A Shadow on the Glass (37 page)

Yggur looked down at her, then at the hand on his wrist, then back at her face. To her surprise, and his own, he sat down again.

“It is the memory of… Rulke,” he said in halting words, his mouth twisting down on the left side. “I can still feel the way he clawed at my mind.” With an effort he gained control of his speech. “It will be with me as long as I live. The fear of him consumes me, as though he were a great scorpion on my back, and its sting already curving into my throat.” A shudder wracked him from black hair to long gray boots, and he covered his face with his hands.

“But is he not securely held?”

“While the lookout is maintained he cannot escape. But he can be freed, if the watch fails;
or released
, if someone should find the key. And you have thrown such a key, the Mirror, out where any lunatic can find it. I have bided my time, trained and disciplined myself; found the Mirror and almost broken it. Yes, I was close to having its secrets.”

“It called to me too,” she said, remembering how she had been fascinated by it.

“Then beware. It is a twisted, lying thing and it will do its best to entice you and trap you.”

“Oh!” she said soberly.

“Now all my plans are overturned. The Mirror is abroad and might fall into the hands of anyone. The Faelamor I knew long ago was cautious; she would have done nothing foolish, but who knows what changes the centuries have wrought? What if Mendark gets it? Or worse yet, his challenger Thyllan?

“These last weeks,” Yggur continued after a pause, “I’ve had to revise the strategy for my campaign—turn it on itself. What I might have done at will with the secrets of the Mirror I now must do with armies and bloodshed. My armies await my command, but they cannot be kept on alert forever. Do I give the order, or do I wait and hope that the Mirror will be found?”

He recovered his composure, giving Maigraith a fierce glare. She withdrew her hand from his wrist. “And what am I to do with you? The Whelm pursue Karan, but again and again she escapes them.” Maigraith’s eyes widened. “Ah, I see that she surprises even you. Clearly there is more to her than I saw. She is now far to the north, near Hetchet, my spies last told me. But the Mirror might be anywhere. Perhaps Faelamor has it already, and Karan was only a decoy. The Whelm have failed with her.”

He walked away, ruminating to himself. I must know more, but how? It seems Maigraith knows nothing of Faelamor’s plans. But perhaps her subconscious mind can give me a clue. The Whelm have a way, but can I trust them with her? I care for her now and would not have her harmed. And can I trust them with what she might reveal? For the Whelm, whom I thought I had schooled to myself, suddenly rebel. They would direct me, and not the other way. My carefully constructed world begins to unravel and I am come to a dreadful realization: that I have embraced the sting, put it to my own throat.

Yggur turned back to Maigraith, admiring her for her
courage, hating himself. He rose heavily to his feet and went out. Once he was gone, her confidence crumbled. She felt sure that he was going to hand her over to the Whelm. But he did not.

After that Maigraith saw little of Yggur. Her guard was doubled, for he was busy elsewhere with the training of his armies, the making of strategies and contingencies, the rehearsal of tactics. She was lonely and afraid, and with nothing to do she brooded more and more on the Whelm, and on what would happen to her when she finally fell into their hands.

Then one day, after she had not seen Yggur for a week, he came to her. He was different, she saw at once—something had changed. He said abruptly, “What will Faelamor do about you?”

Maigraith marveled that in all the time of her captivity she had not considered that question. She had no idea what Faelamor would do. Perhaps she would just abandon this failure and begin anew.

He stood leaning over her for a moment, then sat down right in front of her. “How did you come to serve her?”

Faelamor? Maigraith dragged her thoughts back, but could see no harm in the question.

“My mother and father both died soon after I was born; I have no memory of them. I was looked after by another family for the first few years, though I have no idea how I came to be in their care. Then Faelamor appeared. I was very young, perhaps three years old, when I first remember meeting her. I recall it well; she frightened me. She still does. She came every so often, taking me for weeks at a time, and giving me instruction. I thought of her as a strange kind of aunt, though I do not believe that there is any blood relationship. Certainly there is no resemblance between us. Then when I
was five she took me with her to Mirrilladell, where the Faellem dwell. That place is south of the Great Mountains, a cold land of lakes and forests. But of course you would know that.”

Yggur nodded but said nothing, not wanting to break the flow.

“I lived with her all my life, and that was a long time, for I am far older than I appear. I had the finest tutors, and Faelamor herself took charge of my instruction. I worked and studied unceasingly. Her syllabus was curious, her methods remarkable. I learned things that none but the Faellem know. As you felt before,” she said absently, referring to their initial struggle.

“But I was never a part of them, never one of the Faellem. They treated me coldly, though they are a kind people as a rule. When I was still a child they shunned me completely. I often wonder what shameful thing my mother and father did, that carried on through the generations, for one day Faelamor and I left the Faellem very suddenly and went into exile. Even Faelamor was tainted by her association with me. I think the exile hurt her badly.”

After a while she looked across at him and smiled, a curious sad pensive smile, as though she was only now learning how to. “It’s funny,” she said, smiling still. “You are the first person I’ve ever felt I understood. Perhaps it is like to like, for both of us are prisoners—you of the torment of Rulke, I of the will of Faelamor.”

“You have Karan.”

“I care for her, but I will never know her.”

Maigraith fell silent, drawn back into the period of her growing up. Her long chestnut hair hung across her face. His gaze rested lightly on her features: her skin smooth as marble and the color of honey, the oval face and long straight
nose, and the sad eyes, much darker than before, that hinted at her secret.

At last he spoke. “Tell me where I can find Faelamor and why she wants the Mirror, and I will tell you who your parents were, what happened to them, and why it brought such shame upon the Faellem.”

Maigraith looked up suddenly and there was such childlike eagerness on her face that even Yggur’s heart was touched. Twice she almost spoke, then her face clouded over and she lowered her head so that he would not see the tears in her eyes.

