by Glenda Larke
‘But what am I doing going on about such things when you must be hurting? After what he told you about Sarana and Brand and Arrant!’
‘You heard that too?’ He ran a hand through his hair in a gesture of worry. ‘It will devastate Sarana. She and Brand have been friends since she was ten or so.’
‘And lovers since, if Korden is right.’
‘Oh, he was right.’
‘Ah. I’m sorry, Tem. Did you like Brand? Was he a friend?’
‘A friend? No. I liked him well enough, but he didn’t like me.’
‘But you were jealous. I know you.’
‘So? I am what I am. He didn’t think I was good enough for her.’
‘And now he has died for her,’ she said, switching her attention to massaging his temples. ‘Or perhaps for her son. He won a battle there. She will remember him with fondness for the rest of her life no matter whether she returns to your side or not.’
‘She would have done that without the sacrifice. I can’t begrudge her that. She owed Brand much, her life included.’
‘Oh? Problem will be what his death has done to your son then.’
‘Korden said he was not injured.’
‘Don’t be moondaft, Tem. Sounds as if Sarana’s lover died because Arrant was jealous and allowed himself to be manipulated. The boy—if he has any sensitivity at all—will have been devastated because it was all his fault. Have a job on your hands when he arrives.’
He looked faintly surprised. ‘Do you think so?’
‘Men!’ she said in disgust. ‘Why d’you never see the obvious? Rule nations with immense foresight, yet can’t manage your own families!’
‘I’ve not had a family since the day of the Shimmer Festival massacres.’ The day he’d been orphaned and his baby sister had died, slaughtered by Tyranian legionnaires…
She ceased her ministrations and went to pick up the tray and the dirty drinking vessels. ‘Well, you’re going to have to start learning soon. In the meantime, remember what I said about Arrant and Korden. And Firgan, too. ‘Specially Firgan. Sometimes much can be told about a man by the way he treats those who hold no rank. Korden may be cold and prejudiced, but at least he has some class. And, yes, honour. He does not treat people such as me with disdain and he loves Kardiastan more than he loves himself. Firgan’s just plain rude and arrogant and uncaring. Bet if you look at his campaigns, you’ll see he bought non-Magor popularity with money and goods he stole from the defeated, but on the battleground he didn’t care a single sand grain for the non-Magor spear fodder.’
When Hellesia had gone, Temellin walked to the unshuttered window to look out at the garden. The keyets flew up from the vines in a panic, shedding stray feathers. Ordinary Kardi birds in an ordinary Kardi garden with all the flowers and plants doing exactly what plants and flowers were supposed to do. ‘Damn it, I miss the Mirage,’ he thought. ‘I miss the wild unexpectedness of it. The bizarre insanity.’ He smiled, remembering when he’d been about eight years old and Mirage City had been infested with tiny talking rainbows that recited children’s poetry and moved about like loop caterpillars. Singing flowers, creeks that flowed uphill, perfumed birds, kitchen fires with green flames and patterned smoke—he’d seen them all.
He leaned his forehead against the windowframe and thought of Sarana. How was it possible to have shared so little time with her, and yet to go on loving, feeling the ache, for year after lonely year? Arrant had been five when he’d last seen her.
There had been other women come and go on his pallet. Even Hellesia briefly, before he’d realised her history had left too many memories for her ever to be truly at ease in a man’s bed, no matter what her initial inclinations had been or how willing she’d seemed. He had an idea she now slept with his cook, an obese ex-slave woman from Corsene, left behind by the Tyranians when they’d fled the city.
Others could fill his arms and some had even caught his affections—but none of them had been Sarana. And none of them ever would be.
‘Skies, woman, come home,’ he thought. ‘Soon, please.’
Firgan, the twenty-eight-year old son of Korden and Gretha, halted on the threshold of the main hall of the Korden villa and drawled, ‘So, Papa, what is this about? A family conclave? All very mysterious.’ He ignored the rest of his family and went to lounge on one of the Tyranian divans that littered the room. Once the residence of the Exaltarch’s provincial governor, the spacious villa retained much of its Tyranian heritage.
