The Shadow of Tyr Read online

  Rathrox’s feelings were harder to ascertain. He kept himself under rigid control at the best of times, and even now it took her a moment to identify the thread of his shock, inextricably mixed with suspicion. He was not about to be so easily deceived. The Brotherhood, after all, were experts at lies and betrayal.

  Ligea felt the cold of fear. If he knew how to get in here without wrecking this entire deception, he’d already be on his way.

  ‘Do you think to defy your deity?’ she thundered. The High Priestess collapsed to her knees, all of her pride melting into a misery of guilt. The moneymaster remained standing and so did Rathrox, who glared at the Oracle.

  ‘Kneel, Magister!’

  ‘Magister,’ the Prefect hissed, tugging at Rathrox’s wrap, ‘have respect for the Goddess, for pity’s sake. Are you mad?’

  Rathrox glowered, but he knelt. The look he sent Antonia boded ill for the High Priestess, but it was the Prefect he addressed. ‘Dominus,’ he said, ‘there is something wrong here. This is not the normal way—’

  ‘Do you question your Goddess, Rathrox Ligatan?’ Ligea roared.

  ‘You’re no deity,’ he said in angry protest, and climbed to his feet once more.

  Ligea sent a beam of power from her sword spiralling out of the Oracle’s eye. It brushed Rathrox’s clothing, slicing through the fold of his wrap to sear his skin at the hip, before slamming into the bronze bowl of the Eternal Flame. Carefully she slit the vessel in two. Each half fell away to hit the floor with a ringing clang, and then rocked gently until the sounds died away. The Eternal Flame continued to burn, flaring up between the broken pieces, like the centre of a flower between the petals. The faint hiss of its fire was now the only sound.

  One of the priestesses fainted. No one moved to her aid. Several stifled sobs in the loose ends of their wraps. Rathrox paled as he stared down at his side. A wisp of smoke curled from the severed edges of the cut in his robe. He sank down onto his knees once more. To Ligea, his fear was a tangible thing.

  She delighted in it.

  Cestonius the Arbiter faced the Oracle nervously with a bowed head. ‘S-Sweet M-Melete, we mean you no, um, no disrespect. W-We are unused to you addressing us in so direct a manner. Please f-forgive our, um, rudeness. We wish only to serve you and our city.’

  ‘Then listen to my words, Cestonius. And heed them well, for you all have angered me with your lack of humility. And you must suffer the consequences.’

  One of the priestesses burst into sobs. No one took any notice.

  ‘Your city will pay the price of your arrogance and deceit,’ Ligea said, her voice as cold as she knew how to make it. ‘On the day of the whirlwind, the unravelling of the Exaltarchy will begin. People of Tyr, leave the city on that day, or risk doom. Slaves of Tyr, seek your freedom. The reign of Bator Korbus will end and a new prosperity will come with a woman’s touch and you will bow to a woman’s feet, one blessed by your Goddess—’

  ‘This, this thing is spewing treason!’ Rathrox cried, his fury pouring out from him in black waves. ‘I will not listen.’

  Ligea also sensed his panic. Not fear of the Goddess, she felt sure, because his disbelief was as real to her as the smell of the fumes. He leaped to his feet and lunged at the face of the Oracle. Perhaps he meant to rip away the loose piece of the face to expose what was behind, but he smashed into the ward so hard his whole body jolted back. Reeling, he lost balance and thudded to the floor. Blood spilled from a broken nose.

  No one moved to help him. He lay there in front of her ward, conscious, struggling to rise, dazed, bloodied.

  ‘Forgive him, Domina,’ the Prefect whispered, fearing for his city. ‘He doesn’t understand.’

  ‘He is doomed,’ she replied. ‘And on the day of his death, he shall understand who brings him to his doom.’ She paused, and then turned her attention to the others. ‘Sethicus.’

  The historian jumped, alarmed at being singled out. ‘Goddess?’

  ‘Listen well, for you hear the beginning of new history today. Write the words truly.’

  He bowed his head in reverence. ‘It shall be done, Domina.’

  ‘Lettactes.’

  ‘Yes, Lady? How may I serve you?’

