Song of the Shiver Barrens

by Glenda Larke

  ‘Ah, it was just a nightmare. And what’s a mere dream? Your pain is real.’

  I survive. Thanks to you. Who knows what would happen to me if I couldn’t slip away to you like this? Your mind is my sanctuary. Such as it is.

  ‘Well, if you’re going to be critical—’

  I can go back to the Mirage? No thanks. Not yet. But honestly, Arrant, you should hear yourself think sometimes. So…muddled. It must be because you use words so much. They are very confining, you know. Try thinking with concepts, blocks of knowledge—

  ‘Not now, Tarran. It’s far too early for intellectual discussions. I’ve just got up.’

  Sleeping alone again?

  ‘Of course I am! Sandhells, Tarran, I’m not even fifteen years old yet!’ He turned around in a full circle, showing his brother the room.

  How dull. One day I shall come when you have a girl with you on your pallet. I want to know what happens.

  Arrant reddened because, although he spent a lot of time thinking about girls, there had been a distinct lack of any practical endeavours to ensure anything tangible ever happened. It didn’t bother him that Tarran knew of his preoccupation, but he hated anyone knowing how slow he was to do anything about it. After all, most of his peers—of both sexes—had long since started to find themselves a steady companion of some sort, even though most may not yet have progressed to the sharing of a pallet. Even Perradin, usually half a step behind anyone else, had a girlfriend from the Theuros Academy.

  That’s a curious emotion! Tarran exclaimed. What are you doing?

  ‘You’ve embarrassed me.’

  It feels like that bad case of sunburn you had once. Embarrassment? That’s never been an emotion I really understood.

  ‘No, I know. Just as you don’t understand privacy either, you insensitive wraith.’

  How can I? he asked sensibly. You know that I’m joined to my fellows, irrevocably. Every nuance of what I think or feel is known to them, just as I know their every thought, their every pain. Right back into the past. The closest I have ever come to being alone is when I am inside your head. At least things are very simple here.

  Arrant sighed. ‘Tarran, you have a wonderfully tactful way of putting things.’

  I do my best.

  ‘Oh, Vortexdamn, has it been very bad? Has anyone been killed? Hurt? Father?’

  There was a moment’s blankness in his head, as if Tarran had left; then a subdued reply. Two Theuros died the day before yesterday. A Ravage sore crumbled at the edge when they were pulling out some beasts for slaughter. Father’s fine. It’s frustrating. We don’t seem to progress. The Magor kill the beasts, and more of them spring up out of nothing.

  ‘As long as it doesn’t get worse.’

  No, it’s no worse, but no better either. Which means we don’t get any stronger and the pain is pretty bad at times.

  Old angers bubbled up. ‘Damn her—she should never have done this to you.’

  Who are you talking about now? Sarana? Ah, let’s not start that again. You know she had no choice. You should be grateful that my mother lost the fight and yours won. Otherwise you’d be the one battling those vile beasts and the fester they live in, instead of me.

  ‘Maybe that’s the way it should have been. After all, it was my grandfather who made the bargain. It would have been a more…honourable solution if I’d been the one to fulfil it.’

  Tarran laughed. So what? He was my mother’s uncle, and my father’s uncle, too. Anyway, I’m none too sure I understand what this ‘honour’ thing is. Every time you’ve tried to explain it, it has sounded rather ridiculous. Am I glad I wasn’t born to a human body! People are so—so—illogical. Why, I suppose you think I should feel guilty too. After all, I was supposed to be the solution to our troubles with the Ravage, yet every time I wish they’d go away and leave us alone, they never seem to take any notice. He sounded innocently puzzled.

  Arrant laughed reluctantly. Tarran was right of course. The idea of Sarana calmly submitting to Pinar’s madness out of a sense of honour was absurd, just as it was absurd to blame either Tarran or himself because they were not quite what they should have been.

  How about going for breakfast, eh? I’m hungry.

  ‘You don’t have a stomach.’

  All right, you’re hungry. Anyway, isn’t it time you were getting dressed? You asked me to come today because you had a test, remember?

