by Glenda Larke
Firgan returned, closing the door behind him. ‘See?’ he asked. ‘And not a single lie uttered. Easy when you know how. Yetemith has just gone away imagining the worst. I shall repeat an even better tale within the hearing of a few non-Magor servants who can’t tell the truth from a heap of lies, and you’ll be surprised how quickly the story develops.’ He heaved a sigh and shook his head with mock sadness. ‘Arrant, Arrant, why don’t you just give up now, gracefully? I am sure in your heart, you know that you shouldn’t be the Mirager-heir anyway. We’ve given you well over a year to prove yourself, and nothing’s happened. If you are wise, you will go to your father and tell him that you wish to relinquish the position of heir. Otherwise you will have to face some remarkably unpleasant consequences.’
Arrant didn’t answer. He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to.
The power in his cabochon spluttered ineffectually. The door opened and Lesgath entered. He came and looked down at Arrant. ‘Interesting,’ he said in approval. He glanced at his brother. ‘What are you going to do—stick a sword through his middle?’
‘Nothing so crass. No, I just want you protected. Go put your hand into the hilt of his sword over there in the rack, that’s all.’
Lesgath laughed. ‘Gladly. Now why didn’t I think of that?’ He slipped out of Arrant’s sight, only to return a second or two later waving a Magoroth sword. ‘Yours, I believe?’ he asked, swishing it under Arrant’s nose before returning it to its rack. ‘Can I do that with them all?’
‘No, of course not. These belong to your Magor sparring partners, you idiot. Someone in the class would soon realise something was the matter if none of their sword magic ever worked when they tried it on Lesgath. With Arrogant here, it doesn’t matter; no one expects his magic to work. Oh, and don’t tell anyone about this, right? No one. Not even those friends of yours. This is our little secret—yours, mine and Arrogant’s here. Now get back to class.’
Lesgath grinned one more time at Arrant and left. Firgan was out of Arrant’s line of vision again, and he couldn’t be certain what the man was doing, but it wasn’t long before he came back to stare down at Arrant once more.
‘I am now going to release the warding,’ he said. ‘Think before you do anything foolish, eh? I am giving you a chance to get out of this with a modicum of pride. Just go to your father and tell him you don’t want to be Mirager-heir, because you know you can’t walk in his sandals. Do that, and I promise I will never bother you again. I’ll even call the rest of the family off. Life would be much more pleasant for you then, wouldn’t it? Oh, and by the way, I wouldn’t tell anyone about this, either, if I were you. You will only end up looking a fool and no one will believe you.’
The warding vanished. ‘No, wait a moment. Perhaps you should tell everyone.’ Firgan grinned. ‘I think I like the idea of you making a fool of yourself.’
Arrant scrambled to his feet. He took a moment to retie his hair before he bent to pick up his practice sword. ‘Perhaps it would be better if I never became Mirager,’ he said, surprised to find how steady his voice sounded. ‘But let me tell you something, Firgan. I’ll see you dead before I let you step into my sandals as Mirager-heir.’ He spun on his heel, opened the door and stepped through into the sunlight, without looking back.
As he walked across the practice yard to join the other students, he felt every eye on him. Emotions eddied around and his cabochon obligingly told him what they were. Intense curiosity. Speculation. They guessed Arrant was in trouble and they wanted to know why. Firgan had ploughed the ground, preparing it for the seeds of rumour about to drop, and Arrant doubted there was anything he could do to stop it taking root. Damn his blasted cabochon: why did it work when he didn’t want it to?
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Immediately Yetemith’s class was finished, Arrant went to meet his father, glad that the Mirager was in Madrinya. He had no intention of hiding what had happened from Temellin, and he wasn’t sure why Firgan thought he might. ‘He thinks he knows me,’ Arrant muttered under his breath, ‘but he doesn’t really.’ He paused at the doorway to Temellin’s rooms, taking comfort from that thought as he braced himself for the conversation ahead.
His father had come to love those rooms, bright with sunlight most of the year, filled with the smell of lemon and orange blossom in the early warmth of the desert-season, or the ripe tang of the fruit as the weather changed. Hellesia, noting this, had arranged for the planting of honeysuckle, climbing jasmine and moonflower vines along the stone walls of the garden.
