His words cut at me, slashed me with their tragedy. Tears blurred my image of him, but were not shed. I reached out to touch his arm. 'Brand – oh Goddessdamn, Brand, this is not right. You will come to hate me. When we reach our destination, you must leave. For your own good. How can I ask any loyalty of you when I give so little; no, when I give you nothing, in return?'
His lips twisted bitterly. 'That would be my ultimate punishment. I would rather live in pain than in loss.'
He turned away, leaving me to return to my cave. I made a hole in my sleeping pallet and thrust the sword inside. I was responsible for the packing of my own things and stowing them on the padk shleth, so I had no fear anyone would find it. Then I crept back into Temellin's arms, trying not to think because thinking was painful. Because I didn't want to think about that other thing I knew.
An hour later, I knew the pain had to be faced because I couldn't sleep. Because I couldn't push away the sound of Brand's voice. Think, Ligea. Think about who it was who loved you?
Memories… the journey inside oneself can be the loneliest journey of all…
/ loved the terrace of the Gayed villa; it had the best views in all of Tyr. From there I could see the Meletian Temple on a neighbouring hill, with the Desert-Season Theatre tiered beneath it; from there I could see the river and the life of the docks and the sea beyond; from there
I could watch for visitors coming up to our house. I could be the first to know Pater was on his way home.
I loved the terrace best of all in the desertrseason when it was' heady with the smell of flowers and the warmth of the sun – as it was today, my sixteenth anniversary day.
The mellowbirds droned their somnolent call in the garden, mocking my impatience. I was waiting for Pater to come back from the city; I was waiting for his news concerning my future, and I wanted to thank him for his anniversary gift. I'd even put on my best wrap, the one with garnets sewn along the hem, just to please him, although I didn't like it much. It was too stiff and uncomfortable. Besides, it stopped me from doing what I most wanted to do right then: ride the big roan stallion stalking its proud way along the garden path just below the terrace.
I had to be content to lean against the balustrade and gaze instead. The roan coat shone in the sunlight, the muscles of his shoulders and neck and legs spoke to me of power and speed. I gave a slight shiver of excitement.
'Ah, Goddess, Brand,' I said. 'Isn't he magnificent? Can you believe he's really mine? Isn't Pater wonderful to have bought him for me?'
Brand, who was walking the horse, halted and looked up, squinting against the light. 'The General doubtless had excellent reasons for buying you such an unsuitable mount,' he said.
I pouted, trying to decide exactly what he was telling me. Brand often said things that never meant quite what I thought they did at first; it was an annoying habit of his. T hope you are not criticising Pater,' I said severely and then, not wanting anything to spoil my day, turned my attention back to the horse. 'Oh mount him, for • ¦..: •:_•¦•."'..L.-i:-. -.. v
Goddess' sake, Brand, although I shall be jealous – I just have to see how he moves'
Brand smiled, an indulgent, teasing smile of the kind that usually infuriated me into throwing something at him, but today I refused to be even mildly irritated. He swung himself up onto the animal's back, apparently unconcerned by the lack of a saddle. His strong square hands gathered up the reins and held the roan in tight as it stamped a front foot in annoyance and tried to swing its head free. It occurred to me Brand looked almost as magnificent as the horse, but I pushed that thought away. That was not the kind of thing one should think about a slave.
He moved the roan from a walk to a trot to a canter, swinging it around through the garden in a wide figure of eight and then jumping it across the fishpond as a finale.
'Well, what do you think?' I asked as he reined in beneath the terrace. 'I think he's perfect.'
He patted the roan's neck and looked up at me. 'He's edgy. You'll need wrists of steel for this one, Miss Ligea. I don't think you should ride him until he's more schooled.'
'Oh, nonsense! My wrists are strong – don't I ride nearly every day? I shall school him myself
He slid down to the grass, frowning slightly. 'Well, I don't think you ought to ride him yet a while. He ought to be, um, cut. If he gets a whiff of a mare, you'd never hold him. He's no mount for a sixteen-year-old girl -'
A voice at my elbow said coldly, 'And I don't think you should say any more, thrall. It's not your place to pass judgement on the General's gift to his… his daughter.'
Salacia, my adoptive mother. One of the most beautiful women of Tyr, or so everyone told me. I knew she was fifty years old, but she looked fifteen years
younger, mostly because her skin was white, kept from the sun and unblemished by wrinkles. She never frowned, never laughed and rarely smiled; a face so devoid of animation had no chance to develop creases. I could never look at her without thinking of a statue, perfectly polished but incapable of showing emotion. Perhaps that was why I invariably felt gauche in her presence, all arms and legs and ungainly height. I knew the emotions were there of course; I might not have seen them on that alabaster mask of hers, but I could feel them. Cold indifference usually predominated, occasionally laced with a strangely impersonal spite. I wasn't enough of an object in her life even to arouse her dislike.
'Take that animal away, Brand' she ordered, 'and get on with your work.' She turned back to me, her malice momentarily satisfied.
As a child I had been constantly bewildered by her lack of interest, but I was older now. Sixteen… Old enough to understand and pity her. She'd wanted a child of her own; instead, I'd arrived in her household to mock her desire. Fortunately for me, she had been far too proud ever to allow herself to care overmuch, and even her verbal jibes were muted. Mostly she ignored me; only occasionally did she rouse herself enough to deprive me of something I enjoyed, such as admiring the stallion. They were the petty tyrannies of a petty woman and I was used to them.
I almost smiled. I felt very adult. What Solatia did didn't matter; Pater made up for everything…
He wasn't alone when he came back; he'd brought the Magister Officii with him. I knew Rathrox Ligatan by sight and I knew why Pater had brought him to the house: to meet me. Pater had promised to ask the Magister if I could train to be a Brotherhood Compeer.
My heart beat uncomfortably fast. The Brotherhood did not usually accept women as trainees at the compeer level, or accept non-Tyranians at any level – and I'd been born a Kardi. Gayed had never made any secret of my origins.
I performed the welcoming ablutions myself, and tried to assess the Magister Officii's thoughts. His emotions were complex; a tangle of conflicting feelings that were hard to interpret. I could sense strong amusement, a touch of contempt – but mostly he was smug. I didn't think I liked him very much.
'Well,' Pater asked me, his dark blue eyes mocking gently, 'how do you like your horse?'
'He's wonderful! But Brand says he'll be too much for me.'
'For my Ligea? You must accept the challenge, child. There's no place for weaklings among the Brotherhood, is there, eh, Rathrox? Ocrastes' balls, what does an ignorant thrall know about horseflesh anyway? That beast is not too much for you!'
'Among the Brotherhood?' I stammered, seizing on the most significant thing he'd said. The roan suddenly seemed unimportant.
I turned to Rathrox Ligatan. 'Magister Officii? The – the Brotherhood will take me?'
He inclined his head, smiling faintly. 'I don't see that being Kardi-born will be a disadvantage, do you, Gayed?'