Korden acknowledged Firgan’s comment with a nod and glanced around the room with quiet satisfaction. He’d come to love the villa. Built mostly of imported marble and overlooking the lake, to many Kardis it remained a Tyranian eyesore better torn down, but Korden, nagged by Gretha in the aftermath of the war and the consequent housing shortage, had moved his family in. He’d not regretted the decision. The elegance of the marble—the clean coolness of it; the grace of the statues and furnishings, still much the way the Tyranians had left them: he loved it all. Gretha even insisted everyone leave their sandals at the door and walk barefoot inside. He now had no intention of ever moving out or, in fact, of disguising the villa’s Tyranian nature.
‘A small but important matter,’ he said in reply to Firgan. ‘The Mirager’s son will be here within ten days or so and I wish to talk about his presence at the Academy.’ He smiled. It felt good to have six of his eleven children gathered in the one room again, no easy task now they were grown.
Firgan, the oldest, was not yet wed and still lived at home, although in his own apartments. The twins Myssa and Ryval were nineteen and undergoing training at the Magoroth Academy in the pavilions, as were the three younger children: seventeen-year-old Elvena, fifteen-year-old Lesgath, and the youngest, Serenelle, who was just a few months older than Arrant.
Elvena, the beauty of the family, settled herself carefully and arranged her anoudain so that the overskirt would not be creased. ‘I am sure you can rely on us to welcome him properly, Papa. We know our manners, and he will one day be our Mirager.’
Ryval guffawed. ‘Huh! You think you’re going to marry him, do you, Elvie? Fat chance! He’s closer to Serenelle in age. You’d have to spend years waiting for him to grow up and by then you’d have lost your looks.’
‘I shall never lose my looks,’ she said complacently.
Myssa snorted. ‘Pity. If you did, you might just be bearable. Thank goodness he’s not going to be thinking of me in terms of marriage.’ Myssa was the least feminine member of the family. She was more likely to be found on the weapons training ground than anywhere else, in a vain striving for equality with Ryval.
‘Well, marrying him would be better than marrying Ryval,’ Elvena said.
Exasperated, Korden intervened. ‘This is not about marriage. Or only as a last resort. Are you so guileless that only marriage matters to you? Arrant is not a proper Magoroth, and my intention is to make this clear to everyone, including his father, so that someone else will become Mirager-heir. We have two and a half years to achieve this goal.’
‘But I thought he already was Mirager-heir,’ Elvena said.
‘His father named him so after his birth, yes,’ Korden said, reining in his impatience. ‘But such an heir, brought up in Tyrans and apparently with poor control of his cabochon, is easily challenged by the Magoroth Council, or even supplanted, if he proves incompetent or otherwise unsuitable. I have agreed to do nothing until the boy is sixteen and of an age for Council confirmation. He will have more than sufficient chances to prove himself. And perhaps he will.’
‘As Temellin’s cousin, you’re next in line after Arrant,’ Ryval said. He was picking grass burrs out of his trousers and flicking them at Myssa. ‘Would you be nominated heir if this Arrant moonling proves unsuitable?’
‘Possibly, if I desired the job. But I do not. I would lose Temellin’s confidence were he to regard me as a rival, and I like the power I have right now as his friend and adviser. Besides, by the time Temellin dies, I would likely b
e deceased myself. No, should Arrant be unsuitable, we need to have Firgan made Mirager-heir, not me.’
Elvena’s eyes widened. ‘Firgan? Mirager one day?’ She looked at her brother dubiously.
‘In which case, you will marry him,’ Gretha told her. ‘It would be unthinkable that we had a Mirager in the family who then diluted the line of power by marrying outside it. And we all know Firgan appreciates beauty in a woman, so you are the logical choice.’
‘I’d like to think I had some say in the matter, Mother,’ Firgan said, but he was looking at Elvena with a predatory smile that brought a bright pink flush to her cheeks.
‘He’s not very nice,’ she said, and pouted. ‘I think I would rather Arrant was Mirager and I was his wife. He’s young, and he’d be, um, marblable.’
Myssa laughed. ‘I think you mean malleable, sweetie.’
Gretha looked up from her sewing. ‘True, Elvena dear, but Firgan would have more power as Mirager than you would as Arrant’s Miragerin. However, it may be advantageous for one of you to marry the lad eventually. Serenelle would be a better match. She is only a few months older than he is. Be nice to him, dear,’ she told her youngest daughter.
