by Glenda Larke
‘No, not him. It was something one of their servants told me when I went to the latrine. An ex-slave, of course. Apparently Paulius left Tyrans recently and spent a few months in Gaya. When he returned, the servant overheard enough of a conversation between him and his brother to suggest the Lucii are planning a rebellion against the Senate and me, with Gayan help. A rebellion that would reinstate slavery if successful.’
‘Ah. Funny how people always underestimate ex-slaves. ’
‘Moneymaster Arcadim told me sometime ago that the Gayan ruling house is short of money.’
Gevenan nodded. ‘I did hear they have some fine ex-legionnaires they can’t afford to pay. Bad policy that—not to pay men who have swords and spears and fighting experience. Good way to commit suicide, in fact. But if they sold the services of their army to the Lucii, they’d have gold in their coffers, more than enough to pay their soldiers to fight a war here. Definitely good tactics.’
‘Look into it, Gev. See what you can find out.’
‘Right. Ligea, you need to tap into this pool of ex-slaves more. They worship the very air you exhale, and they are a fine source of information.’
She frowned. One of the senators had been nagging her about the very same thing. ‘You want me to set up another Brotherhood? To spy on our own citizens? Led, perhaps, by another Rathrox Ligatan?’
‘Sarcasm, sarcasm. Don’t be so sour. It doesn’t have to be a Brotherhood exactly. Although, quite frankly, I can’t see any reason this side of Hades why traitors shouldn’t be spied upon.’
In her heart, she knew he was right. She nodded, loathing the idea even as she agreed with its necessity. She had to set up some formal structure to gather information, otherwise she might not know what was happening until they were on the verge of a civil war. But anything that resembled a Brotherhood would turn her stomach. ‘All I want,’ she thought, ‘is enough stability in Tyrans to enable me to leave and know that all I have achieved here will remain, that Kardiastan is safe from another Tyranian invasion in the foreseeable future. Is that too much to expect?’
‘Knew you’d see reason,’ he said amiably. ‘Pragmatism before sentiment, that’s the Ligea I know best.’
She swore at him.
He grinned. ‘You hate it when I’m right, don’t you?’
CHAPTER FOUR
They rode into the entrance courtyard of the Mirager’s Pavilion just as the Mirager strode out of the main door, closely followed by two other Magoroth. A servant stood holding the Mirager’s shleth ready; Theuri attendants milled around with their mounts, their bright boleros and sashes a contrast to the brown shagginess of the shleths and the dry earth underfoot.
Too many people. Too many witnesses to a meeting Arrant had desperately wanted to be private.
He recognised his father at once. He was exactly as he’d pictured him: a head taller than Garis, lean and tough and slim, with eyes that laughed in a face Arrant knew well, even though he hadn’t seen him for eight years. The Mirage Maker’s gift to Sarana, a lump of Mirage clay, had shown him his father’s changing appearance, day after day, year after year.
By contrast, Temellin’s glance slid over Arrant without recognition. Instead, his eyes sought the person his senses told him was there: Garis. He took the steps down from the pavilion door two at a time, broadcasting his pleasure. And then his gaze flew back to Arrant, realising who he must be.
You’re hiding yourself, as usual, Tarran remarked. He can’t sense you. Stop being so tight-arsed, Arrant.
But Arrant had no intention of releasing the hold he had on his inner core of being, even if he could work out how to do it with ease. He had too much hidden there…
They stared at one another, neither knowing what to say. Temellin’s expression was one of shock. It was one thing to know that your child must now be a young man; quite another to have him in front of you, all the childish curves melted into the form of a youth, and with an adult’s emotional suffering showing in his eyes. And just then, Arrant’s wretched cabochon decided to work, so he felt the blast of his father’s emotion like sand against his skin. Anger—no, rage. Hurt, grief, sorrow. None of the joy that there should have been; not in that first reaction. He heard Garis’s sharp intake of breath and knew he had felt it all too.
Garis dismounted and Arrant followed, sick to the stomach.
‘He knows,’ Arrant thought. ‘He has heard. Someone has written. Not Ligea; someone else.’
