by John Marco
Asher stopped chuckling. ‘There was a woman brought in with you, a little one from Norvor. Dark hair. Do you remember her?’
‘Yes.’
Asher inspected his apron, found the appropriate bloodstain, and pointed at it. Mirage blanched as her bravado drained away.
‘I have a favourite knife to use on people like her,’ said Asher. He reached into the pockets of his apron and took out a thin knife with a long, hooked blade. ‘You would be amazed at how long someone can live if you use the right tool. I asked her what she was doing in Liiria. She was the whore of a mercenary named Devyn. It was the usual, tiresome questions. She told me nothing useful.’ Asher held the knife close to his face, turning it so that Mirage could see its fine edge. ‘She didn’t look anything like you, Mirage. She was ugly, like me. I did her a kindness by killing her.’
He looked sad suddenly, like a little boy with a broken toy. The madness on his face ebbed a little, replaced by something like shame.
‘I wish Chane hadn’t brought you to me,’ he said. ‘You don’t belong in this butcher’s shop. That’s what this place is, you know. I kill cows here. But you’re not a cow, Mirage. You are a beautiful butterfly.’
Asher touched his face, brushing the narrow blade against his uneven cheek.
‘I’ve seen you looking at me. You don’t realize how you stare, do you?’
‘I’m sorry,’ groped Mirage. ‘I didn’t mean to.’
‘I’ve been stared at all of my life.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Asher shrugged. ‘It isn’t your fault. You couldn’t know what it’s like to be me.’
How little you know, thought Mirage. Instead she asked, ‘What happened to you?’
Asher shrugged. ‘Who knows what happens in the womb of a whore? My mother was a drunken slut. She was diseased, a gift from all the men she bedded. I was born like this – that was her gift to me.’ He laughed. ‘Can you imagine such a woman? A bitch.’
‘And the scars?’
‘Beatings. I told you, my mother had many men. One of them favoured a horsebrush.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Stop saying that,’ spat Asher. ‘Your pity won’t save you.’ His face softened. ‘But I do regret this. I want you to know that. I’m going to get the truth out of you, Mirage. All of it, everything you know about Baron Glass, even things you’ve forgotten. It will be like magic!’
The knife held against his haunting face made Mirage wither. Her mind ran with images of blood and her own mangled body. So far she had been strong. Now, though, she could not be strong. Faced with Asher and his cherished knife, she crumbled.
‘I don’t know anything,’ she moaned, dropping to her knees. ‘I swear to heaven, I don’t know.’
She could not look at him any more. She faced the floor as tears overcame her, shaking and hating herself for it. Asher rose from his stool, watching her. He said nothing, letting her sob. Unable to control herself, Mirage dropped lower to the floor, like a frightened house cat. She glanced up, waiting for the torturer to fall on her, to feel the slice of his hook blade. He glared at her, completely unemotional, then buried the blade of his knife upright into the seat of the stool.
‘I will leave this here to argue with you,’ he said.
Then, to Mirage’s great relief, he unlocked the padlock to her cell, let himself out, and closed and locked the gate behind him. He spared her one last, longing look before disappearing down the dark corridor.
Choked with tears, Mirage stared at the knife protruding from the stool. Unable to move, she could not avert her eyes from it. She knew it wasn’t mercy she had witnessed. Asher would return, and when he did he would bring his lustful appetite with him. It might be an hour or a day. Either way, it would be an eternity.
7
To Gilwyn, the world was like an ocean, black and featureless. He felt its tug. He struggled to awaken. His eyes fluttered open to the darkness of the ocean, but the ocean was like space, cold and completely without end. He could not feel his body, but he did feel afraid, and he knew that he was somewhere immortal, trapped in a place of magic where he should not be able to tread. His eyes – if indeed they were eyes – studied the darkness. He gazed down to glimpse his hands, but although he felt them moving they were nowhere to be found.
Gilwyn fought to remember. He could not recall his last conscious thoughts, and he considered that he was sleeping, and that he had been asleep for a very long time. He knew his name, and he knew his mission, and it all came suddenly back to him, how he had fled across the desert, being chased by Aztar’s men.
And then?
He could not remember.