‘I did not convene this family meeting to talk about whom Arrant is going to wed,’ Korden said, now thoroughly out of patience. ‘I just want all of you to be aware of the situation. We have a Mirager’s son who by all reports is not a competent Magor, and I want proof of his unsuitability for the post, if that is indeed the case. You—all of you—are in a better position than I to gather such information. You will be at school with him. You, Serenelle, will share all his classes. Lesgath, you will certainly share combat classes. Firgan, I want you to begin teaching some of those combat classes.’
‘At the Academy? Father, I am a warrior! My time is better spent refining the skills of real soldiers, not children who haven’t yet blooded their swords.’
Korden ignored his son’s indignation. ‘I want you all to watch Arrant every minute. Every time he makes a mistake, I wish to hear about it. Every time he fails in his Magor studies, I wish to be informed. Every time he loses his temper, or his cabochon fails him, anything at all, I desire to know. Is that understood?’
‘It sounds horrid,’ Elvena said with a shudder, ‘spying on someone. Do I have to?’
‘If your father says so,’ Gretha said, not raising her eyes from her embroidery. She was stitching a spray of flowers onto the bodice of a new anoudain for Elvena and her pride and pleasure in her task were obvious.
‘I think it sounds like fun,’ Lesgath said. ‘Is it all right if we encourage him to fall flat on his Tyranian nose along the way?’
‘Certainly not.’ Korden frowned. ‘Your task, every single one of you, is to watch him until he is sixteen and Temellin has to make a decision to put his name before the Council for confirmation as Mirager-heir. If the Council approves his appointment to that position, it will be very, very difficult to oust him. If the lad is not suitable, and Temellin really is unwise enough to put him forward, I want a hundred examples I can bring before the Council to show that he is unfit.’ He took a deep breath. ‘That will be all for now. You may all go back to whatever you were doing.’
They were quick to comply. Myssa and Ryval left the room arguing, as did Lesgath and Serenelle; Gretha grabbed Elvena to try on the new overskirt before she could disappear.
Firgan, however, did not move. When the others had gone, he said, ‘Lesgath had an interesting point, Papa. Do we trip the little Tyranian bastard up every now and then?’
‘From all I have heard, that will not be necessary. It is certainly not honourable. You don’t seem to comprehend the point, Firgan: I would not be asking any of you to do this if I believed the lad would become a Mirager of calibre in the end. All you have to do is collect evidence of what I believe to be true. Arrant Temellin is probably incompetent, and a danger to us all. I have the best interests of Kardiastan at heart, no more than that.’
‘Of course.’
Something in his son’s bland agreement made Korden add, ‘Firgan, none of us—particularly you—can be seen to be deliberately undermining the Mirager’s son. Is that clear enough? Temellin is my friend and comes to me for advice. I want it to stay that way. The lad will trip himself up, without any aid from any of us.’
‘As you wish. I see your point.’
Firgan levered himself up from the divan and sauntered out. In the atrium, he asked one of the servants where he could find his youngest brother. Following the woman’s directions, he headed outside and intercepted Lesgath as he walked down the marble steps that led towards the stables. ‘Hey, wait up, Les,’ he said.
‘What is it?’
‘It’s about that suggestion of yours. With regard to making sure the Tyranian bastard falls flat on his nose.’
‘Yes?’
‘Father is right. It wouldn’t be a good idea. We have to be above suspicion.’
Lesgath grinned. ‘Ah. But you have a plan anyway?’
‘Boys will be boys. Always indulging in practical jokes, teasing, the odd scuffle. Normal behaviour for lads of your age, right? I mean, making fun of him—there’s nothing wrong with that. Aim to make the lad look foolish in other people’s eyes, because the sillier he looks, the less he will seem to possess leadership qualities. Aim to make him miserable, because the unhappier he is at the Academy, the harder he will find it to excel. But you have to be extraordinarily subtle in this, brother. If the teachers see you making his life a misery, they will intervene. If you are too obvious, then the sympathy will be for Arrant. There is a fine line between bullying and foolery and you must not be seen to cross it. Think you can do that?’
Lesgath smiled, his eyes glinting with the pleasure of anticipation, and Firgan smiled back. ‘I think we understand each other. You’ll find me grateful. Here, take this and off you go.’ He fished in his money pouch and gave his brother a coin.