“I cannot,” she whispered.

Yggur struggled with himself. Maigraith saw that he was torn and now she grew really afraid.

“My people recently intercepted a skeet far to the north. Mendark has learned about the Mirror and is moving the earth to get it. I
will not
allow him to have it,” he said, the agony visible on his face. He stood up. “I must have it back, even if it means giving you to the Whelm. I must take the risk. You have until the morning.”

He went out and she did not see him again that day. She sat there in her cell the rest of the afternoon, dreading the night and even more the dawn, but when they came for her it was barely dark, and she was unprepared. Two Whelm seized her roughly from her bed and took her away.

I
n the night Llian coughed himself awake again and could not sleep. He was still weak and feverish from the mountain sickness. He looked up and saw Karan staring at him in the feeble light of the fire.

“I know a tale of the Aachim,” said Llian.

“So you keep saying.” She sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, I’m too tired.”

Llian was hurt. “I thought…”

The silence stretched out. Karan lay back suddenly on the ground and closed her eyes, trying to think, but all she could see in her mind was his wracked figure propped up against the wall.

“You thought what?”

“I thought you might like to hear it. It’s …it seems the only thing I can offer you.”

Karan felt a twinge of remorse. “Tell it then.”

“It’s the
Tale of Tar Gaarn
. Perhaps you know it, having lived among the Aachim.”

“I know of the treachery, but not the tale. That is not something they speak of in Shazmak.”

“It is quite a long tale, as we tell it in Chanthed. One of the longest.”

“Not a long tale, Llian. Not tonight.”

The irony struck her then, that for most of her life her greatest wish had been to hear the tellers in Chanthed, and now that she had the best of them all to herself, she was begging him not to tell. “No, tell it as you will. Perhaps it will help after all.” All I know about the Aachim is what they told me, thought Karan. Doubtless the chroniclers have a different insight.

Llian gave a wan smile. “It won’t be a long one tonight, I assure you,” he whispered, coughing and dabbing at his mouth with a rag. His beautiful voice was quite hoarse.

“After the Forbidding, the Aachim realized that there was no return to Aachan, and turned their minds to making their way on Santhenar. Because they were strong in their own right, and tireless when they had a goal, they quickly grew to a great nation. At this time it was their will to make a city that would rival any on Santhenar, even those of the Charon, and be an emblem of their pride and their strength.

“So Pitlis was chosen, for as an architect and builder he had no equal, and the city that he raised was incomparable. It was a place of domes and towers and soaring arcs of stone that seemed to hang unsupported in the crystalline air—a fusion of air and water, metal and stone. None saw it without a gasp, or left it without a tear. A place of music and poetry. A place of community, yet a place of solitude. That was Tar Gaarn, until Rulke came.”

He broke off in another fit of coughing that left him so weak he had to support himself with his arms.

Karan opened her eyes and looked up at the veiled stars. A shiver went up her spine. The seeping cold came right through coat and cloak and blankets, numbing her flesh but making the bones ache.

When he began again Llian’s voice was like gravel rattling in a bucket. “But Tar Gaarn was also raised for a purpose, for the Aachim knew that war with the Charon,
with Rulke
, was inevitable. Tar Gaarn was their greatest fortress, and their final refuge, if others failed, and in it rested their hope as well as their pride. And shortly came the Clysm, the terrible wars between the Charon and the Aachim that lasted for centuries and devastated Santhenar. But wars that could never be won, for Rulke, greatest of the Charon, was impossibly strong. Yet Tar Gaarn was impregnable—so cunningly designed that the countless assaults scarcely marred its timeless beauty; so vast that its storehouses could stand the longest siege.

“But at last it seemed even Rulke tired of the endless conflict, and one day he met secretly with Piths and craved peace with him. ‘Let us end this fruitless war,’ he said. ‘I would find an answer to the great problem of the age—
the breaking of the Forbidding
. This project is in your interest too, and I need your aid, for I must go back to my people.’

“Piths was old, seasoned, wary. He knew Rulke’s reputation for treachery too well. He would not risk Tar Gaarn or his people. Yet how he yearned for his own world.
Aachan is ours
, he thought, all we ever wanted. If we break the Forbidding it is we who will be going back. And once home, with the strength we have gained here, we will wrest Aachan back and cast the Hundred (for that was the number of the Charon when they took Aachan—so few!) into the void from whence they came. I will go along with Rulke’s plan until my own is ripe.

“So Pitlis agreed, but he also made a secret alliance with
the Council of Santhenar, against Rulke. The head of the Council, then as now, was Mendark, and he was balanced by the brilliant Yggur, who was so young that he had never needed to use his mancer powers to lengthen his life.

“The Clysm ended at last. And for a long time it seemed that Rulke had indeed changed, for the truce lengthened into an uneasy peace and, after many years, as memories dimmed, to an alliance of equals. The Aachim knew peace, prosperity and serenity such as they had never known. And Pitlis was revered by all.

“Then Rulke came to him again. ‘I would raise a city in my own lands,’ said Rulke. Then looking almost abashed, if such an expression can be imagined on the face of a Charon, he asked, ‘Would the Aachim, would Pitlis conceive, even design such a city for me?’

“ ‘What would you do with so great a city?’ Pitlis asked suspiciously.

“ ‘A monument, and a symbol. But more! To break the Forbidding I will need an army of scholars and engineers; alchemists and all the sciences. And to shape such tools I must have the right forge, and the right anvil. Will you do it?’

“How can the Forbidding be broken? thought Pitlis. Only with a device like the flute, and if Rulke could have made it himself he would not have needed Shuthdar. Perhaps I will. I see an opportunity. But I will watch him like a skeet.