by John Marco
‘Now they will not trouble us,’ he pronounced.
Lukien grimaced. ‘Good. I feel better.’
‘We will be following the river all the way to Torlis, Lukien. Would you rather have the Miins angry with us?’
‘I don’t even believe in the Miins, Jahan.’ Lukien followed his friend up the bank and back toward camp. ‘But if you’re right and they exist, then better to have them happy than mad.’
Jahan grunted at his answer. ‘You have so much to learn, Lukien. It is well that I came with you. There are spirits everywhere, in every living thing. I thought you understood that already.’
‘I’m a Liirian,’ said Lukien. ‘In Liiria men do not usually believe in such things.’
‘They do not believe in life?’ snorted Jahan. He laid the waterskins with the other bags and went back to starting his fire. ‘What kind of people are they?’
‘Maybe they’re ignorant,’ said Lukien. He sat down on the ground, watching Jahan work the flint. ‘I didn’t believe in anything until I found Jador. That’s the place across the desert I told you about.’
‘Where you found your spirit necklace?’
‘That’s right.’ Lukien pulled the Eye of God out from beneath his shirt, letting it spin on its golden chain. Night was falling rapidly, but the red jewel in the amulet lit his face. ‘I should not have laughed at you. I’m sorry. Maybe there are spirits in the water. I’ve seen enough in my life to make me believe.’
‘A man must believe, Lukien. There is always more to learn.’ Managing to ignite a dried out leaf, Jahan leaned down and began blowing gently on his fragile fire. As the other leaves and twigs caught, he smiled proudly. ‘We should eat.’
As the stars twinkled to life overhead, Lukien and Jahan ate. Neither of them spoke much, but instead enjoyed the food and the simple peace of not moving. The sky grew ever darker as the sun slowly faded, birthing the stars one by one, until at last the heavens filled with them. Lukien ate slowly, savouring his food and staring up at the constellations, some of which he recognized from his time in Jador, when Gilwyn would point them out to him. He missed Gilwyn, as he always did when night fell, and wondered what his young friend was doing. He supposed he was safe in Jador, and that gave Lukien comfort. He leaned back on his elbow, suppressed a belch, and watched Jahan as he ate. Jahan had untied his pony-tail, letting his long hair fall loosely around his shoulders, giving him a different look entirely. He seemed deep in thought. Lukien picked up a small stone and tossed it over to him, breaking him from his trance.
‘What are you thinking about?’ Lukien asked.
Jahan smiled. ‘I am thinking of my wife. I am thinking how much I miss her already.’
‘Mmm, that’s a good thing to think about.’
‘Do you have a woman, Lukien?’
Lukien shook his head. ‘Not anymore. It’s been a lot of years.’
‘The one you told me about, the one who came to you – she was your woman, yes?’
‘Yes,’ sighed Lukien, ‘a long time ago.’
‘If you were Simiheh, you would not be alone,’ said Jahan. ‘A woman would always be found for you. A man should never be without a woman.’
‘I agree,’ said Lukien, grinning like a wolf. ‘So how does that work? You trade wives?’
‘If a man needs a woman to marry, one is found for him. It is a very simple thing.’
‘Everything is simple where you come from, Jahan.’ Lukien decided to press his companion. ‘Tell me what happens when your village is gone.’
Jahan tore himself a hunk of the flat bread and pushed it into his mouth. ‘I have told you that story already.’
‘I know. I like hearing it.’
‘Ah, so you like stories now!’
Lukien laughed. ‘All right, yes. Tell me again – when the people are gone, the village is gone, right?’
‘Yes. The people are the village, Lukien.’
‘And the boys all go off and start their own village when they’re old enough, right?’
‘Not all, but most.’
‘And what happens to you? You just die?’
Jahan looked at Lukien strangely. ‘Everyone dies, Lukien. Except for you.’
The joke surprised Lukien. He wasn’t even sure it was a joke. ‘You’re an important man in the village. Will it always be that way?’
‘No. My time will come. A man of influence should not live too long. When I am old enough, I will die before my mind is lost.’
