by Glenda Larke
Arrant snorted. ‘You still have all your human traits, that’s for sure. Rudeness and lack of tact included.’
Tarran ignored that. Go on with your theory.
‘Well, how about this: for years the Mirage Makers managed to keep their own evil encapsulated, restrained. Maybe the fluid of the Ravage is the putrescence exuded by the beasts as a suitable medium to live in. But something went wrong. The Ravage started to spread, to multiply…why? Probably because as the Mirage Makers grew older they also grew weaker?’
Tarran snorted. Even if it’s true—how does it help? What good is it to know that we are being killed by the remnants of our own failings? And what about the most obvious hole in your theory?
‘And what’s that?’
Why would the remains of our failings want to destroy us? They wouldn’t get any benefit from killing us. In fact, they wouldn’t have a place to live in.
‘That applies to the Ravage beasts no matter what they are,’ Arrant pointed out. ‘They are killing you, and in the long run that kills them too because they don’t seem very good at suriving out of a Ravage sore.’ There were several reports now of Ravage beasts being found in vales bordering the Mirage. They had even killed Valemen, but all of the beasts had died in the end. He paused to think, then added, ‘Perhaps they are not accidentally swept up by the winds. Maybe they think it’s the only way they will survive, one final desperate attempt to escape dying along with you. They are wrong, fortunately.’
So far, Tarran said, the words grim in Arrant’s mind. None of this makes sense, you know.
He was right. It didn’t.
As always, Arrant walked to class along the laneway between the Mirager’s Pavilion and the Magoroth Academy, a short, uninteresting walk, boxed in by a solid gate at either end and walls too high to see over in between.
That morning he was deep in thought. He’d just realised, to his bemusement, that he had forgotten his fifteenth anniversary day. It had passed unremarked several days earlier, even though Temellin happened to be back in Madrinya. When people were fighting wars and risking their lives, he thought wryly, when a country was losing its warriors to creatures that ate them when they lost, a fifteenth anniversary meant nothing at all.
The sound of the gate being opened roused him from his reverie. As he normally had the lane to himself at that hour in the morning, he looked up, startled, to see Lesgath, Serenelle and their twin siblings, Ryval and Myssa, entering the lane from the Academy. He stopped dead and waited for them to walk up to him.
‘What are you all doing here?’ he asked.
‘Come to talk to you,’ Ryval said. ‘We’ve been patient, Arrant, but we’re running out of patience. Serenelle tells us you still don’t have good control over your power.’
‘You’ve been attending the Academy for over a year, and it seems you haven’t improved at all,’ Lesgath added.
‘We don’t want to have a Mirager-heir we can’t trust,’ Myssa said, coming to stand immediately in front of him, with her hands on her hips. ‘It’s bad enough having a blind Mirager who can’t win a war against a pack of animals after even a year of fighting, but to think his successor is going to be even more of a lame lizard…’ Her right hand shot out and grabbed his left, to turn the palm upwards. His cabochon was quiescent and colourless in his palm. She shook her head sorrowfully. ‘Look at that. We want you to tell the Mirager you don’t want to be heir any more.’
‘You’ll get your chance to say what you think when it comes to a Council vote,’ Arrant said. He tried to push his way past Myssa but the alley was narrow and Ryval and Lesgath came and stood on either side. Serenelle hung back. Arrant shot her a contemptuous look. She was always tagging along, never quite participating. Never quite showing approval of her family’s point of view—or disapproval either, for that matter. More like a crow waiting to pick up the pieces, after the dogs finished fighting over the carcass. Hells, why was he thinking about that now?
There were four of them, three of them bigger and older than he was.
‘Going somewhere, Arrogant?’ Myssa asked, reaching out to pull the tie from his hair. She tossed it on to Lesgath, who fumbled the catch.
‘Oops. Sorry. Dropped it,’ Lesgath said, smirking.
Arrant didn’t answer. And he certainly wasn’t going to pick up the discarded leather thong and put himself in a vulnerable position by bending over. ‘I think he might be thinking of going to our combat class,’ Lesgath said.
‘Your combat class?’ Ryval asked, feigning incredulity. ‘Surely not. Your class is for the Magoroth, not for a bum-licking sonofabitch.’