He saw it all there, on his father’s face; he felt it in that single blast of rage and mangled emotions, quickly hidden. Someone came forward to take the reins of their mounts. Then Temellin was there, placing his hands on Arrant’s shoulders and scanning his face, trying, perhaps, to see in the youth the child he had so briefly known. His father pulled him into a tight embrace, all emotion masked, his smile welcoming, giving the hug owed to a son he hadn’t seen in so long.
And Arrant thought, ‘This is his public face. His heart isn’t in it.’ His own heart wobbled, stricken.
‘Is she all right?’ Temellin asked, the words no more than a whisper directly into his ear as they embraced. ‘Tell me. I’ve heard no details. I’ve been worried sick.’
‘She’s fine. Really.’ Then an amendment, striving for honesty. ‘Physically fine.’
He felt a skitter of relief from his father before it was suppressed. After that, things happened in a blur. He was introduced to so many people, one after the other, it was hard to remember them all. Korden and his son Firgan, however, etched themselves immediately into memory. Korden first; tall, urbane, handsome, greying into a distinguished middle age. His eyes unfriendly, even as his voice welcomed with words so formal they meant nothing.
‘Mirager-heir Arrant,’ he said, ‘this is a much-delayed pleasure. We have been pressing the Mirager to bring you here under our care for several years now, and I, for one, am delighted you have finally arrived.’ He held out his left hand and Arrant placed his own so that they were cabochon to cabochon. The man’s welcome tingled up his arm, sharp suspicion mixed in with a genuine gladness.
I don’t think he meant you to feel that. The suspicion, I mean, Tarran said as Korden’s clasp lingered beyond what was normal. Quick, let him feel respect in return.
Arrant did his best, but from the look on Korden’s face he had an idea he must have let loose less appealing feelings as well.
Korden continued, ‘May I present my eldest son, Magori-firgan? Some of my other numerous progeny you will meet later. I have a son, Lesgath, a few years older than you are, and a daughter, Serenelle, almost the same age, both at the Academy. I hope you will forge friendships. It must have been lonely for you in Tyr, being the only Magoroth.’
‘Hardly the only one,’ Temellin interrupted.
‘The only Magoroth child,’ Korden said in smoothly delivered amendment.
Arrant extended his hand to Firgan, who ground their cabochons together in a crippling handclasp. And as their gems met, a stab of personal spite passed from Firgan’s into his own, a molten streak of malice that took his breath away. Something inside him wanted to cringe before it, but he allowed none of that to show on his face. Firgan’s eyes were unpleasantly knowing.
Emotions passed that way aren’t visible to others, Tarran said. That was for you alone.
Then the man just made a mistake, Arrant said, hoping he was right. He told me he was an enemy, and it’s always good to know who your enemies are. Ligea’s wisdom.
Temellin turned his gaze from Arrant to address the two men. ‘Korden, Firgan, as you can imagine, I want to spend time privately with my son. Why don’t the rest of you go ahead with the hospice visit?’
Arrant exhaled, relieved. Vortexdamn, Tarran, this is difficult. I can feel their emotions everywhere, dashing all over the place. It’s like they are all shouting at one another.
That’s what the Magor do, Arrant. You should join in. You should be exuding your happiness to be here, your gratitude at the welcome. You are puzzling them by yo
ur emotional silence.
Ravage hells. Will I ever learn all this?
Fortunately, he didn’t have to plunge straight into an intimate conversation with his father. At Temellin’s suggestion, Garis whisked him away first to have a bath and change into clean clothes. ‘He’s giving you time to calm down,’ Garis said as he showed Arrant where to bathe. ‘You look as if you swallowed a raw fish and the fins got caught in your gullet. Relax, lad.’
Relax? He had never felt less like relaxing in his life.
‘Oh, and remember water is precious here. We use as little as possible for washing. One jug. If you stand over the grid, the water runs out to the garden cistern where it can be used for watering the plants afterwards.’
He thought of the public baths and fountains and aqueducts of Tyr, of the way no one ever worried about how much water they used. He was going to miss that splendid profligacy. Why had the Kardis never thought of building aqueducts to bring spring water to the cities of Kardiastan, the way they did in Tyrans?
By the time he arrived in Temellin’s private quarters, he had managed—he thought—to erect a façade of calm.
