. Puzzled, I rose, dressed and stepped out into the blazing heat of the day. The tiny pool tucked away in among the rocks was as flat as oil in a lamp. I looked back at the cave roof: the dappling had vanished.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
My skin prickled warning.
Come. I heard the voice singing in the dance, the invitation clear and unequivocal. And knew immediately this was not the voice of the Shiver Barrens; this was no melody of movement, beautiful but meaningless; this was something quite different.
It was we who woke you, we who ruffled the water. Come.
Appalled, I asked in a whisper, "Who are you?'
We are the Mirage Makers. Come.
Mirage Makers? What in all Acheron's mists were Mirage Makers? 'Come where?'
Into the dance.
'You would kill me?'
You will not die. Come.
'I dare not.' In fact, I thought I was probably not having this conversation. I was dreaming. Or I had a bad case of sunstroke.
You do not dream. Nor are you ill. You listen to our song. As we listen to yours. Come. It is your time to receive what is yours to own, your time to hear what is yours to know, your time to hear the song of your birthright.
I felt an all-consuming terror and shook my head. I started to back away, thinking to wake Temellin. 'I will not listen.'
Come, you who call yourself Ligea.
The horror I felt then was stultifying. Sweet Melete. It knows who I am! Temellin will kill me. I thought those words in my head, but they answered, those voices, nonetheless.
Of course we know. Are we not the Mirage Makers? And are you not of the Magor?
The sun beat down at me, yet my horror was as cold as frost. I dared not wake Temellin. Instead, I gathered
the tatters of my shredded courage, and walked to the edge of the Shiver Barrens to look into the dance. There were patterns within patterns, and somewhere I / thought I saw shapes – wispy shapes in relief against the patterned background.
'No,' I said. 'You entice me to my death. I will not go.' Yet the fast beating of my heart was not just generated by fear; there was also that wretched love of danger urging me on, telling me: this could be the greatest adventure of your life…
You have a duty. You are the Miragerin.
'Turds. I am not Temellin's consort, nor ever will be.' And with those words came a pang of regret. But I had no time to think about that.
You are the Miragerin. We have no knowledge of what will be, only of what is. What is cannot be denied. Refuse to come to us now and tonight we shall break the frost beneath the feet of your mount and draw you under. Neither way will you come to harm, but this way is better. Come.
I looked back at the cave where Temellin slept, and I was torn.
What must be, must be, the voice said gently. Come. The tone contained no real hint of threat, in spite of the words. There was no menace, nor even seduction. It was more the reasoned tones of a teacher, gently admonishing a reluctant pupil.
And I went. I stepped away from the rock and began to walk into the dance.
I felt nothing. The sand did not batter me; the only thing that touched me was the caress of the song, the Shiver Barrens' song, rippling along my skin and into the weave of my being. The dancing sands rose higher and higher around me as I walked, yet parted before me as I moved. Waist-height, shoulder, chin – I gave
one last look back at the safety of the Rake and was submerged.
The music of the sounds was almost unbearable in its beauty. I heard and saw and felt and smelt it. Purple light bathed me; I was looking through a mist of movement and somewhere beyond I could see the forms that were there, but not quite visible. When I stared at them they slipped away like elusive dreams, always just out of reach, just unknowable.
I did not hear the voice again; yet, surrounded by the music, I heard meaning being woven into the song of the Shiver Barrens, meaning coming from something, or things, that were not the Barrens. There was no need of words. I heard and understood.
When the music twisted I saw a Magor sword suspended before me. The song wove itself from these things calling themselves the Mirage Makers, to the sword, to me, and I knew it was mine; all I had to do was to fit my cabochon into the hollow on its grip and it would belong to me, could never be turned against me. I reached out and closed my left hand around the hilt. It melded to me, throbbing with a desire to be used.
This is your Magor sword. Still the music spoke to me, slotting knowledge wordlessly into my mind. There is a responsibility that comes with this weapon. This is not the sword of Tyrans which drinks blood for the sake of power; it is the sword of the Magor, an instrument of service.
'Service? To whom?' I asked.
To the Magor. To Kardiastan. To those others of this land, the non-Magor. Use it for personal gain, pursue corrupt goals, and you break the Covenant made by your forebears with those they called the Mirage Makers. Are you willing to accept this gift?
My hand tightened on the hilt. It was part of me… I could no more have refused it than I could have denied my hunger for Temellin. Yes, I whispered in my mind. Yes, I accept. The response was emotional, irrational even. It was not possible to serve Tyr and the Brotherhood at the same time as the Magor. Yet I accepted the sword and ignored the contradiction.
Inside my head, I sang my thanks for the gift and knew I was heard. I closed my eyes, strangely lulled, and felt myself drifting, bodiless.
And then came a vision. It was a message woven in music, yet it was not as sounds, but as images, that I knew it.
It was night-time and there was a Mirager. It was not Temellin, or any particular Mirager, but rather the essence of a Mirager, of all ruling Miragers and Miragerins that had ever been or ever would be, male or female. He knelt on a flagstone floor with his head. bowed, and his hands held his Magor sword. I knew he had fasted. I knew he was praying, but not to any deity. He was not praying to anything; rather, he was praying for a newborn child, praying for its wisdom and its service. He was dedicating a baby to the Magor.
He chanted words that themselves had no meaning – and yet which contained a wealth of meaning. Gradually the sword he held began to glow with a gold light. He gave no sign he'd noticed, but held it lying across his hands with the hollow in the hilt uppermost. Then, after a time that seemed endless, the hollow was no longer empty, but was filled with a gem, a cabochon. Although I had no memory of ever having seen one, I knew it for what it was.
It was shaped like half a pigeon's egg, sliced lengthways.
It was rounded, without faceting. I strained to see its colour, but sometimes it looked gold, sometimes green, sometimes red. It was the essence of all cabochons that had ever been…
Then the night ended and the Mirager rose to his feet, still carrying the sword. He went into another room where the baby slept in his mother's arms and the father stood watching his wife and child with tenderness. The mother held out the child and the Mirager knelt before her and laid the hilt of the sword, cabochon down, onto the tiny left hand. There was a flash of light, a baby's cry, and pain, the Mirager's pain as the cabochon was ripped from his sword and became part of the child for all his life. Yet when the Mirager stood his face was calm and proud.