The Sword Of Angels (Gollancz S.F.) (62 page)

Laying down on the gory earth, Lukien slept.

The afternoon sun bore down on Niharn as he sat on the deck of the feruka, sipping from a cup of wine from Thaget’s private bottle and feeling the heat cook the back of his neck. Steam rose up from the river bank, disappearing like ghosts into the breezeless air. Niharn’s shirt clung to him, wet with perspiration. An insistent fly buzzed around his ears. The men of the feruka sat on the other side of the boat, mostly doing nothing because there was nothing much to do. Others waited below deck, out of the sun. They had been beached in Amchan for over three days and their restlessness showed on their bitter faces. Some had taken to splashing in the water or laying on the beach, liberated from their duties by Captain Thaget, who had the good sense to try and defuse their anxiety. Niharn sipped languidly from his cup, feeling the wine work its way over his brain. He was more than bored now, and past the point of worry. He had already told Thaget that they would be leaving in the morning, and Niharn had given up hope of ever seeing Lukien or Jahan again.

We should leave now,
he told himself blackly. His eyes lingered on the woods in which his charges had disappeared.
They’re gone. They must be.

He felt a fool for waiting as long as he had, and he dreaded the look Lahkali would give him when he returned – without Lukien.

The Katath Master lowered his cup to the rickety table and stood, stretching his tight back. Peripherally, he glimpsed something on the beach. Thinking it one of Thaget’s men, he momentarily ignored it. A second later his head snapped around again.

‘Lukien . . .’

In disbelief he ran to the gangplank, pausing there to see the man trudging toward the bank. Lukien, half naked and starved, still held the katath Niharn had given him. His golden amulet swung from his neck. But he was alone. And his face had the look of tragedy to it.

Niharn called to Thaget as he bounced down the gangplank then splashed into the muddy waters. Behind him, sailors gathered on the deck of the feruka. He heard Thaget’s gasp of surprise.

‘Lukien!’ Niharn called. He stopped with his ankles still in the water. ‘What has happened?’

The knight from across the desert turned his single, hollow eye to the master. A filthy beard covered his sunken cheeks. The trousers he wore had been torn and stained with blood, and his hair was matted back against his head, caked with mud. He spoke in a rasp.

‘Jahan is dead,’ he pronounced. ‘And so is the rass that killed him.’

Niharn fell speechless. All he could do was stutter a feckless reply. ‘I am sorry.’

Lukien held out the katath. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘And take us home.’

Handing off the weapon, Lukien staggered up the gangway and onto the waiting barge.

The Walled Garden of Castle Hes contained more roses than Mirage had seen in her whole life. They bloomed in every variety, climbing trestles and smothering ancient statues while they filled the garden with perfume. Mirage worked diligently among the flowers, clipping back the sprouts the way Laurella had taught her, careful to watch the thorns that had already pricked her fingers, teaching her the hard way to use the gloves Laurella had provided. The morning sun blanketed the garden, threatening a hot day. Mirage glanced up at the blue sky, noting its perfection. The last week had passed in a day-dream of perfect weather, and she had been glad to get out of the castle and help Laurella with the chores. With Raxor gone, she had more than enough time to pitch in, and while the royal women of the castle ignored her and called her whore behind her back, Mirage was content to work as the servants did, tending to the garden or shadowing the maids while they cleaned the enormous home. She had been in Castle Hes for more than two months now, and the only friends she had made in the city were servants like Laurella. Laurella had taken Mirage under her tutelage, teaching her the fineries of court gossip and pointing out the best ways to avoid King Raxor’s arrogant family. She had cared for Mirage like a mother, and Mirage was grateful to the old woman. She had made Mirage’s confinement in Hes bearable. Amazingly, it was starting to feel like home for Mirage.

Home had never been a word Mirage was comfortable with. For her, home was her burnt-out house in Jerikor, where her parents had died and where she had been scarred to the point where pity shone in every eye that looked at her. And like the little girl she had been on that awful night, she carried that memory of home throughout her years in Grimhold, where she had struggled to find her place among the Inhumans and to be the daughter Minikin had always wanted her to be. She had chaffed in those years, never really feeling at home, and then when Lukien had come . . .

Mirage paused, staring at the bright red rose just in front of her nose,
her shears poised to clip back its dead leaves. It struck her as beautiful suddenly, and she realized that she had not thought of Lukien in weeks. Her time in Castle Hes had gone that quickly, and instead of pining for Lukien she spent her days worrying about Raxor. Now, though, the memory of Lukien came flooding over her like the scent of the rose, so strong it forced her to remember. Her heart twisted with a tiny pang, and she lowered her shears long enough to sigh.

