with contempt.
Brand bent to whisper in my ear. ‘They look at us as though they wish us dead,’ he said.
‘They do,’ I replied, with certainty.
I felt uncomfortable. Had fate thrown my destiny into another wind, I might have been one of these people. They looked so much like me with their tan skins, earth-coloured hair, brown eyes. A desert people who would have blended into the brown soil and the burnt-sienna adobe of their buildings if it hadn’t been for the bright patches of colour in their clothing. The men wore loose brown trousers, plain light-coloured shirts with full sleeves, sleeveless boleros, cloth belts—and the boleros and belts were always in vivid, unpatterned primary colours. The women were all clad in the anoudain, and often the tops were brightly coloured, or adorned with a spray of embroidery from the shoulder across the slope of a breast.
I eyed them with envy. I liked to wear trousers, but Tyranian custom frowned on such informality outside the home. I wondered if the highborn of Tyr would approve of the anoudain. The long thin overskirt, slit almost to the waist on either side, did lend a graceful femininity to the trousers underneath, yet the wearer still had the freedom of movement trousers provided.
Anoudain…
The harsh light of the square flicked out and memory swamped my senses.
I was in a tiny room, being rocked with hypnotic rhythm. I was drowsing, lying back in cushioned comfort, a woman’s arm round my shoulders, and the perfume I associated with happiness was in my nostrils…until the noise began. The room lurched. Screams, terrible screams of agony and anger. The woman became another person, a frightening person, ripping away the filmy skirting of her anoudain to reveal the more substantial trousers underneath; grabbing up a sword—
I cried out in my panic. The woman turned to me, tenderness briefly returning. ‘Hush, little one,’ she said. ‘Remember, you are of the Magor. You must be brave.’ She took my hand in hers and curled the fingers closed over the palm. ‘But from them—from them you must always hide it. Do you understand, my precious? Always.’ She hugged me and looked over my head to the woman who was the third occupant of that tiny room. ‘I leave her in your care, Theura. Do what you can.’
And then she was gone, jumping out with a ferocious cry.
When I moved to follow, the other woman held me back and drew the curtains so that I could not see—but not before I had glimpsed hell first. My mother bathed in golden light, surrounded by evil, her sword cutting a swathe of red blood…gold and crimson, light and blood.
And I began to scream.
The memory was abruptly, painfully, cut off. I tried to seize it again, to bring it into focus, but it blurred away.
I knew part of me did not want to remember.
‘Are you all right?’ Brand asked, puzzled.
I took a breath, forcing myself to nod. We were on the other side of the square from the Prefect’s house and I had no recollection of crossing the open space to reach the white stone edifice dazzling in the sunshine in front of me.
Theura. That other woman in the room of my memory had been called Theura . And just this morning, the slave Othenid had called me Theura…
‘The barracks,’ the legionnaire explained unnecessarily. The number of gorclaks tethered outside, all wearing military saddles, made it clear what the building was. The animals did not seem to mind the heat of the street; their thick grey hides protected them from both sun and cold. I could never look at them without thinking of war. With their small mean eyes, their single razor-sharp horn, the folds of thick skin they wore like armour, the cruel spurs on muscled legs built for endurance rather than speed, they looked as if they had been created to be mobile battering rams. Machines of war, of death. I thought of Favonius. He rode a gorclak.
The legionnaire took us to meet Deltos Forgra, the centurion in charge, and Deltos took us,
Brand bent to whisper in my ear. ‘They look at us as though they wish us dead,’ he said.
‘They do,’ I replied, with certainty.
I felt uncomfortable. Had fate thrown my destiny into another wind, I might have been one of these people. They looked so much like me with their tan skins, earth-coloured hair, brown eyes. A desert people who would have blended into the brown soil and the burnt-sienna adobe of their buildings if it hadn’t been for the bright patches of colour in their clothing. The men wore loose brown trousers, plain light-coloured shirts with full sleeves, sleeveless boleros, cloth belts—and the boleros and belts were always in vivid, unpatterned primary colours. The women were all clad in the anoudain, and often the tops were brightly coloured, or adorned with a spray of embroidery from the shoulder across the slope of a breast.
I eyed them with envy. I liked to wear trousers, but Tyranian custom frowned on such informality outside the home. I wondered if the highborn of Tyr would approve of the anoudain. The long thin overskirt, slit almost to the waist on either side, did lend a graceful femininity to the trousers underneath, yet the wearer still had the freedom of movement trousers provided.
Anoudain…
The harsh light of the square flicked out and memory swamped my senses.
I was in a tiny room, being rocked with hypnotic rhythm. I was drowsing, lying back in cushioned comfort, a woman’s arm round my shoulders, and the perfume I associated with happiness was in my nostrils…until the noise began. The room lurched. Screams, terrible screams of agony and anger. The woman became another person, a frightening person, ripping away the filmy skirting of her anoudain to reveal the more substantial trousers underneath; grabbing up a sword—
I cried out in my panic. The woman turned to me, tenderness briefly returning. ‘Hush, little one,’ she said. ‘Remember, you are of the Magor. You must be brave.’ She took my hand in hers and curled the fingers closed over the palm. ‘But from them—from them you must always hide it. Do you understand, my precious? Always.’ She hugged me and looked over my head to the woman who was the third occupant of that tiny room. ‘I leave her in your care, Theura. Do what you can.’
And then she was gone, jumping out with a ferocious cry.
When I moved to follow, the other woman held me back and drew the curtains so that I could not see—but not before I had glimpsed hell first. My mother bathed in golden light, surrounded by evil, her sword cutting a swathe of red blood…gold and crimson, light and blood.
And I began to scream.
The memory was abruptly, painfully, cut off. I tried to seize it again, to bring it into focus, but it blurred away.
I knew part of me did not want to remember.
‘Are you all right?’ Brand asked, puzzled.
I took a breath, forcing myself to nod. We were on the other side of the square from the Prefect’s house and I had no recollection of crossing the open space to reach the white stone edifice dazzling in the sunshine in front of me.
Theura. That other woman in the room of my memory had been called Theura . And just this morning, the slave Othenid had called me Theura…
‘The barracks,’ the legionnaire explained unnecessarily. The number of gorclaks tethered outside, all wearing military saddles, made it clear what the building was. The animals did not seem to mind the heat of the street; their thick grey hides protected them from both sun and cold. I could never look at them without thinking of war. With their small mean eyes, their single razor-sharp horn, the folds of thick skin they wore like armour, the cruel spurs on muscled legs built for endurance rather than speed, they looked as if they had been created to be mobile battering rams. Machines of war, of death. I thought of Favonius. He rode a gorclak.
The legionnaire took us to meet Deltos Forgra, the centurion in charge, and Deltos took us,
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