‘Hello?’ he called. He felt a presence in the darkness, straining to reach him. A familiar tremor coursed across his disembodied mind. ‘Ruana?’
He had only to speak her name, and she was there. Ruana’s sweet face shimmered in the darkness near him, shining with relief. Her hand reached out but did not touch him.
‘Gilwyn, you are alive.’
Puzzled, Gilwyn felt himself shrug. ‘Ruana, where am I? What is this place?’
‘Gilwyn, you must go back,’ said Ruana. ‘You are alive.’
‘Go back? Where? I don’t understand. Why did you bring me here?’
‘I did not bring you here, Gilwyn. This is not the place of the dead.’
She had read his thoughts, and her answer confused him. ‘No?’ Gilwyn looked around, but could see nothing familiar, only darkness. ‘Where, then?’
‘Your mind, Gilwyn,’ said Ruana. ‘This is your mind.’
The emptiness seized him. ‘My mind?’ He groped through the blackness. ‘What’s happened to me?’
‘You must awaken, Gilwyn. You must try very hard. Do you understand? Try now.’
It was like a horrible dream, but this time there were no monsters chasing him or molasses to slow his feet. Ruana’s words meant little to Gilwyn, yet they frightened him. His lungs filled with air, yet still he couldn’t breathe. If this was his mind, then it was an empty void he couldn’t fill.
‘Gilwyn, you must rouse yourself,’ Ruana continued. ‘You are very close. That is why I can reach you now. Are you listening? Can you wake yourself?’
‘From sleep? Am I sleeping?’
‘You are ill, but you are coming out of it. Wake yourself now, Gilwyn.’
‘Ill? What’s happened to me?’
‘Find your body. Connect it to your mind.’
Ruana’s urgings made breathing unbearable. Gilwyn searched his empty mind – a great field of nothingness – for the mortal part of him. He felt a wave of nausea, then pain.
‘That’s it,’ said Ruana, noting his fear. ‘That is your body, Gilwyn. Go back to it.’
‘What’s happened to me?’ Gilwyn asked. ‘Ruana, I’m afraid.’
Ruana’s face suffused with kindness. She stopped urging him and gently smiled. ‘You will be all right soon. I promise. But you must return. That pain you feel – it is necessary. It is your body calling you back. Go to it, Gilwyn.’
‘Don’t leave me . . .’
‘I am always with you, Gilwyn. When you awaken I will be there.’
There was no sense to her riddles. Gilwyn surrendered to his puzzlement. The pain he felt was growing enormous, and though he wanted to flee, he felt it calling to him, dragging him into its nauseating maw. Before him, he watched as Ruana shimmered and dimmed, her beautiful face yielding to the darkness. He began to cry, yet as she vanished she smiled.
‘Ruana!’
Then she was gone, and the strange, empty world began to fade with her.
8
Gilwyn awoke to the sounds of his own cries. His ears heard the noise, and when his eyes snapped open he saw figures overheard, swarming in a fuzzy haze. He breathed hard, struggling to find his breath. His head swam with pain. Trying to move, he felt a thousand stinging needles prick his naked skin. A swollen tongue filled his mouth, dry and tasting of medicine. Sweat drenched his face and matted h
is hair. Barely lifting his head, he fought to focus his eyes, squinting at the figures, but they were unfamiliar to him, their features distorted by his broken vision. He coughed, a great hacking series that shook his body. The effort made his lungs burn. A dark figure stooped to touch his forehead. The touch of the soft hand made him whimper.
‘White-Eye . . . ?’
The hand cupped his forehead, gently caressing it. He smelled perfume. Had he been sleeping? If so, awakening was exhausting him. His vision faltered and his eyes shuddered closed. As he drifted off he remembered something of Ruana, and how she wanted him to wake.
For hours more, Gilwyn slept, and when at last he awoke again he could not remember when he had taken to bed. This time when he awoke his vision had cleared. His head still ached and his body still burned with pain, yet his breathing had relaxed and his terror had subsided. He wakened peacefully, in a chamber darkened with night and lit by golden oil lamps. Alone and naked in a bed of soft blankets, he slowly turned his head to study his surroundings, realizing with surprise that he was in a tent. Moonlight sifted through the fabric walls. The air of the pavilion smelled of flowers and scented oils. Outside, Gilwyn heard voices, softly murmuring. He raised himself off the bedding, barely an inch. Finding the effort too depleting, he collapsed.
