I felt my power drain from my cabochon – not outwards, but inwards, into my blood. I felt the rush of it through my body until it met the power of the sword blade, united with it in joyous recognition… and for a moment, in my befuddlement, nothing made sense.
'Die, you Tyranian vermin,' Pinar said. 'You and your bastard.'
I saw the world with renewed clarity and felt unexpected grief. 'Pinar,' I said, my voice surprisingly calm and clear. 'Pinar… what have you done?'
'I've killed you, Ligea.'
'I am Kardi
'With a Tyranian soul.'
'I am sorry…'
'I'm not.'
'Pinar… you don't realise… Your child will not die. I swear it to you… he will be a Mirage Maker.'
She was mocking. 'What do you dream of now? You are dying, Ligea!' Then her hand – still on the hilt of the sword – began to shake and the shaking was carried over into her body.
I said in gentle pity, 'You… hold… my sword in your hand, Pinar.'
She looked down in disbelief.
'You picked up the wrong blade. You have tried to turn a Magor sword against its owner.'
'No!' The word ripped out of her, but the horror on her face said she recognised the truth. 'You'll die! The sword entered you -'
'You gave it no chance to change direction.' I shuddered, remembering Temellin's weapon hurtling towards me.
Pinar struggled to release the blade, but her hand seemed welded to the hilt. She pulled and the blade slid free, renewing my pain.
Her shaking was so severe, she could not stand. Her knees bent under her and she slipped to a kneeling position. Her eyes were wide with the fear of death, echoing her raw emotion bleeding out into the air. 'Shirin – help me. Help…'
'Pinar… I don't know how.' It was true. My sword drained her of life because she had dared to use it against me. Only at her death would it release its hold on her. I crawled over to her side. 'But I have
made you a promise ar*d I wjll keep it: your child
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won't die. He will live… and he will save the Mirage.'
But Pinar was past hearing. She fought against the sword, tearing at it with her right hand, raking her own flesh into bleeding tatters in her desperation to free herself, beating the hilt on the floor to break the clasp of her left hand, screaming her panic and anger and disbelief. With a howl of terror she rolled across the floor to where her own sword still lay, snatched it up and tried to bring it down on her left wrist.
She was turning her own blade against herself, forgetting even now that a weapon could not harm its owner. The sword refused to sever her hand, and jerked out of her grip instead. In its place she seized on a hunk of stone debris and used it to batter at the glowing blade she still held. A flash of light, a smell of seared flesh. She gave a scream of pure agony. I looked down at my cabochon. Still a flicker of colour there. I coaxed back the power until the stone was glowing again. I thought, briefly, of using it to cut off her hand, the one clutching my sword. I doubted it would save her life – hadn't someone told me removing a cabochon meant death? I thought about it, then thought of Brand, and sent the fire of my cabochon to sink deep into her chest. The screaming was sheared off as life ceased and she collapsed.
I wanted to rest. I wanted to give my body time to heal. I wanted to give my mind time to accept what had happened. I wanted to give myself time to recover from the shock. I wanted time to forget the look on Pinar's face.
I wanted time to grieve for Brand. To feel the pain, the guilt, the precious love that wasn't the right love.
Brand…
I was not given time.
I heard something in my mind, ordering me, not doubting my obedience. It did not come as a surprise, but it was unwelcome nonetheless. Now, it said, but not in words. In concepts. In pictures. In emotions. At a guess, without the song of the Shiver Barrens, the Mirage Makers found communication difficult.
Action. Offer. Time. Consequences. I interpreted, hoping I understood: With your own sword. We shall guide your hand. Hurry, or the child will die.
I untied Pinar's clothing, my fingers clumsy with distaste. Then I took up my sword from where it now lay free of Pinar's grip, placed the tip to the bared skin and waited. I could have sworn I felt a hand, as chill as spring water, close over mine and press down. The edge of the blade opened up a gash from navel to pubic hair. My eyes were blurred with unshed tears as I saw the womb displayed before the blood ran and covered it. I reached in with a hand to lift the organ out, cutting it away from the body that had sheltered it. Then I felt my cabochon encircle the child inside, swaddling him with protective power to keep him safe.
I held Temellin's son nestled in my palm and my tears spilled over. He was so tiny.
'What in the name of the Magor are you doing?'
I looked up, startled.
Garis was pushing himself away from the floor, his eyes wide with shock and revulsion. 'What abomination have you committed? You – you – numenl Sweet cabochon, Pinar was right! Oh, Mirage damn my wretched soul, what have I doneV
I looked at him in silence, my own distress overwhelming me. I wanted to speak, to explain, to erase the horror on his,.•face, but he had started to fade ^
– ¦¦•=!» -* •zysmt jrr› – Sax*
away. I looked at him in puzzlement as he lost solidity, then any semblance to reality. He had disappeared and so had Brand and Pinar and the wreckage of the room. I was standing in total blackness, swathed in it.
I looked down at my precious burden, feeling its life, not seeing it, but knowing it was there.
Well? I asked. What now?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
As I stood there, the floor still solid beneath my feet, in a blackness so thick I could feel it, that last sight of Garis calling the light into his sword and looking at me in horror was etched into my brain, along with the detailed image of the remains of the room. The wooden ceiling sagging in smoking tatters. The floor, gouged and pitted, littered with stone rubble and dust. Holes large enough to walk through gaping in the walls. Piles of splintered wood scattered around the walls. Brand lying against one wall, rolled there by the forces Pinar and I had unleashed, his deep red-brown hair with its copper flash dusted with dirt, his body half buried under broken wood and a tattered something that may or may not have once been a pallet. One arm outstretched towards me as if in rebuke.
His death hurt me so much I couldn't even consider it true. He couldn't have died. Not Brand.
Nearby lay the Miragerin-consort. The expression on her face, caught in the rictus of death, was one of utter terror. Her eyes bulged, her mouth gaped open in a silent, endless screaju. Her left hand was scarified^
into bloodied pulp, her arm burned and charred to the elbow. A burn on her chest revealed the manner of her death, unmistakably the mark of a cabochon. And then the worst – the thing that horrified Garis so much – the bared, violated body; me gash where something had been ripped out…
Garis standing there, so young and so hurt I wanted to take him in my arms and tell him it all wasn't as bad as he thought.
But I couldn't. I was rooted to the spot, rendered first dumb and then horrifically blind with only the memory of his face before me. The blackness was so total I felt the air itself had turned to pitch. It was a relief to inhale and realise I could still breathe. To realise I was still alive.
A moment later, all my fears dropped away like shed skin. I was swaddled in love, a gentie flooding emotion quite unlike anything I had ever felt before. A totally unselfish love accepting me exactly the way I was, requiring nothing of me except my existence. A united love of many individuals…