‘What if you don’t?’ Lukien asked. ‘What if you just live on and on, like me? Will the others replace you?’
‘I will not live so long,’ said Jahan. ‘Before then, the chilling breath will come, and I will die.’
Lukien sat up. ‘What’s the chilling breath?’
‘That is what it is called. When I am old and the people lose faith in me, then I will die of the chilling breath.’
‘You mean they’ll just turn their back on you?’ asked Lukien.
‘They will help me make way for someone younger. It will be that way for all of us who formed the village, Lukien. The others will . . . help us to die.’
The admission left Lukien stunned. He looked at Jahan across the jumping fire, studying his face for any signs of regret. There were none.
‘You mean they’ll kill you,’ said Lukien.
‘No. I will die of the chilling breath.’ Jahan returned Lukien’s stare. ‘Do you understand?’
Lukien shook his head. ‘No, I don’t think I do,’ he said. ‘I don’t understand your ways at all, Jahan. First you tell me that the whole village will die when all of you have died, and then you tell me that you’re going to rush that day by killing off your leaders. It’s bizarre.’
‘To you, perhaps. To us it is the best way. I am not afraid of my end days, Lukien. I will not be a burden to anyone. I will be allowed to die with great dignity, and let someone who is stronger and more able than me take my place. Is that not a good thing?’
‘I don’t think I could ever let people kill me,’ said Lukien. ‘I’m too much of a fighter for that.’
‘And that is why you have no peace, my friend, and why you search endlessly for this sword, and why you have no woman to love. Because you fight. Always you fight.’
‘Maybe,’ Lukien muttered. He didn’t like the way the conversation had turned. ‘But I think I know why you came with me, Jahan.’
‘Of course you do. I have told you why.’
‘Because I saved your son. Yes, that’s what you told me. But I think you want to live just as much as I do. I think you want to see something besides your village before you die.’
Jahan set his food aside. A flash of anger crossed his face, but it fled quickly. ‘When we are done and have found your sword, I will return to my village, and I will be glad to do so.’
‘I know,’ said Lukien. ‘But in the meantime you’ll have a chance to learn and see things that no one else in your village will ever see. The truth now, Jahan – doesn’t that make you a little bit happy?’
Jahan scoffed. ‘You should be glad I am with you, Lukien. The way you stagger about, you should wear two eye patches. You need me.’
‘You’re not going to confess, are you?’ asked Lukien. ‘You just can’t admit that you came with me to see Torlis and meet the Red Eminence.’
Looking up to the stars, Jahan smiled but stayed very quiet, ignoring Lukien’s query. Finally he said, ‘I will not live forever. There are things I wish to see before I, too, become a spirit.’
Lukien nodded. ‘That’s what I thought.’
The two companions finished their meal, staring up at the stars and wondering what lay ahead.
13
In the catacombs of Asher’s prison, time had lost its meaning. The dreary lamplight and the never-ending din of distant, tear-choked voices twisted day into night and back again. Somewhere near Mirage’s cell, a leak dripped water onto the stone floor. Through her bars, she saw spiders building webs in the corner of the murky co
rridor, the hallway terminating into unseen darkness. The occasional footfalls of a prison guard echoed through the complex, quickening Mirage, sometimes heralding the arrival of her tormentor. At any time of day or night, a whip would crack across bare flesh. Blood-curdling shrieks awoke her when she slept, never deeply, guardedly watching the corridor for shadows. Twice she had awakened to Asher’s ghostly face grinning through the bars of her cell, ready to ply her with questions.
There were so many questions.