Fountains were built into the walls of the study, Tyranian-style, and the trickle of running water was now a constant sound. Most Magor who visited him there thought it a foreign affectation, wasteful of water, and condemned the expense. Others, more tolerant, said a man without good eyesight should be allowed an affectation or two; it’d give him something pleasant to hear, at least. Only Arrant, Garis and Temellin knew the real reason; the constant sound of trickling water made it difficult for anyone outside to far-sense conversations within the room. Most of the Magor would not even have recognised that there was a need for such precautions; the taboo against using the senses to eavesdrop was so strong they would never have considered it. His father, however, no longer trusted all of the Magoroth.
To Arrant, everything in the apartment was evocative of things he’d rather forget. The scents reminded him that his father had to be content with senses other than sight; the fountains were a reminder that there were people who worked against the Mirager, some believing his blindness rendered him ineffective, and others who thought his love for his son blinded him to the future needs of Kardiastan. His father’s attachment to the rooms was a testament to the way the Mirager’s life had shrunk since he had lost his sight. In spite of his forays to the Mirage, a once-vibrant, active man was now far more introspective and sedentary than he had ever been before.
As he entered the room Arrant knew he must have been broadcasting his emotional turmoil because the other two people present, Jahan and Jessah, exchanged startled glances, and Jessah asked, ‘Would you like Jahan and me to leave?’
‘No, you had all better hear this,’ Arrant replied. He took a deep breath and outlined what they needed to know in a rush of words. ‘Firgan was in the armoury today. He as good as told me he’s going to start a rumour about me upsetting Serenelle with my supposed misbehaviour. Worse, he put his hand to the hilt of my Magor sword. Mine and Perry’s. Possibly them all. He then called in Lesgath, who took up my sword, too.’
Their anger was an immediate blast across the room: solid and hot. Jahan’s frown was thunderous. ‘Perry’s too? I’ll kill the bastard.’
Temellin’s hand dropped to the hilt of his own weapon in an instinctive gesture of rage, but other than that he did not move. When he spoke, it was with quiet puzzlement. ‘I don’t quite understand. Why would Firgan let you know he held your sword?’
‘A warning?’ Jahan suggested. ‘A way of saying, “Don’t attack us, Arrant, or you’ll be the one to die. Your sword power will turn against you, not us.” ’
‘Decent of him, wasn’t it,’ Temellin remarked, his tone dry. ‘And it’s also telling Arrant that he is defenceless against Firgan and Lesgath if he relies on his Magor sword. It’s telling him that no ward built using his sword will stop those two Korden brothers. It’s telling him that Perry won’t be able to help.’ He shook his head, mystified. ‘If Firgan wants Arrant to give up the idea of being Mirager-heir, he has to do better than this. We are missing something.’
‘You could ask him if he put his hand to the lads’ swords,’ Jessah suggested tentatively. ‘If he tells the truth, he looks bad. If he lies, everyone will know.’
‘He would be under no compulsion to reply,’ Temellin said. ‘Or he could answer, saying that as a combat teacher, he was merely protecting himself from an unpredictable student. Many wouldn’t condemn him for that.’
‘He might find it harder to think of an excuse for holding Perry’s sword,’ Arr
ant said.
Jahan swore just thinking about it. Temellin considered. ‘I could call both Yetemith and Firgan in here, and order them never to pair you or Perradin with Lesgath for Magor combat. I’m not sure that’s wise, though.’
‘Why not?’ Jahan demanded.
‘Because it would be a public insult to members of the Korden family. It’s like saying they are planning to hurt Arrant. Remember, our aim is to get Arrant confirmed as Mirager-heir. To do that, we need to show him to be a worthy leader. Banning him from training with any of the Kordens, for whatever reason, will rebound to Arrant’s discredit. I think we should do what Firgan least expects. Arrant, tell all your closest friends what happened, in strictest confidence, of course. Ask your children to do the same, Jahan.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, you don’t expect they will keep it a secret, surely?’ Jessah said.