Lesgath grinned and took the money.
Firgan watched him go, whistling under his breath. It was handy to have a sneaking, conniving, gullible little brother. If he manipulated the game skilfully, Lesgath would do all the dirty work while he, Firgan, came out of this as shiny as polished bronze. Things were going well; very well indeed.
CHAPTER THREE
‘So that’s the Rift.’
Arrant tried to sound matter-of-fact, but in truth he was awed. It was so—so vast. A long steep-sided valley, snaking its way across the landscape like a trail left by a python of mythical proportions.
The impact was all the greater because travellers came upon it so abruptly. One moment they’d been riding on a flat, featureless tray of land; the next moment the tray ended in a rimless edge and a drop of several thousand paces to the Rift floor. He leaned forward on his mount to peer straight down, his gaze following the jagged turns of the path they would follow. ‘Hells,’ he thought, ‘one careless step, and you’d fall all the way to the bottom.’
He fingered the obsidian necklet he wore, taking comfort from the promise of its giver: ‘Put it round his neck, and he’ll have the blood of a Quyriot horseman.’ Well, he was riding a shleth now, not a horse, but he reckoned something special would be useful on a path like that. He glanced at the far side of the Rift where the North Wall rose in a series of perpendicular folds, then back down to the valley floor where a meandering river of blood-orange mud linked a series of red lakes. He knew the winds that whipped along that Rift were famous for their ferocity.
‘Down there is the closest thing you’ll find to rain in Kardiastan,’ Garis said at his elbow as if he had read his thoughts. ‘We’ll stay here the night’—he pointed at the nearby wayhouse perched uncomfortably close to the rim—‘and then tomorrow we ride down the zigzag to the wayhouse at the cliff base. A day to cross, another wayhouse, then a final day climbing up. You don’t need to worry, lad. You have the best seat on a shleth I think I’ve ever seen. Sometimes I believe you and your mount speak the same language.’
‘Oh!’ He basked in the unexpected compliment. ‘I guess I spent a great deal of my childhood in the saddle. Horses, shleths—it’s all the same to me. And maybe the necklet helps. Did Ligea ever tell you about it?’
‘The one you wear? Not that I recall. And now that you are in Kardiastan, you really should call her by her Kardi name, you know. Sarana.’
‘Oh. Yes. I’ll try to remember.’ He touched the necklet again. It was warm beneath his fingers. Funny that, how the beads warmed up whenever he was mounted. ‘This is made of firegravel—black obsidian—and each bead has ancient writing carved into it. One of the Quyriot smugglers gave it to me when I was born. He told my mother there was stone magic in the runes. Luckily the magic of it seems to work with shleths as well as horses.’
‘You think it has some power?’
‘Well, the smuggler said I’d always understand my mounts if I wore it. And it’s true. It makes me feel as though the mount and I are, um, sort of one entity. I can always tell if a horse wants to buck or rear or brush me off against a tree trunk. I can feel its intention.’
‘So that’s how you’ve been thwarting that beast you are riding! I’ve been watching you, and it hasn’t managed to pinch you once with its feeding arms.’
Arrant flashed a grin. Garis’s mount delighted in pinching his rider’s sandalled toes. He gazed for a while longer at the Rift, impressed by the sheer difficulty of crossing such a barrier. ‘There’s a paveway from Madrinya to Ordensa, isn’t there?’ he asked. ‘Why do most travellers from other lands come this way, through Sandmurram, when it means making such an unpleasant journey across the Rift?’
‘Ordensa is a small port for fishing vessels, along a stormy coast. Sandmurram has a large natural harbour sheltered from the worst seas by islands. Doesn’t even need a sea wall. It’s closer to our main trading partners, which are to the south, not the west. It’s the main reason Tyrans was interested in conquering us in the first place, because it lies on their trading route east. Whoever controls Sandmurram, controls that route. Most of our major towns—Gastim, Idenis, Asadin—are along the tradeway between Sandmurram and Madrinya. The paveway between Madrinya and Ordensa, on the other hand, passes through no major towns at all.’ He grinned at Arrant. ‘Although my daughter might disagree. Our home is in Asufa, which is about halfway between the capital and Ordensa. She attends the Magor Academy of Healing there.’ He smiled. ‘It was a good question, Arrant.’