  She didn’t know the head of the Trade Guild personally, but she knew his reputation as a wily trader of enormous wealth and few scruples. It was easy to guess his weakness. ‘Be prepared to serve the new order, or die a poor man.’

  He stared at the Oracle in shock. ‘What—what new order?’ he asked.

  ‘You will know it when it arrives.’ He wanted to ask her more, but she cut him off. ‘Legate Valorian. Seamaster Mescades.’

  The two military men clapped their right hands to the breast and raised their heads to gaze into the eyes of the Oracle. ‘Goddess,’ they said simultaneously.

  ‘A man of war must choose his side carefully,’ she said.

  ‘We are loyal!’ Valorian protested. In spite of the coolness of the cavern, perspiration dripped from the ends of his curled hair.

  She replied, ‘In your future, a time will come when you will need to consider that loyalty with care. Loyal to whom? Sometimes an excess of loyalty is foolish, should a leader fail to earn the loyalty given him. Remember these words, for I will one day remind you both of them, and ask you to make decisions.’

  Rathrox dragged himself to his knees. ‘This can’t be the Goddess! Don’t believe her—’ he began.

  Ligea bathed him in the light of her cabochon, flooding it with pain. He collapsed again, rolling into a foetal ball. She turned to the moneymaster. The man had continued to stand through it all, his elderly figure ramrod straight in his red robes. ‘Master Javenid.’

  The Assorian tore his wide-eyed gaze from Rathrox to stare warily at the lion’s head. Then he bowed, deliberately presenting a view of the all-seeing eye of his God tattooed on his head. ‘I practise another faith,’ he said. He was nervous, but not fearful in the sense of most of the others. He did not believe he faced a goddess. His scepticism matched that of Rathrox, but with more puzzlement than anger. ‘I serve the One True God.’

  The Prefect and the Arbiter winced, obviously considering this an insult to the Goddess.

  ‘I would not wean you from your God,’ Ligea assured him. ‘I would say instead, guard the prosperity of your people with your wisdom.’

  He inclined his head. ‘I always try to do so.’

  ‘That is well.’

  She addressed the Arbiter again. ‘Cestonius, it is time for the judiciary to consider the legality of slavery and the rights of slaves.’

  He looked perplexed. ‘Slaves have no rights, Lady. They—they are outside the Law.’

  ‘Exactly. Direct your thoughts to the justice of that, if you would. I command it of you.’

  ‘As—as you wish,’ he said, floundering, with no understanding of what she meant. He licked his lips and sent a desperate look at the Prefect, who seemed equally bewildered.

  Damn it, she thought, such men are beyond understanding the iniquity of slavery. How can I deal with someone who can’t even imagine anything else, let alone conceive that what we have now may be wrong? She suppressed a sigh and turned her attention back to the Prefect Urbis, addressing him by name. ‘Prefect Laurentius, the day of the whirlwind comes. Abandon your city on that day until the anger of the gods has passed you by. Heed my warning.’

  He didn’t reply. She felt him struggle to comprehend, and fail. He, too, was sweating; beads of moisture ran down his neck.

  She was suffused with a sense of futility. How, by all that was holy, was she ever going to pull this off? Was she moondaft to imagine she could bring down the Exaltarch and slavery?

  Ravaged hells, here I am with everyone at my mercy, and I should be triumphant. Instead, I feel overwhelmed. ‘Go,’ she said.

  No one moved.

  She snapped at them, ‘All of you, be gone from this sacred place. Profane it no longer with your doubts and disbelief.’

  The military men
were the first to move, but when the seamaster reached out to haul Rathrox to his feet, she added, ‘No, leave him.’ Mescades hesitated, but in the end he left with the others. Antonia paused too, not to look at Rathrox, but at the Oracle. When it remained silent, she followed Esme and the other priestesses who were, by then, on their way out, helping the one who had fainted.

  Ligea pinned Rathrox down with a further wave of pain, then withdrew power from her two wards. They winked out of existence. She unblocked the fissure and bundled the sack back into her bag, which she slipped over her shoulder. Then she returned to the main cavern, pausing only to check with her positioning senses that everyone except Rathrox had indeed gone.