‘Son of a Tyranian bitch at that,’ Lesgath chortled as Arrant tried to sidestep around them.
Arrant scowled. Bastards, the Vortexdamned bastards. They weren’t trying to hide their emotions and their mockery was as sour as a drunkard’s breath.
‘We used to kill Tyranians once,’ Lesgath said, barring Arrant’s way yet again as he tried to pass. The youth’s fury loomed, full of hatred. He put his hand flat to Arrant’s chest and pushed him back. ‘Pity we can’t do it with this puny little one. But he hangs around his father’s trouser legs.’
‘Never mind, his papa isn’t going to see anything, that’s for sure,’ Myssa said with a high-pitched giggle.
Arrant felt his anger rise like a swelling wave. Gods, don’t let him lose his temper. That’s what they wanted…He said evenly, ‘What’s the matter, Lesgath? Upset by your dip in the shleth trough? It was no more than you deserved. Taken you a while to plan your little revenge, though, hasn’t it? And I see you had to bring along your big brother and sister too.’
‘You listen to me, you runty little maggot,’ Lesgath said, coming closer and breathing into Arrant’s face. ‘How dare you come here, swaggering like a legionnaire, when you can’t even colour up your cabochon! Go back to your mama’s skirts and get her to teach you to pee straight before you dream of being Mirager-heir.’
Arrant raised an eyebrow. ‘Did you have your eyes closed the day of the last testing, Lesgath? Didn’t you even notice that I did better than your own sister in the sword power tests? Your father and Firgan noticed, I’m sure.’
Lesgath’s anger mounted. ‘We’ll see you lick Korden family arse before we’ll see Council support you.’ He looked across at Ryval. ‘How about it, brother? Why don’t we get papa’s precious darling to show us the respect a Tyranian lowborn should give to a true Magoroth?’
Arrant tried to push past them again, but they moved as one to block his way. Too late he realised this was not just a haphazard piece of name calling; they had planned this. Myssa and Ryval grabbed an arm each. Lesgath spun around, loosening his cloth belt and pulling his trousers down. He looked back over his shoulder as he bent to present the twin moons of his bare buttocks. ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘lick ‘em!’
Arrant went berserk. He pulled and kicked and pushed. He landed a punch into the softness of Myssa’s stomach, and the girl doubled up. Then Ryval grabbed him from behind and twisted his arm violently up behind his back. Arrant stamped hard on his instep. Ryval yelped but didn’t let go. Arrant was forced to bend forward or risk a broken bone. Myssa, still grunting in pain, grabbed Arrant’s right leg from under him and pulled it backwards. Helpless, he had to hop on one foot to stop pitching forward.
Merciless, Ryval rammed his head face downwards against Lesgath’s buttocks.
‘Lick ‘em!’ he snarled.
Waves of anger roared through Arrant’s ears like thundering surf. He called on his power, he scoured his body for it, dredged into the deepest veins of his being for some way to bring it forth. Memory tore through him—Brand being beaten, his own searching for power to save him, his cabochon nothing but an empty promise…
Ryval ground his face into the smooth skin of Lesgath’s backside until he had to open his mouth to breathe. They laughed—laughed so much they couldn’t hold him any more. Suddenly released, he fell to the ground. Ryval and Myssa ran down the alley, still
doubled up with laughter. Lesgath pulled up his trousers as he followed. Serenelle leaned her back against the adobe of the wall and watched them disappear through the Academy gate before switching her attention back to Arrant. She lowered her chin and gazed at him from under her lashes, her expression scornful. ‘You know what? You sprouts really are pathetic. Like scorpions flexing their tails before battle, until one scurries away to hide.’
He took several deep breaths before he spoke. ‘Oh, shut up, Serenelle. I’ve had it with your family.’
‘You should be nice to me. I’m your only ally among the Kordens.’ She pushed herself away from the wall, picked up the leather thong for his hair and passed it to him. As their hands touched, she ran the tip of her tongue slowly around her parted lips.
He stared at her and took another deep breath to steady himself. ‘You’re all crazy, d’you know that?’