‘Of course not. Everyone will know in a day or two, but it will be hard for Firgan to fight, because no one will openly accuse him. However, if the Korden offspring know everyone is aware of the situation, it will make it hard for any of them to stage an accident without implicating themselves. If anyone other than your close friends asks you directly what happened, Arrant, just say that you’d rather not talk about it as it reflects badly on one of the Magoroth. Refuse to be drawn. That way you will earn respect.’
‘You don’t think Korden himself had anything to do with this?’ Jahan asked.
Temellin hesitated. ‘No, I don’t think so. He may want his son in Arrant’s place, but this doesn’t fit with what he would consider honourable.’
Jessah snorted.
‘I can’t understand why Firgan let you know what he’d done,’ Temellin added to Arrant, ‘so my advice is this: walk away from confrontation.’
‘I’ve seen him in the library several times lately,’ Jessah said. ‘And he doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who reads for pleasure.’
Temellin looked thoughtful. ‘No, but he is a man who understands the value of research. He studied the history of Tyranian campaigns in order to learn their battle techniques. He put that knowledge to good effect during the war. Jessah, go to Illuser-reftim and find out from him—tactfully—what Firgan was researching. In the meantime, I want you to act as Arrant’s personal guard.’
‘Skies, Papa, the other students would never cease teasing me. Forgive me, Magoria, I don’t mean to be rude. But, Papa, she’s your scribe.’
‘Your son has to show his own courage,’ Jahan agreed, ‘otherwise he’ll never be able to lead this nation, or the Magor. You can’t send him off to the Academy every day with his best friend’s mother.’
Temellin struggled with himself. For a brief moment, Arrant felt his frustration, his fierce resentment of his disability and the restrictions it imposed on him.
‘They’re right,’ Arrant said quietly. ‘This is a battle I have to fight alone.’
Temellin conquered his feelings and shut down his emotions. ‘Very well. But I’m going to get Garis here. I am due to leave for the Mirage again and I want you to have a Magoroth guard I can trust and one which won’t be an embarrassment to you. Garis has done too long a stint of duty in the Mirage anyway. He’s due to be rested and see a bit of his daughter. She can come with him.’
Arrant nodded, and his spirits brightened. To see Garis again…and Samia, of course.
‘In the meantime, if anything worries you, bring it to Jessah immediately. And now, I want a private word with you. Jahan, Jessah—?’
He waited until they had gone before continuing. ‘We have less than a year in which to decide whether to put your name forward to the Council for your official endorsement as Mirager-heir.’
Arrant murmured his assent.
‘You have passed all your exams so far. And you have impressed many of the Magoroth. That day you swore to uphold the Covenant and your power bathed the whole antechamber in light—none of us had ever seen that before. I hear your building of wards for Markess’s test was masterful, the cutting of the stone was almost frightening. However, Yetemith and Markess have formed an alliance against you. They are constantly recounting, in public, your failures. Arrant, I will be quite frank with you. It will be difficult for me to endorse your confirmation myself unless we can be sure that you will have enough power to bestow cabochons in the future, without Tarran’s presence. Of course, that problem may become redundant if the Mirage Makers all die and my successor never receives a Mirager’s sword, but at the moment it still has to be the main criterion.’
Even though he’d known the words were coming, Arrant winced. ‘Nothing has changed,’ he admitted, the honesty painful. ‘Sometimes my cabochon works just as it should, sometimes it doesn’t, and I can’t predict it. Nor has it improved much since I started at the Academy. I’ve never lost control again, the way I did when I was nine. That—that was what I used to worry about most, but I think it happened because Tarran left me too suddenly for me to cope with the power I had called up when he was there.’ He swallowed. ‘If I had a Mirager’s sword, and could dictate just when to bestow a cabochon to coincide with when I had power, then I think I could do it.’ I can be a Mirager, even without you, Tarran, he said, even though he knew his brother wasn’t there to hear the words. I can. But, oh, Tarran—I’d rather it was with you.
The smile that lit up his father’s face was one of pride, and yet it made the ache in Arrant’s heart all the larger. Because neither of them could be sure there would ever be another Mirager’s sword.