  Arrant sighed and reached for his trousers.

  Next time, how about a long-legged lovely on your pallet, eh?

  ‘What do you care about long legs?’

  Believe me, I enjoy what they do to you. I’ve seen you look at Elvena Korden.

  ‘Oh, shut up. Er—and thanks for coming. Magoria-markess is always looking for some excuse to fail me, even when my cabochon works and things go well.’

  Daft woman. She’s been twisted inside out since the legions killed her husband.

  ‘She thinks I’m too Tyranian.’

  A knock came at the door, followed by Eris entering with a ewer of warm water, the way each day began.

  ‘Good morning, Magori,’ Eris said. ‘Sword skills on the agenda today, I believe. I shall lay out your combat clothes. I had those sandals of yours repaired—’

  Arrant smiled and allowed the prattle to skim by, leaving only the hint of its meaning behind like a retreating wave discarding flecks of foam on a beach. Eris, and this bedroom just down the hall from Temellin’s, and all the perks of being the Mirager’s son, were an embarrassment to him. The other students of the Academy slept in dormitories of the school. They ate in the refectory and bathed in the communal washrooms. But Temellin remained adamant that Arrant stay in the Mirager’s Pavilion.

  ‘Nothing’s changed. You must remain under my protection,’ he said when Arrant tried to explain the ribbing he received about his preferential treatment. ‘And that is the end of the discussion.’

  And so another day started with Eris fussing about whether his scabbard was polished to his satisfaction. Arrant rolled his eyes when Eris wasn’t looking and went to wash.

  Don’t worry, Tarran said cheerfully. We can do this, no problem. We’ll show ‘em what Temellin’s sons can do, even if they don’t know I’m here.

  Arrant looked around the training area. The seniors had come to watch, Lesgath and the Korden twins among them. I’d like to wipe the smirk off their faces, for a start, he told Tarran.

  The test began with a series of timed exercises. Each student, armed with their Magor sword, took their turn shooting power at an assortment of targets moving past in quick succession at varying distances and heights and speeds. Serenelle went first and had trouble with accuracy. Perradin followed, hitting most of the targets, but—in typical Perradin fashion—rather messily, because he found it difficult to limit the width of his power beam. Lesgath and his friends hooted and shouted insults until Markess glared them into silence. Bevran made a joke of his run and turned it into a performance, which pinched Markess’s face into a picture of ire. There was nothing much she could say, however, because his score was excellent. Vevi, next up, was even better, achieving a perfect score just within the maximum time limit.

  To Arrant’s dismay, by the time his turn arrived, the audience had swelled. Korden and Firgan were there; so were a number of other parents of members of the class, including Jahan. He suspected his own presence may have something to do with the number of people. There was far too much interest in his progress for his comfort, and this test was an important one. It would determine whether he would be allowed to take the class on using the Magoroth sword for combat.

  When his turn came, he had no problem calling up his power, but it was clear he’d had too little practice using it. As a consequence he missed the five faster, smaller targets, and struck too deep on another. Markess glared at him, but Arrant knew he hadn’t done badly enough to fail.

  See? Tarran crowed happily.

  ‘The next test is something you haven’t done before,’ Mark
ess said when everyone had finished with the targets. ‘There’s no skill involved. However, we find it a good way to measure the strength of a Magoroth’s sword power. You see those stone blocks over there? There’s one for each of you. Cut yours in half, without using the edge of your blade, as quickly as you can. Arrant, you first.’

  Easy, Tarran told him. That’s no bigger than a doorstep.

  I’ve never tried to chop a stone in half, Arrant replied, calling colour into his blade again as he approached one of the blocks. He extended the power out an arm’s length beyond the blade.

  Pretend the extension is the blade itself and slash down. Don’t worry, it will cut like a dagger through a guava.

  Arrant took his sword in both hands, and instead of trying to cut the block widthways, he slashed down at it lengthwise. May as well make it worth watching, he said to Tarran, knowing every eye would be on him. He had braced himself, thinking the cut would jar his wrists and arms. Instead, the beam of power sank into the stone, parting it cleanly. Hiding a pleased smile, he stepped to the side and struck another blow, to separate the stone block widthways into four equal pieces.