‘Hello?’ he croaked.
From the corner of the pavilion a figure stirred, coming toward him. Gilwyn felt no fear as he noted the woman, young and pretty, with dark skin like White-Eye’s and the silken garb of a desert lady. She looked at him and smiled, obviously pleased he had awakened. Looking deeply into his eyes, she nodded. She touched his forehead, reminding Gilwyn that she had done it before. Her touch soothed him. He tried again to talk.
‘Who are you?’ he asked, his voice gravelly. ‘Where am I?’
The woman frowned at his questions. She was older than he was, though not by much. Suddenly his nakedness embarrassed him.
‘Where are my clothes? Who are you?’
Again his queries went unanswered. The woman knelt beside his bed and dipped a bronze ladle into a shining bowl of water. With one hand she lifted his head. With the other, she gave him drink. Gilwyn sipped carefully, grateful for the water. His parched tongue cooled immediately. He coughed to clear his throat.
‘No, no more. Tell me where I am.’
‘In a good place,’ said the woman.
Gilwyn had not expected her to speak his language. Again he tried sitting up. ‘You understand me,’ he said with surprise. ‘Tell me what’s happened to me.’
‘Too many questions. Lay quietly now.’
‘No . . .’
Gilwyn tried to keep himself up but could not. Overwhelmed with fatigue, he put his head back to the silk pillow and looked pleadingly at the young woman. Weary-looking marks darkened her eyes. She had obviously been with him for hours. Yet she was beautiful to Gilwyn, if only because he felt so alone.
‘Am I sick?’ he asked. He began to remember what Ruana had told him, though it seemed so long ago.
‘Sleep,’ directed the woman. She rose from his bedside and turned to go.
‘I won’t sleep,’ he warned her. ‘I’ll keep you up all night unless you start answering my questions.’
The woman sighed heavily, and for the first time looked annoyed. ‘You have kept me awake for days already.’
‘Days? How long . . .’ He broke into coughs. ‘How long have I been here?’
‘Long. We have tended to you.’
‘Yes, I remember others.’ Gilwyn closed his eyes, recalling the figures gathered over him. ‘I need to know where I am.’
‘You are in a good place.’
‘You told me that already,’ said Gilwyn sourly. ‘It doesn’t help.’
He sagged at the empty conversation. Seeing this, the woman came closer. Because his bed lay very near the floor, she took an emerald pillow from a nearby pile and sat down next to him, cross-legged. Almost unable to lift his head, Gilwyn managed to smile at her.
‘I am called Harani,’ she said. ‘I speak the tongue of the continent. There are not many of us who do. That is why I was chosen to care for you.’
‘Harani.’ Gilwyn liked the way she spoke her name, almost musically. ‘Are you Ganjeese?’
‘I am Voruni,’ said the woman. ‘Do you remember what happened to you?’
Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Not really. You’re Voruni?’ He thought a moment, then became frightened. ‘Are you one of Aztar’s people?’
‘You are in the camp of Aztar,’ said Harani. ‘Perhaps we should not talk about this. If you do not remember . . .’
But suddenly Gilwyn did remember. ‘The rass.’
‘Yes.’ Harani smiled. ‘You are blessed by Vala, truly. To have survived the rass you must be blessed.’
‘I was riding,’ Gilwyn recalled. ‘There were raiders. They attacked me. And then . . .’
He stopped himself. It was he who had summoned the rass. He remember that now, but he could never confess such a thing. He opened his eyes to see Harani nodding at him earnestly.
‘Good that you remember,’ she said. ‘Your mind is clearing. You have been very ill. We did not think you would survive.’
‘Because of the rass?’ Gilwyn asked. ‘Did it bite me?’
‘Your arms and legs – they burn, yes?’
Gilwyn nodded. His limbs burned like fire.
‘That is the poison of the rass,’ explained Harani. ‘You were stiff like a branch when they brought you here. On your chest you have the scar.’ Harani traced her finger lightly over his chest, pushing the blanket. ‘Here. That is where the fangs cut you.’
Even the gentle pressure made Gilwyn wince. ‘Who brought me here?’ he asked. ‘The men chasing me?’