Mirage sat in the corner of her cell, her head down, her eyes sagging with exhaustion. Thoughts rattled around her skull, scrambled from hunger and lack of sleep. Bedraggled strands of hair fell across her soiled forehead. Her chin nodded upward at a distant sound, then down again against her chest. Her filthy clothes clung to her half-frozen body. Days in the cold prison had turned her skin an unhealthy blue. Her fingernails ached. The toes of her bare feet curled inward for warmth. Water had been supplied in drips, and now her mouth swelled like cotton. A painful knot tied itself in her empty stomach. Hearing the familiar noise of footfalls, her eyes fluttered open to stare outside her silent bars. Waiting had been the worst part of her torment. Not even her interrogations with Asher were as bad. With only fears to fill the endless hours, she imagined every sort of depraved torture, every small pain the gaoler might inflict on her. In front of her, the jeering wooden stool sat near the entrance to her cell, its seat still impaled with Asher’s knife. The edge of the blade stood at attention, waiting for its master. So far, Asher had not used the knife, taunting her with it instead, twirling it between his digits like a baton during their long interrogations. In the days that she had been his captive, Asher had come to her three times. Mirage remembered each episode vividly, but she could not recall how long she had been in the prison. Without a window to tell night from day, she was like a blind woman, completely lost to the passage of time. The lamp outside her barren cell shed the only light on her wretched home.
Asher had been remarkably patient with her. Over and over, he asked the same uncomplicated questions, making her repeat herself again and again. Though he had promised to harm her, he had so far declined to even touch her, using only his voice to wear her down. She had told him things she had never intended to, like how Baron Glass loved her and how much time they had spent together. Intrigued, Asher continued to press her on this, compelling stories out of her, circling her with his arguments until she surrendered shreds of dignity. Now, Asher knew almost everything, but she had yet to tell him the most important thing. No matter the time she spent with Asher, no matter the torture, she would not reveal her knowledge of Grimhold or the magic she possessed. She had promised herself that. She was proud of her resolve.
‘You can burn in all the hells of eternity,’ she sputtered. ‘That I’ll never tell you.’
Her voice rasped against her ears. Just using her voice made her throat ache. But hearing it strengthened her, too, and she knew that if only she could speak, she could keep herself sane. To keep her promise, she needed her wits with her.
‘Kirsil?’ she whispered. ‘Are you here?’
The comforting flutter of her Akari entered her mind. Kirsil, the young spirit who had given her beauty again, dithered nervously just within her grasp. Mirage seized the sense of her, clinging to her hopefully. Kirsil had been precious little use to her, providing solace but no good ideas. They were both trapped, and the Akari seemed to know it. Mirage half expected the spirit to abandon her.
No, said Kirsil, appalled at the thought. Never. We are together. We will always be together.
Mirage closed her eyes, but somehow managed to keep from crying. ‘Thank you, Kirsil. Thank you for everything you’ve given me.’
The Akari hesitated, reading her feelings as well as her thoughts. Do you wish Sarlvarian was here?
The question surprised Mirage. It was true that she had thought of Sarlvarian – her old Akari – many times since her capture. With his help, she might be able to escape Asher, burning her way past him and his many underlings with his magic fire. But she had traded Sarlvarian for Kirsil, and for beauty.
‘No,’ said Mirage, shaking her head. She kept her voice low so that no one else could hear. ‘I’ve never been sorry you are my Akari, Kirsil.’
Then you must hold on, said the spirit. You must stay strong, just as strong as you have been.
Mirage leaned her head back against the unyielding wall. ‘I don’t know how much more I can last. My body hurts, Kirsil.’
You must protect Grimhold, Mirage.
‘I’m trying.’
I will help you. Take strength from me.
The sentiment nearly broke Mirage’s resolve. Drawing her legs closer to her body, she wrapped her hands around them for warmth, rubbing her knees. She studied the flame dancing on the wall outside her cell, willing it to warm her the way she could when Sarlvarian had been with her. It was not so long ago that she had power over flame. With only a thought, she could have made that lamplight explode.
‘I’m so cold,’ she said, then broke into a chorus of coughs. Without water to calm it, she coughed until the pain of it seared her lungs, then stopped abruptly. More footfalls sounded in the corridor, this time coming toward her. ‘Oh, no . . .’
Mirage could barely bring herself to stand, but stand she did, determined to face Asher on her feet. Her captor had always been impressed by her strength, maybe even vexed by it. Mirage rose unsteadily, ignoring the icy floor as she squared her shoulders. Soon the sounds grew louder, then the shadows crept around the corner. Two men – both of whom she recognized – appeared outside her cell. She did not know their names, but the pair always accompanied Asher when he came to question her. This time, though, the inquisitor had not come. Puzzled, Mirage glared at the guards.