  Just like a guava, Tarran said.

  ‘Braggart,’ Bevran muttered beside him, but he was grinning.

  When Arrant looked up, it was to find himself the target of every eye. All the other students had stopped to gape at what he had done. The silence was total. Even Markess seemed speechless as she made a fluttering gesture at the other students to send them back to work at their own stones. Then, with a baffled look in Arrant’s direction, she scribbled a note in his personal test ledger, and moved it to the bottom of her pile.

  Watching the others as they struggled with the task, Arrant’s eyes widened. I guess that is usually quite difficult, he said. I didn’t realise. And Magoria-markess was furious, thinking he didn’t try hard enough at other times. He couldn’t win.

  Indeed, she glared at him as she announced that the last part of the test was to be conducted in the saddling yard of the Academy stables.

  ‘Any idea what this is?’ Arrant asked Perradin.

  He shook his head. ‘She changes the tests every year.’

  Once they arrived at the stables, Markess waved a hand at the six unsaddled shleths in the yard. ‘You are to ward a shleth—a single animal—out of the group,’ she said, ‘while you yourself are riding a shleth. A more difficult task than you are used to. This will show how adaptable you are to circumstances, and how much you have really managed to learn about the building of sword wards.’ She looked down at her test ledgers. ‘Arrant, you’re first this time.’

  He went to walk towards the riding shleths tethered to the hitching rail, only to find a stable lad thrusting the reins of a mount into his hand. He took a moment to speak to the animal and pat its nose, but it flung up its head nervously. Warmth flared in the Quyriot necklet, and he became aware of how uncomfortable the shleth was. Something wasn’t right. He turned to tell Markess, only to feel her fury with him. She was trying to suppress it, but he caught the tendrils that escaped.

  ‘Get up and do it,’ she ordered, scowling.

  Harridan, Tarran muttered. She’s worse than sour plums.

  Arrant mounted and the shleth reared, a move he anticipated. Damn. I don’t know what’s wrong with this beast, but something is.

  Let’s get this finished quickly, then.

  Right. Still struggling to keep his animal under control and grounded, Arrant scanned the six shleths. I’m going for the old grey with the white patch on the neck, he said. It’s a nice docile fellow. He wasn’t quite sure how he knew that. He managed to edge his mount in the right direction, and caught the eye of the grey. When it signalled which way it was going to move, he built a ward, anchoring it to the ground and the wall of the yard to cut off the animal’s line of retreat. The grey sensed something and poked at the ward with a feeding arm, then looked back at Arrant in a puzzled way.

  That’s my beauty, Arrant thought. You have to be the sweetest natured beast in the stable.

  Probably just ancient, with creaking joints and a slow mind, Tarran said.

  Who cares, as long as it stays still. His mount reached back and tried to pinch him. He knocked the feeding arm away, but the shleth was determined and tried with its other arm. When Arrant blocked that as well, it bent its neck and nipped at him. Arrant felt under siege. The animal was unhappy and determined. He pulled it around in a tight circle, erecting another ward at the same time to stop the other shleths from joining the old grey.

  Another tight circle and he managed to erect the last ward needed to keep them separate. To make sure the completed warding was obvious, he coloured it gold before slipping from his mount. He grabbed the bridle at the cheek strap to stop the agitated shleth from pulling away.

  Markess nodded without smiling, but the burst of chatter and clapping from the watching crowd told him he had done well.

  Brilliant, said Tarran. Is that all you have to do for the test?

  That’s it, I think. Do you have to go?

  I’d better. Don’t forget, a long-legged lovely. He was gone before Arrant had time to thank him.

  Arrant walked his mount towards the stables. The shleth was still edgy, but had calmed a little since he had dismounted. In the stables, the stableboy offered to take over, but Arrant shook his head and unbuckled the saddle girth. He had to dodge yet another nip from the animal as he removed the saddle.

  ‘She’s not usually like that,’ the stableboy said.