‘They were Voruni men,’ said Harani. ‘You were still alive when the rass attacked. They escaped with you and brought you here.’
‘They were trying to kill me. Why would they save me?’
Harani touched his face to calm him. ‘You are safe.’
The answer did little to relax Gilwyn. Suddenly he remembered everything, even how his captors had claimed they were taking him to Aztar. ‘Is Aztar alive?’ he asked. ‘Is he here?’
‘Aztar lives. You will see him when you are stronger.’
‘No,’ Gilwyn protested, forcing himself up onto his elbow. ‘I can’t wait. I have to go. I have to get to Ganjor.’
‘Not until you are well and not until Aztar speaks with you. That is why the others brought you here.’
‘They captured me for Aztar?’
‘There are others outside. If you try to go they will stop you.’
Desperate, Gilwyn gripped the blankets. ‘Harani, I can’t stay here. Aztar wants to question me – you said so yourself. When he’s done he’ll kill me.’
‘The prince did not keep you alive to kill you,’ Harani assured him. ‘And if you do not lay back you will not get well.’ She pushed him back into the soft bedding. Gilwyn yielded, mostly because he hadn’t the strength to fight. Whatever had happened to him had left him weak, too weary even to argue. Harani fixed the blankets around him, covering him against a feverish chill that suddenly swept through his body. Then, she surprised him with a simple question. ‘What is your name?’
‘My name? Gilwyn. Gilwyn Toms.’
‘Gilwyn.’ Harani grinned. ‘That is a strange name.’
‘Not where I come from.’
‘You have been here for many days, Gilwyn. You need to know how close to death you were. Do you remember anything more?’
Gilwyn shook his head. ‘Just the rass. After that . . .’ He shrugged. ‘Nothing.’ He looked earnestly at Harani. ‘How long?’
‘Many days. Nearly twenty.’
‘Twenty?’ Gilwyn gasped. ‘In bed like this?’
‘Yes. Do you understand now? The rass poison should have killed you, but it did not. Aztar says that you are blessed, Gilwyn, and I believe him. No one should have survived it, but you did. Aztar told me to care f
or you, to keep you alive.’ Harani eased back from the bedside. ‘And now that you are awake, I must tell him.’
Gilwyn but didn’t argue. For some reason he couldn’t quite fathom, Aztar wanted him alive. It might be for information, or the simple sport of watching him squirm, but Gilwyn was determined to face the prince bravely. The mere fact that Aztar still lived earned him a certain respect.
‘I’m ready,’ said Gilwyn. ‘Go and bring him.’
Harani laughed. ‘One does not summon Prince Aztar. I will tell him you have awakened and that you can speak. He will come when he is ready.’
For three more days, Gilwyn waited for Aztar. Mostly, he fell in and out of sleep, comforted by Harani who was always there with a dipper or water or offer of food. When he was sweaty, Harani bathed him, and when he was despondent she smiled, reassuring him even as she avoided his questions. Gilwyn gradually felt himself grow stronger, and by the third day he was able to sit up and dangle his legs from the ends of the bedding. He ate very little, for his stomach still rebelled with nausea, but he discovered an insatiable thirst for water that required him to relieve himself in a pan that Harani and the other women emptied for him without complaint. The days in the pavilion were unbearably warm, and though the fabric walls shielded them from the worst of the desert sun Gilwyn nevertheless longed for night to fall each day. He had very few visitors while he recovered, among them Harani’s husband, who had come to check on his wife and the upstart boy she was looking after. He was a fierce man, so like the image of a Voruni raider, with suspicious eyes that barely left Gilwyn even as he spoke to his wife.
Aztar, however, was not among those who came to the pavilion, and by the end of the third day Gilwyn began to wonder if the prince truly had survived, or if Harani was merely playing a ruse to keep him in bed. It seemed an elaborate pantomime, especially from the woman whom Gilwyn had come to trust. She was, as she had explained, one of the only people in the camp who could speak the language of the north, having learned it from her father, a Ganjeese merchant who had traded with the continent before his death. Harani had learned well from him, but then she had met the Voruni named Mazal, who became her husband. Together they had heard the call of Aztar. Harani adored Prince Aztar.