That’s the wrong thing to do, Tarran growled at him, catching his satisfaction. You are supposed to be leaking your calm, not putting up a barricade that imitates it.
He sighed. Would he ever learn how to be a proper Magor, let alone a Magoroth?
Do you want me here? Tarran asked.
I—no, I guess not. I have to do this on my own. Do you mind?
No. I’ll go back to the Mirage, then. I just couldn’t resist coming here for a while. To see him, especially.
The ache Arrant heard in his tone made his breath catch. ‘Sweet Elysium,’ he thought privately, ‘what must it be like never to be able to speak to another human being but me?’
I ought to go back anyway, Tarran added. The Ravage is widening in the north and the Mirage needs the strength of every single one of us, just to withstand the spread. He paused, and his next words were telling. We don’t try to repair the damage any more.
Not knowing what to say, Arrant let his concern spill out instead.
I’ll be all right, I promise, Tarran said. I’ll come back in a day or two when you have settled in. Good luck. With that, he was gone.
Temellin looked up from where he sat as Garis and Arrant entered the room. He raised an eyebrow at Garis, querying his presence.
Garis sucked in his cheeks. ‘Looks as if you are on your own, Arrant.’
‘Samia is in Madrinya, staying with her aunt,’ Temellin said. ‘I sent for her as soon as I realised you were here. She’s probably already waiting for you down in my reception room. She should keep you nicely occupied.’
Garis brightened and left, trailing anticipation. Arrant caught that much, and then his cabochon faded.
‘Sit down, Arrant,’ Temellin said, running a hand through his hair in a worried fashion. ‘It is good to have you here. I’ve—I’ve looked forward to this day for as long as I can remember.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘Unfortunately, it’s been marred by the news I had that your mother was hurt. I also heard Brand died and that it was all your fault. What happened?’
Arrant heard the unspoken words hang in the air: Please tell me this is a lie. He felt his father’s longing to be told a different story. And it was the one thing he couldn’t say.
‘It’s all true,’ he said, his voice husky as he acknowledged yet again that Brand was dead. That he was culpable. His hands started shaking, so he sat on them. ‘But Mater is fine now.’
‘Mater?’ The word sliced the air, sharp with distaste.
He’d made a mistake, he realised. Used a Tyranian word. ‘Mother,’ he amended and hurried on. ‘Her arm was slashed. Favonius did it, but I was able to start her healing immediately and then Garis came, and he did some of the final work. There doesn’t appear to be any permanent damage. She, um, she has sent you this letter.’ He dug in his pouch, pulled out a scroll tube and handed it over. ‘There’s a whole lot of papers as well, about trade and stuff. They are still in my saddlebags.’ Only when he stopped did he realise how cold and unfeeling his rush of words had sounded.
Temellin put the tube down without opening it. Arrant could not sense his emotions, but he didn’t need to—his father was furious and having trouble not showing it on his face. ‘They can wait,’ Temellin said. ‘I want to hear what happened. From you. Please.’
Arrant looked down at his feet. He still had his sandals on, which felt all wrong. He couldn’t meet his father’s eyes, not while he was telling this horrible tale. He began to stumble and stutter his way through the skeleton of the story, omitting reasons, dealing only with the fleshless ribs of the facts.
‘I was angry with M—Mama because she never had time for me. It was stupid and childish, I know. I found a way I could leave the palace without her knowing and that was when I met Favonius, who used to be the Jackal Legion Legate. I didn’t know that. I thought he was being kind. Interested in me for myself, not just because I was the Exaltarch’s son. All the time he was working with Rathrox Ligatan. They used me as bait in a trap for Mother and the Altani Plenipotentiary, Brand. When they sprang the trap, there wasn’t anything I could do about it because I couldn’t find my power. In the end, Favonius and Rathrox and Brand were all killed, and Mama was wounded.’
‘You left the palace without anyone knowing? More than once?’
‘Yes.’
‘And trusted a man you did not know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why? Surely your mother must have told you of the dangers!’
‘Yes. But I was angry with her. I—I don’t have any other excuse.’