  He was still curled up, groaning, only semiconscious, his fingers digging spasmodically into the floor of the cavern. She left him there and went to the vessel of the Eternal Flame. Using the power of her sword, she righted the two sides of the bowl and welded them together. She didn’t try to disguise the join between the two pieces. Let it be a reminder to them, every time they look at it.

  By the time she finished, she felt the beginnings of fatigue depleting her strength. Her headache was worse. Hells, I didn’t realise that would take so much power. Or was it just the damned fumes that were making her so weak?

  She knelt down at Rathrox’s side. Just seeing him was enough to bring back the bitterness, the rawness of her sense of loss. If she killed him, would it take the pain away? The temptation was overwhelming. Such an easy revenge. Such simple justice for all the evil he had done to her, and others. He had taken everything from her, and she could take his life.

  But she wanted him to know. Wanted him to know who did it. She built a ward to make sure he could not surprise her. ‘Rathrox,’ she said. ‘Wake up.’

  He groaned, but nothing more.

  ‘Wake up, you compeer bastard, and listen to me. You are about to die and I want you to know who’s doing this to you.’ She put her hand through the ward and shook his shoulder.

  He groaned again, but still didn’t stir. She doubted he heard her.

  Her head pounded, and she was overtaken by a wave of nausea and debilitating weakness. It had to be the fumes. She picked up her sword and stood up. She had to have fresh air. But first, she’d just kill him.

  Footsteps—she heard footsteps. Someone was coming down the passageway from the temple and her positioning powers had told her nothing. She gazed at her cabochon. The gold had dimmed. She was so damned weak.

  I’m being poisoned. Oh, cabochon, Arrant!

  She fled in the opposite direction, her thoughts a jumble of chaotic concern for her baby, as she ran towards the adjoining cave where she could find fresh air and escape.

  Moments later, she was outside again, on the cliff side, spewing up the contents of her stomach before she even remembered she hadn’t killed the Magister Officii after all.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Brand was bored. He was also a little drunk. He had spent the morning visiting a variety of pothouses in areas of the city where he was not known, starting rumours of how Melete was going to make a personal appearance at the annual Oracle prophecy. It had been Ligea’s idea, to ensure that there was no way Rathrox and Antonia could cover up what happened. Last he’d looked, as a result of his rumour-mongering, the crowd waiting at the temple was large enough to spill out of the main gate. Soon they would all know what had happened inside. Even if none of the invited guests said anything, one of the priestesses surely would.

  He now sat propped against a vault, at the back of the necropolis, in among the oregano and thyme. It was sunny, and crickets and cicadas sawed and vibrated in the grass, refusing to acknowledge leaf-fall was already signalling the close of the desert-season. In another three weeks or so, the first fresh snows would fall in the mountains, and the snow-season would officially commence.

  The monotony of the insect songs was more effective than any lullaby, and only Brand’s worry for Ligea kept him awake. He always worried about her. He couldn’t help himself. Blast the woman, why couldn’t she just do normal things for once? Like settle down and wait for her baby to be born? He sighed, acknowledging that was an unfair thought. Ligea had not been granted a normal life from the time she was three years old.

  But this idea of hers, to become the Exaltarch, it scared him halfway to Acheron. They had spent days thrashing out ideas and plans and possibilities, and it still scared him. When you freed a lion from the cage, you were the first one in its path. She could not know what she was unleashing on the world.

  The first part of the plan hinged on their ability to get their slave recruits out of Tyr. Trouble was, he still wasn’t sure how many were eager to try. He wasn’t even sure he had convinced Gevenan to join them.

  He had spoken to the horse-handler on numerous occasions since the morning they had met on the beach, and the man had been willing enough to listen. However, the only commitment Brand had received in return, said with a sardonic grin, was, ‘I’ll decide when I see this whirlwind of yours.’

  ‘Damn it,’ Brand told a small lizard that came out of the grasses to stare at him. ‘Gev’s a bloody cynical bastard.’ The lizard regarded him, unblinking and silent. ‘Yeah, I know. Just like me.’

  At least he wouldn’t be around for too much longer. He didn’t think he could bear seeing Ligea in danger all the time. He sighed, aware that he didn’t know if he could live without her either, but he did know he had to try.