‘Good, you’re up,’ grunted one of the men. Dressed in his dark uniform, he was the larger of the muscular pair, with eyes like burning coals that undressed Mirage when he stared. He fit the key into the stout lock and turned the tumbler, then pulled the iron door open with a screech. ‘Come with us,’ he commanded.
Mirage fought to control her terror. Short of breath, she gasped, ‘Where?’
‘Asher wants to see you,’ said the other, slightly smaller man. In his hands dangled a chain with manacles on both ends. Stepping into the cell, he gestured for Mirage to turn around. ‘Hands behind your back.’
With no way to resist, Mirage did as he asked, wondering if this – finally – meant the punishment Asher had promised her. The cold iron encircled her wrists, snapping shut. The man grabbed her hair and pushed her roughly toward the door. Her feet scraped across the jagged floor, stubbing her toe as she fell against the bigger man. Shutting the bars loudly behind her, the guard grabbed hold of her arm and dragged her down the corridor.
It was a long, wordless way through the hall. Mirage had only made the trip once before, when she been brought to her hole-like home. The dim light stabbed at her eyes, illuminating the rows of identical cells, most of them empty, others with huddled prisoners like herself. Mirage looked away, unable to face their vacant stares. At the end of the hall stood a spiral staircase. Vaguely, she remembered descending it, but to her numbed brain it seemed so long ago. She held on to Kirsil, frantically reaching for the Akari through her terror. The spirit coursed through her mind, calming her like a mother’s touch.
‘Up,’ said her gaoler, lifting her by the armpit toward the first step. Nearly stumbling, Mirage leaned against his big frame as she struggled up the stairs. The guard dragged her impatiently along, bouncing her up each step, ignoring her cries of pain. The dizzying staircase spiraled endlessly upward, assailing her eyes with torchlight. Days in darkness had turned her vision to mush. She squinted at the growing light, her eyes watering, until at last she spilled out into another stone corridor, falling to her knees.
‘Get up,’ commanded the bigger man. Hovering over her, Mirage expected him to strike her, but he did not. Instead he hooked his hand beneath her arm
and lifted her effortlessly to her feet. She looked around the giant hall, studying the high ceiling and bare, grey walls. She remembered this place, too, when she had first been taken into the prison. To her great relief, she saw windows at the far end of the hall, and daylight streaming inside. The sight of sunlight made her gasp. Where was Asher? Was she being freed?
‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me.’
But the guards ignored her question. Flanking her, they each grabbed an arm and guided her down the hall toward the sunlit windows. Mirage flailed against their grasp.
‘I can walk!’ she hissed, pulling free of their arms. ‘I don’t want your filthy hands on me!’
The big guard with the dark eyes pointed down the hall. ‘Then walk. Or I will carry you.’
Mirage did as he commanded, shuffling across the floor, her pride wounded but intact. The men strode next to her, side by side, silently urging her onward. Mirage saw the windows growing ahead of her, looming large in a part of the prison she had not seen before, a place not nearly as dank as the rest of Asher’s home. As they got closer, she rounded a corner to see a pair of open doors. Hardly believing it, she saw grass beyond the threshold. The scent of flowers – of freedom – filled her lungs. She paused, swallowing the fresh air. Looking at her captors in disbelief, they motioned toward the open doors.
‘Move,’ said one of them, taking her arm again and guiding her outside.
Her bare feet touched the carpet of grass. Soft and warm, it tickled her. Mirage looked around, spying the trees that lined the alcove. A ribbon of cobblestones had been preciously laid into the neatly trimmed grass, wandering around a stand of fruit trees. The sun beat down on the gardens, hurting Mirage’s eyes, but she could not bring herself to look away. She squinted through painful tears, wondering where the guards had taken her. They guided her onto the stone path, careful not to let her fall, then stopped abruptly. The smaller one fumbled with her manacles and an unseen key, unlocking her binds.