‘I’m not. I’m the only sane one in this family, with the possible exception of Papa, who is just purblind. They are going to get you, you know, Arrant. You haven’t a chance. You’re the scorpion without a sting who can’t find a hole to hide in. The only thing you don’t know is when the predator will strike.’
‘And you enjoy the watching. That’s sick.’
She smiled and shrugged. ‘So what? And what will you do now? Go home to lick your wounds—or turn up at class?’ She didn’t wait for an answer, but walked down the lane after the others. He watched, unable to look away. He couldn’t help himself even though he knew she revelled in his interest. She was so Vortexdamned sensual.
He dusted down his clothing and walked after her, trying not to remember the feel of Lesgath’s buttocks in his face, nor to recall the feeling of utter helplessness. How could he have let them do that?
‘How could I have stopped them?’ he pondered miserably. Called on Tarran? Brought him all the way from the Mirage to put an end to a stupid bit of bullying? ‘I have to stand on my own feet, win my own battles. That’s what it means to be Mirager-heir, damn it.’
‘Being late is arrogance, boy,’ Theuri-yetemith said. ‘A way of saying you think yourself superior to those you keep waiting. Remember that.’
‘My apologies, Theuri,’ Arrant replied politely.
The man looked him up and down in disgust. ‘You are a sight, Arrant! You should be ashamed of yourself. You look unwashed, and why isn’t your hair tied back? Since when do we come to a combat class with our hair blowing around our faces?’
‘I’ll fix it,’ he said.
The expression of distaste on Yetemith’s face deepened. ‘Go and stow your sword and get your practice weapon,’ he snapped, and turned back to the rest of the class. ‘And what are all you lot doing, standing around like a mob of shleths? Get back to it! Left lunge! Quickly now…’
‘’Ware,’ Perradin murmured behind Arrant as he turned to obey. ‘Firgan’s there, in the armoury.’
Arrant nodded and started towards the building. Even when teaching the class, Firgan usually ignored Arrant to the point of rudeness, but nonetheless Arrant would rather not have to come face to face with him.
He frowned as he walked. He didn’t like the smell of what was happening. First Lesgath and the twins, and now Firgan. ‘And less than a year to stop me being confirmed as Mirager-heir,’ he thought. The Kordens were stepping up the pressure.
The door to the single room of the armoury was on the side facing away from the practice yard. Arrant was acutely aware that no one could see inside from the yard, so he did not enter immediately after opening the door. He stood in the doorway, as if waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Firgan was leaning against one of the weapon racks, a Magor sword held by the hilt in his left hand. He looked up, smiling.
‘Well, well, on Yetemith’s bad-boy list, are we, Arrant?’ Firgan asked. ‘Naughty, naughty.’
Using his far-sense to listen, the bastard. Arrant didn’t answer. He passed by the Magori to the rack that bore his name, where he took his practice sword from its slot and replaced it with his Magor sword. He turned to leave, but as he passed in front of Firgan once more, his gaze alighted on an empty space in the rack in front of him. Perradin’s space. His Magoroth sword should have been there.
Shock rippled through him, sending his thoughts racing. He whirled, to stare at Firgan. To realise the sword in Firgan’s hand did not belong to the man; he wore that at his hip still. As if to confirm his suspicion, Firgan leaned across and put the sword he held into Perradin’s slot.
Arrant leaped to take up his own sword again. Firgan moved just as fast to block him with his bulk. Arrant ran into him, chest to chest, and had to step back. Shaking, he stared at Firgan. The man was large and solid; all muscle and sinew. A thirty-year-old soldier with combat experience. He could easily have picked Arrant up and flung him across the room, had he wanted. And he stood between Arrant and his Magor sword.
‘So, boy,’ Firgan said softly, ‘what are you going to do about it?’
‘Don’t you dare,’ Arrant snarled. He was more than furious; he was frightened. If Firgan placed his cabochon into the hollow on the hilt of Arrant’s sword, Arrant could never use it against him. Not only would it not hurt Firgan, but Arrant could end up dead if he tried. ‘I shall tell the world,’ he added, but the warning sounded hollow to his ears.