Where was he these days, Mirage wondered? Had he found the sword? Was he even still alive?

‘And does he think of me?’

From the other side of the row of roses, young Sela glanced at her. The girl was on her knees in the dirt, sweating but happy-faced, enjoying her work. She peered through the blooms inquisitively.

‘Mirage? Are you talking to me?’

‘No,’ said Mirage, quickly shaking her head. ‘I was just . . . thinking.’

Laurella, dressed in a long brown work gown, sat on a stool at the other end of the garden, filling a basket with the most perfect of the roses. Overhearing the conversation of the girl’s, the old woman glanced over, nodding with a smile at Mirage. Mirage nodded back, embarrassed.

‘Take a break if you’re tired,’ Laurella suggested. ‘Take some water.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Mirage.

‘You don’t have to be here, you know,’ said Laurella gently. ‘You can go inside.’

‘No, I want to be here,’ Mirage insisted.

There were four entrances to the Walled Garden, each one an archway built into one of the four high walls. At the northern entrance stood Corvalos Chane, keeping his watchful visage over Mirage as she worked. Mirage stole a look at him, spotting a hint of humour on his hard face. He smiled, one of his wry grins, forcing Mirage to roll her eyes. Next to him was a barrel full of cool water that he had been helping himself to while the women worked. He patted it tauntingly with his hand. And all of a sudden Mirage was thirsty.

‘All right,’ she relented, getting off her knees and wiping the dirt from her work gown. She pulled off her gloves and dropped them to the ground, then sauntered over to where Chane was standing. Wherever she went in the castle or its grounds, Chane went with her, hovering like a vulture. At King Raxor’s orders he had been assigned to protect Mirage while the king was gone, and Chane had never once faltered in that duty. He was always nearby, waiting when she took her meals or went down to sleep at night, even when she bathed. He had become such a part of her life now that Mirage hardly noticed him any more, and that was why he occasionally taunted her. Like a spoiled brat, he wanted her attention.

‘Hot,’ he commented when she came up to him. He took a tin cup
from the side of the barrel and dipped it into the water for her, offering her the drink.

‘How would you know?’ she jibed. ‘You’re just standing here.’

‘Looking after you is work, girl, believe me. Do you want a drink or not?’

‘Yes,’ said Mirage, taking the cup out of his hand. ‘Thank you.’

He grinned. ‘Will you be much longer? It is going to get hotter, and Laurella is right – you don’t have to be out here working like a slave. You are the king’s woman.’

‘I choose to work, Corvalos Chane,’ said Mirage tartly. ‘And you can do more than just stand around making faces. Gardening is man’s work, too, you know.’

‘It may be that, but it is not my work, girl. My work is to see no harm comes to you. So be careful with those shears, will you?’

‘You are in a mood today,’ Mirage snorted, then at last took a pull of the cool water. From the corner of her eye she could see the boyish satisfaction on his face. ‘Of course if standing around is too much for you . . .’

‘I am fine.’

She handed him back the cup. ‘Tonight Laurella is going to teach me to sew. What do you think of that?’

‘It sounds like great fun.’

Mirage nodded. ‘After supper then. You’ll be there?’

‘Of course,’ said Chane, but a small knitting of his brow betrayed his displeasure. ‘I serve at the pleasure of my king.’

‘And you’ve done such a good job, Corvalos Chane, really,’ sighed Mirage. ‘Protecting me from all these flowers. If not for you I might be stung by a bee!’

Laurella and Sela heard her joke and laughed. Mirage studied Chane’s face, watching cracks develop in his stony fac¸ade. He was a handsome man, her bodyguard, or he might have been if he wasn’t so thin. His face, like the rest of his body, held no fat at all, just taught skin stretched over his strong bones. The hot sun and her constant sarcasm made his scalp turn red.

‘The king cares for you, girl,’ he said. ‘He would not have anything happen to you, or I would be the one to answer for it. So beware of the bees, please. The thorns, too.’

Was it a sweet thing to say? Mirage wasn’t sure. So many of Chane’s statements were couched in mystery. Despite their tension, they had become close during the month of Raxor’s absence, a fact that amazed Mirage. He was the one who had captured her, after all, and taken her to Raxor. But he had also saved her from Asher, and since then there was an unspoken attraction between them. He had told her once that he could
never have a woman of his own. Still, he was a man, and his eyes revealed his desires.

‘I’ll be only an hour or so more,’ she told him. ‘We’ll break for a meal then.’