  ‘Here’s the reason,’ Arrant replied. He’d whisked off the saddlecloth to find a handful of burrs stuck to the underside. ‘That’s enough to make any shleth cantankerous.’

  The stableboy paled. ‘Oh! I dunno how that happened. Them burrs grow in the weeds—’

  ‘Who saddled the shleth?’ Arrant asked.

  ‘I did, M-Magori,’ the boy stammered. ‘It’s his own saddlecloth. We always use the same one for a mount. It’s kept next to where he’s tied up. I—I guess I didn’t check the underside.’

  ‘And who asked you to make sure I used this particular mount?’ he asked, even as he thought, ‘Gods, I’m being daft. This was accidental, surely.’

  ‘N-no one, Magori. This one is always first, and y-you were the first s-student.’

  Arrant was bewildered. Markess had chosen him to go first. But she wouldn’t involve herself in a nasty prank like this. ‘When did Magoria-markess tell you to do the saddling?’

  ‘Why, just now, Magori. She sent one of the senior students across with the message. Magori-lesgath.’

  Not so daft after all. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Avarmith, Magori.’

  ‘All right, Avarmith. You can take the animal now. Look after his back and see that he’s not ridden for a few days until the irritation is healed. Pamper him.’

  He walked back to the class to watch the others build their wards and observe how Markess selected the order. It was simple; the next person chosen was the one whose name was on the student ledger at the top of the pile. When that student was finished, the ledger went to the bottom. And his had been on top because he had been the first student to cut the stone block in two. Plenty of time for an observant senior student to slip across to the stables and put burrs on the saddlecloth. If for some reason, Arrant had not ridden that shleth, well, it didn’t matter. If anyone found the burrs, they would deem it accidental.

  He looked across the yard, and locked his gaze on Lesgath. And Lesgath stared back defiantly. ‘As guilty as a hornet at the honey pot,’ Arrant thought. ‘I’m not going to let you get away with this, Lesgath. Not this time.’

  When Lesgath went to his room that night, he found a note, scribbled on a scrap of grubby, used parchment, on his pallet. Grantel, passing by his open door, grinned and asked, ‘Hey, got a girl writing you love notes, Les?’ He ignored that and opened up the note. It was badly penned over the top of a shleth feed bill, and the spelling was so poor he could hardly understand the
words. When he finally deciphered it, he thought it read: Big trouble. Had to tell about burrs. Meet me in stable at day’s end. Avarmith.

  He licked dry lips. Day’s end. That was what some of the poorly educated folk called midnight, he knew that. Damn. This was from the stableboy, obviously. He swallowed, wondering who knew, fearful of what Firgan would say if he knew Lesgath had been caught. He lay back on his pallet, feeling ill. ‘I’ll kill that sneaking little bastard if he’s told anyone,’ he thought.

  He felt under his pallet and drew out his dagger. He waited over an hour until he was sure everyone was asleep, then rose to dress and sneak out. He was adept at using the dark to cover his comings and goings. There were guards at the outer walls and the Academy gate, but as he never tried to leave the compound, they did not present a problem. When he reached the stableyards, he realised there were still too many people about. The stablemaster and the shlethmaster were leaning against the hitching rail, chatting. He could hear stableboys still awake in the loft of the feed store, where they slept. He had to wait. He settled down under an orange tree. After a while, he dozed.

  When he jerked awake, it was to find everything in darkness, and quiet. He had no idea of the time, but he walked over to the main stable building anyway. The door was barred from the outside, so he lifted the bar and walked in, believing he would find it empty except for the shleths. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, irritated because he didn’t have his sword. Students were not permitted to keep their weapons in their sleeping quarters.

  As he expected, the shleths were sleeping together, cosily heaped up in the middle of the building, their feeding arms flung over one another. Hay was piled into a wooden feeder at one end of the room, and he was standing beside a long watering trough. A door at the far end led into the tackle store. He peered around, looking for the stableboy, trying to sense his presence using his cabochon. Nothing. ‘Avarmith?’ he whispered.

  ‘Avarmith is not here,’ Arrant’s voice said from behind him.