Although it was considered the gravest insult possible between two Magoroth, to fit your cabochon into the hilt of someone else’s sword was not against the law. Anathema perhaps, but who would blame Firgan if he wanted to protect himself against the unpredictable magic of one of his pupils? Yet as Arrant thought of his sword—with or without its magic—becoming useless as a weapon against Firgan, he went cold all over.
‘Sweet goddess,’ he thought, ‘the bastard probably put his hand to the hilt of every sword in this room.’
‘And who will believe you?’ Firgan asked reasonably. ‘I am a highly respected Magoroth, a seasoned warrior and a hero of the rebellion. You are a poor excuse for a Magor, Tyranian by upbringing for all your claim to good bloodlines, a weak, pathetic boy who just kissed the buttocks of my little brother and therefore hates the whole Korden family and is willing to tell any lie to discredit the man who would be the next Mirager. Everyone knows your accursed Tyranian bitch of a dam had the ability to tell lies and make them believable, and therefore they won’t trust what comes from your mouth.’
‘That’s a filthy lie. You should honour her for all she has done for Kardiastan and the Magor.’ Beneath his breath, he swore, thinking, ‘This really was planned. All of it. The Hades-bound bastards.’ He doubted any member of the Korden family was going to admit openly that they had made the Mirager-heir kiss Lesgath’s backside, so the whole episode was probably just to undermine his confidence. They were relying on him being too ashamed to tell anyone what had happened—and they were right.
But this, this was more serious. He had to stop Firgan. Yet how? What could he do? His cabochon was quiescent. And if he called on Tarran, and Tarran was free to come, what then? It was a crime to use power against another Magor. Nor could he use the practice sword he clutched in his hand; the idea of fighting Firgan with a wooden sword was ludicrous.
Shout for help: it was the only thing that came to mind. He opened his mouth to cry out. And Firgan was there before him, anticipating. He hooked his heel behind Arrant’s knee and brought him down to the floor, flat on his back. Breath whooshed out. His head rang. Before he could recover, Firgan created a ward that anchored him to the floor, part of it pulled tight across his mouth so he couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. Could hardly breathe.
Firgan stepped away, out of Arrant’s range of vision. When he returned, he was holding Arrant’s sword, his left hand nestling into the hilt, his cabochon slipped into the hollow. ‘So much for your Magoroth sword,’ he said. ‘Not that it was ever likely you’d have been able to hurt me with it, anyway. But with unpredictable power, one never knows, does one? Better for me to be sure.’
He walked away again to
replace the sword. From the sounds, Arrant thought he might have picked up several other blades as well, but he couldn’t see. When Firgan came back into sight, he casually stepped over Arrant on his way to the door, his smile dimpling a cheek as he passed. The light dimmed as he stepped through and half-closed the door behind him. Arrant heard him calling Yetemith from just outside, asking the teacher if he could speak to him. His bitterness raged as he struggled against the ward. In desperation, he tried to drum his heels, anything to make a noise. But the floor of the armoury was hard-packed earth, and his struggles made little sound.
There was a pause, then Firgan spoke again, the words pitched perfectly for Arrant to hear even without enhancing his hearing. ‘Theuri, I apologise for interrupting you, but I have a small problem—a matter of that silly boy Arrant, and Serenelle. He—Oh, never mind. No real harm done. But Arrant being the Mirager’s son, I would like to deal with it, in my own way, just confining it to the children, you understand. Anyway, I hope you will forgive me for keeping Arrant for a moment longer. The boy is in need of some advice, I think. And could you send Lesgath to me for a minute as well?’
‘Oh course. Take as long as you wish. I am a great believer in pinching off bad behaviour at the root the moment it sprouts.’
Arrant’s spirits plunged even lower. Was that what all this about—starting a rumour using innuendo? Planting an idea without ever really saying anything? Discrediting him in a way that could never be challenged, because nothing had ever actually been said. Clever. If people thought the Kordens bullied him, they might be sympathetic towards him, if a little contemptuous. But if he was thought to be making a nuisance of himself with Serenelle, then people would condemn him outright.
Yetemith went back to the class; Arrant felt him go. Which meant his cabochon must be working. Good.
Tarran?
No reply. His power was being obliging on its own for once.