He might be a Mirager one day, yet have no way to bestow a cabochon on a newborn child.
Jessah would have liked to spend more of her time in the library. She loved poking about among the scrolls and books, even though the librarian, Illuser-reftim, with his fussy ways inevitably made any user feel like an interloper in his domain. Everyone who entered had to use silk gloves before being allowed to touch anything. He would then hover at the reader’s shoulder, ready with advice on how to handle the scrolls or books, or to scold them if they dared to turn a page too roughly.
‘They are our legacy from the Mirage Makers,’ he was fond of saying. ‘They are our history, the records of our past and they point us to our future.’ His days were spent cataloguing every single paper and book and scroll—a seemingly endless job, because he’d been at it ever since the library had been re-established in the pavilions, and he still wasn’t finished.
This time, though, Jessah was not there to browse. ‘Illuser-reftim,’ she said cheerfully, ‘I wonder if I could have a moment of your time. I have a question to ask.’
Reftim looked up from his labours and laid his stylus down. ‘Of course, Magoria. That is what a librarian is for, you know. To seek out the answers to our questions.’ He waved a hand at the shelves and scroll racks. ‘There lies much of the knowledge of the known world. Did you know that we just received a shipment of copied Assorian histories? Seven scrolls, each as long as this room. The Council approved the purchase after the Mirager’s recommendation.’ His smile was beatific.
‘I’m glad. But wherever did you learn to read Assorian?’
His face fell. ‘I can’t. I’m wondering if the Council would approve us hiring an Assorian scholar for a year to provide a translation. Do you think—?’
‘Well, you could ask, I suppose. Reftim, the Mirager wants to know what Magori-firgan has been doing in the library lately.’
‘Oh. Well, reading.’
‘Reading what?’
‘I don’t know whether I should answer that. I mean, it’s his business, really…’
Jessah arched an eyebrow. ‘The Mirager wants to know, Reftim.’
He didn’t reply, but said instead, ‘They say Firgan wants to be Mirager-heir. Is that true?’
‘Yes. Instead of Arrant. You were his mother’s guard back in Mirage City, weren’t you?’
He flushed a deep red and she had no idea why, but the question prompted him into an answer. ‘Magori-firgan was reading some of the books on
using Magor swords in combat. There was nothing strange in his request, Magoria. He is training warriors. Wisely, he decided to do some reading on the theory.’
‘Do you know which books?’
‘Of course. All that I could find on the subject. There were seven or eight of them.’
‘Oh. Do you think he found what he was looking for?’
‘I was unaware he was looking for anything in particular. He told me he had a general interest. He was careful with the volumes, so I left him on his own.’
Jessah nodded. Reftim oozed honesty. He had seen nothing strange in Firgan’s behaviour. She thanked the librarian, and left him to his cataloguing. As she walked back to the Mirager’s Pavilion, she knew she ought to have felt reassured, but she didn’t.
She was frightened.
Arrant hated saying goodbye to his father. Every time the Mirager rode off, he had a sick feeling in his stomach that he might not come back. When Temellin left for the Mirage at dawn one morning, with the promise that he would send Garis to Madrinya, Arrant went straight to the Academy practice yard early. He felt in need of lashing out at someone, and the straw-stuffed target in the yard seemed to offer the safest alternative.
To his dismay, after he had been practising for a while, Serenelle arrived. He didn’t bother to hide his scowl. He was fed up with the Korden family. She crossed the yard towards him and it was all he could do not to turn away and leave. Or bite her head off.
‘You’re up early,’ he said instead.
‘I wanted to see you. I was hoping you’d come early. I’ve tried to have a word with you for a couple of days, and you always dodge me. That’s not very polite.’
‘Polite? When has your family ever been polite to me? So, what’s the plan this time, Serenelle? Another spot of nastiness disguised as Korden humour?’
She snorted. ‘Get it out of your head that I involve myself with my brothers and sisters, Arrant.’
‘Oh? Yet I seem to remember you watching when the twins pushed my face into Lesgath’s rear end.’