‘That last is a lie. Arrant, you can’t lie to me. Don’t ever lie to me.’ His rage was growing, but still carefully corralled. ‘Now, what was the real reason? What went wrong between you and your mother that this thing could have possibly happened? Why did you not talk to her?’
Arrant felt sick. He couldn’t tell him the true reason. How could he say that his jealousy of Brand had scarred his relationship with Ligea? How could he say that he was furious with her because she was sleeping with the Altani? ‘I—I didn’t see that much of Ligea. There were always so many other things taking her time. I was angry with her from the moment I found out about my Mirage Maker brother and how she killed his mother. I blamed her.’
‘What in the name of the Mirage are you talking about? If your mother hadn’t killed Pinar, Pinar would have murdered her and you would be the Mirage Maker, not your brother. She must have told you how it happened, surely. You should be grateful! Sands, Arrant—Sarana almost died because of that?’
‘I was very young when I found out,’ he stammered, but the words sounded juvenile, the proffering of a pathetic excuse. As indeed it was. And it hadn’t been his mother who had spoken of it. Tarran had told him, not Ligea.
‘Perhaps so, but you are thirteen now!’ Temellin snapped. ‘Of an age to wear a Magor sword. And to be truthful. You are hiding something; do you think I cannot tell?’
In deepening dismay, Arrant sat silent. This was going from awful to worse.
Temellin took a calming breath. ‘Skies above, here we are, father and son who haven’t seen one another in years, and we are verging on argument. Let’s start again, shall we? Let me explain. I love your mother, Arrant. I always have and I always will. It is a constant grief that she is not here, sharing my life. And I worry about her, living as she does in a land where she has so many enemies. To hear of her being harmed, and yet to be unable to go to her, or to help her—it hurts more than I can say. And a fine man who cared for her welfare, whom I thought would help to keep her safe, whom I admired, died before his time. He protected her. He was her closest friend. And now he’s gone and she is alone. To know that it was your foolishness that started this sequence of events—it’s—it’s upsetting.’
Arrant swallowed. The understatement of the last word was worse than anger would have been.
Temellin continued, ‘All I ask is a reason that makes sense. I want to understand how it could happen. You are my son. Our son. So let us discuss this with honesty and openness, and then you and I can put it behind us and build a new relationship. No secrets between us, not on this matter. What do you say?’
Arrant sat rigidly still. Here was a chance to make it all right. All he had to do was explain how he’d felt about Ligea’s relationship with Brand. His father would understand; in fact it would make him angry, too. He’d be furious. Sweet Elysium, he’d tried to kill her once simply because she’d lied to him…The truth would surely hammer a wedge between his parents, might destroy a relationship already made tenuous by distance. His own anger burgeoned. Why had Ligea slept with Brand when she professed to love his father? Damn her for putting him in this position!
‘I—I don’t really have anything else to say,’ he muttered, knowing he sounded both ungracious and dishonest.
His father’s expression hardened in anger and hurt at the rebuff. ‘I see.’
Arrant said woodenly, ‘It started when I found out about Tarran, as I said, and it just got worse as time went by. I was stupid and my stupidity killed Brand.’
‘Your mother wrote once that you had an imaginary playmate you pretended was your brother. You called him Tarran. You surely don’t still indulge in such silliness, do you? I mean, that was when you were eight or nine.’ The words, honed with anger, were scathing. ‘What may pass for acceptable in Tyr for a lad of your age is not necessarily what is expected of a Magor here, let alone of the Mirager-heir. The Magoroth will be judging you. If they don’t accept you as heir, it will be very difficult for me to insist. If you are not prepared to carry yourself like a man from the start, you would do better to return to Tyr because there won’t be a place for you here.’
Return to Tyr? The words wounded, no, crushed him. For a moment he was back in Ordensa, aged five, hearing a similar rejection. His anger grew alongside his pain. ‘That is unfair! I did not say that I believe in an imaginary brother. I do have a brother. I just call him Tarran, that’s all. Ligea made him into what he is and he’ll never be human, not ever. I was young when I found that out, so I didn’t understand properly and I thought it was all her fault. He has to live with the pain of the Ravage, and I blamed her for it.’ He was achingly close to choking, so held himself rigid, determined not to appear weak.