Chane nodded as though disinterested, letting her return to her work. Mirage went back to her place in the garden, quietly trimming back the rose bushes. Occasionally she felt his eyes on her, admiring her, but when she looked up he glanced away, without the slightest trace of guilt to give him away. The hour passed slowly, and by the end of it Mirage and Sela were both exhausted and hungry. They looked hopefully at Laurella, who nodded as she rose from her bench.

‘Yes, all right,’ she said. ‘We can stop now.’

Happily Mirage laid down her shears and began to stand, and then noticed a man hurry into the garden, running up to where Corvalos Chane stood. He was a soldier, one of the guardians Mirage often saw around the castle, and his face was drawn with worry. Mirage and the others stopped, instantly alarmed as the man began talking, struggling to catch his breath. Chane listened, though Mirage could not hear what was being said. She watched as Chane’s expression lost its usual apathy, collapsing suddenly with disbelief. His mouth dropped open as the man spoke. Mirage stopped breathing, sure something terrible had happened.

Corvalos Chane looked stricken. His eyes moved purposelessly around the garden, as if lost. The soldier stopped talking. He stared at Chane. Mirage froze.

‘What is it?’ she called from across the garden.

Chane ignored her. He dismissed the soldier, then turned and slowly left the garden. Shocked, Mirage looked at Laurella, but the old housemaid simply shrugged. Young Sela went to stand beside Mirage.

‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘Where’s he going?’

Mirage was determined to get answers. ‘Wait here,’ she told Sela, then hurried out of the garden after Chane. She caught up to him quickly just outside the garden wall. He did not turn to look at her, but kept walking toward the castle, his face emotionless.

‘Chane?’ she queried. She grabbed hold of his sleeve to stop him. ‘Wait!’

Corvalos Chane stopped walking, and very carefully took her hand off his arm. ‘Don’t touch me. I have to go.’

‘Go where?’ Mirage insisted. She looked ahead, toward the soldier scurrying back toward the castle. ‘Who was that?’

‘No one. He’s no one.’

‘What did he tell you?’

Chane fought to control himself. He looked at her, then quickly looked away. ‘Prince Roland is dead,’ he said. ‘King Raxor is on his way home.’

Mirage stepped back. ‘What?’

‘The king . . .’ Chane could barely speak. ‘His army – they were defeated.’

‘Defeated?’ It seemed unbelievable. ‘Raxor?’

Chane looked disgusted. ‘Did you not hear what I said? The king’s son is dead.’

‘I heard you,’ said Mirage. ‘I . . .’ She caught herself. ‘I am sorry.’

Chane shook his head. ‘His only son . . .’

Once again he turned away, walking slowly as if through a haze. Mirage took a step after him, then stopped herself. Her own shock tied her tongue into a knot. The heartbreak on Chane’s face frightened her. Behind her, she heard Laurella and Sela approaching. What would she tell them?

Under the perfect blue sky, Mirage watched Corvalos Chane leave.

As she always did since Raxor’s departure, Mirage ate her supper with Laurella and the other maids, late at night after the royals had all gone to sleep. Tonight, however, the usual bawdy conversation around the table was stunted by the terrible news of Prince Roland’s death and the even more unbelievable fact that the king’s great army had been defeated. Because she was an outsider still, Mirage heard very little about what had actually happened, and though all the servants listened earnestly to the talk among their masters, they still had almost no idea of what had actually happened. Mirage ate sparingly, saying little as she contemplated the awful truth about what Baron Glass had done. The rumours that reached her and her servant friends were filled with tales about the ‘Black Baron’ and his evil armour, and how he had been the one to murder Prince Roland. The thought curdled Mirage’s appetite so that she pushed her potatoes around her plate without tasting them.

Corvalos Chane had not come to her, either. Mirage supposed he was somewhere in the Castle, mourning the loss of his king’s son. Like many in Hes, Chane had no real love for the prince, but his love for King Raxor was boundless and Mirage was sure he shared the old ruler’s pain. She imagined what Raxor might look like now, broken and defeated, his only son slain in the most horrible fashion. He had been kind to her and Mirage had been looking forward to his homecoming, but now she dreaded it. The news of his defeat fell over Castle Hes like a blight.

That evening, she did not go to her rooms as usual, but instead walked the corridors of Castle Hes in search of Corvalos Chane. The king’s relatives had all gone to the parlours to discuss the bad news of the day, leaving the castle ghostly and quiet. What had been a long day ended in a blood-red sunset, visible from the castle’s many windows. Mirage paused to watch the crimson dusk disappear into darkness, wondering
where Corvalos Chane was hiding. He would not be pleased to see her, she was sure, but she was drawn to him tonight. She needed his quiet strength.