  Until I’ve lived alone and free, I won’t know myself.

  And yet…

  He looked up at the cliff and saw her climbing down, competent, sure-footed and entirely fearless. And still he wished he could persuade her not to do this.

  The lizard crawled up onto his sandal and sat there, sunning itself. He said softly, ‘Enjoy the warmth while you may, little one. It won’t last. The cold always comes.’

  A few moments later, Ligea was flinging her pack down on the ground beside him, startling the lizard into frantic escape. ‘I’m so tired,’ she announced, and sat beside him, back to the vault.

  ‘Thought you would be.’ She was always tired and hungry after using her powers. He handed over a packet of meat pastries, the still-warm gravy oozing deliciously out of the sides.

  ‘Oh, lovely!’ She selected one and took a large bite. ‘How was your morning?’

  ‘Successful. A lot of people are going to believe nothing less than a description of Melete stepping down from her plinth to speak to the Prefect. They will demand to know everything.’

  She sighed. ‘It’s almost sad. People shouldn’t be so gullible.’

  ‘My mother used to tell me that if we were strong in faith we wouldn’t believe in trickery. But that’s not the case here, is it? Their belief makes them more gullible, not less.’

  She thought about that while she licked her fingers. ‘Religion demands people have belief in what cannot be proven. Perhaps that’s what makes them susceptible: the willingness to believe in things which are ultimately uncheckable. What was your family’s faith, Brand?’

  ‘We worshipped the gods of the Delta. My mother was very devout. Every morning she would weave a small basket and fill it with tokens of food. Then she would float it on the river, for the gods.’

  ‘And did the gods find it?’

  He gave a mischievous smile. ‘I don’t know. But I do know my friends and I used to wait downstream from where the village headman’s wife floated her baskets, so that we could wade in and grab the food. She was a very good cook.’

  Ligea laughed, but there was something deeper in her eyes that troubled him. His heart sank. When would the hurt stop coming? There seemed no end to it…

  He said in sober reflection, ‘Many Altani turned to the Tyranian pantheon after we were conquered. They thought our local gods didn’t protect us, so why worship them? My mother was angry. She said that just because men abused their might didn’t mean their gods were holy, but rather that they themselves were unworthy. She was a good woman, my mother.
There were others who felt the same way, of course. I believe most of the Gharials still serve the gods of the Delta.’

  ‘And you? What do you believe in?’

  ‘Myself,’ he said softly. ‘Only myself.’ And you. I also believe in you.

  He had a flash of memory. A slave dealer’s foul breath against his neck, the pain of what was being done to him, his own sobbing while he prayed to every god he could think of, pleading for rescue. And then the same scene again and again in different places, with different men, different perversions, the same pain—and always the same answer from the gods: none. For two long, sorry years.

  He dragged himself back from the memory. ‘If I was going to be a religious man—unlikely, I feel sure—but if I was, I think I would kneel to the Unknown God.’

  She raised an amused eyebrow. ‘There is such a deity? In the Tyranian pantheon?’

  ‘No, that’s just it. It’s not in anyone’s pantheon. It just is. He—or maybe she, or even it—has a small temple in the Snarls. It’s plain and unpretentious, and there are no priests. You just go there and pray in whatever way you want. There’s only one precept to follow, and it is engraved over the lintel: Do no person harm. I go there sometimes, when I feel the need of peace.’ He paused, then asked quietly, ‘So, what happened up there?’ What has made you look so—so bruised?

  She put down the remains of her pastry in sudden distaste. ‘Rathrox was there.’

  One part of him went as still as the lizard now basking in the sun near by. ‘Is he, um, still alive?’

  She nodded. ‘Does that surprise you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had the perfect opportunity to turn him to ashes, and I threw it away.’

  He tried to keep his tone neutral. ‘Because you weren’t ready to plug the hole his death would leave?’

  ‘When it came down to it, I was going to kill him anyway. But I wanted him to know it was me, and I lost the opportunity.’

  He had a horrible idea that had been a mistake. It was dangerous to play games with a man like Rathrox Ligatan of the Brotherhood. Oh, gods, Ligea, what have you done?