Song of the Shiver Barrens

by Glenda Larke

  ‘I didn’t know they were going to do that. And do you think I like having my name bandied about, everyone believing I was somehow molested by you or whatever it is you are supposed to have done? And incapable of protecting myself from you? I’ve heard at least four different versions of what supposedly took place.’ She tossed her head. ‘Those idiot brothers of mine have less sense than a shleth embryo. They certainly didn’t consult me first.’

  ‘Which brothers are we talking about here?’

  ‘Lesgath and Ryval, of course. Who else?’

  ‘Firgan, of course. Who else?’

  ‘Ah.’ She put her head on one side, her eyes narrowing. ‘Maybe you’re not as dumb as you always seem to be.’

  He gritted his teeth. ‘Is that supposed to be a compliment?’ He regarded her dubiously. This had to be another trick.

  ‘Arrant, they mean you harm, you know. All of them. Even Papa, in his own more civilised way. Firgan’s behind it, you’re right. He will do anything to stop your official confirmation.’

  ‘What are they planning?’

  ‘I don’t know. They don’t tell me.’

  Frustrated, he wondered if she was risking telling him a lie because she guessed he wouldn’t recognise it as such. ‘Sands,’ he thought, ‘it must be so easy for other Magor, always able to sense an untruth. How can I be the Mirager if I’ll never be able to do that? It makes things so much more difficult.’

  ‘Just watch out. I don’t think Firgan will care too much if you end up dead, as long as he isn’t blamed.’

  He was still suspicious. ‘Why are you telling me this?’ Maybe the others had just sent her to scare him into deciding he didn’t want to be Mirager-heir.

  ‘I don’t like being used. Not by anyone.’

  He hid a sigh. He couldn’t tell if what she said was the truth or not.

  ‘We have to let most of it go, Temel. All the outer edges to the north, east and west. We should concentrate on cleaning out a strip that borders the middle section of the Fifth Rake.’ Garis tried not to show his distress. He held out his hands to the fire, to warm his frozen fingers. The burning shleth pats had a pleasant smell like lakeside grass, and supplied a small circle of welcome warmth on the rake in the midst of the chill of the night air. He looked back at the Mirager and then watched a dance of lights along the horizon instead—the Mirage Makers at play, even now—because he couldn’t bear to see the pain on Temellin’s face. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘How far did you go in this time?’ Temellin asked.

  ‘As far north as we could. I’ve finished the mapping up that way. We couldn’t reach the foothills. The Mirage has vanished there. It’s just an ocean of Ravage liquid, suppurating under the sun as far as you can see.’

  ‘How much are we talking about?’

  ‘The portion we can save, you mean? About one tenth of what the Mirage used to be, if we’re lucky. We’ve left boundary markers for the area, and hopefully the Mirage won’t mess with them. Not so sure about the Ravage though. There’s no large expanse of Mirage anywhere that doesn’t have a Ravage sore eating away at its heart.’

  ‘None?’

  Garis didn’t answer.

  Temellin sighed. ‘It hurts, Garis. After all they gave us, we can do so little for them.’ He drew his cloak tighter around himself. ‘I want you to go back to Madrinya for a while. Ask Samia to join you. You’ve been out here too long. You shouldn’t press your luck, and I want you to keep an eye on Arrant.’

  ‘Problem?’

  ‘I think so. I’ll tell you more in the morning. Go off to your pallet now.’

  Garis knew that tone of voice. The Mirager wanted to be alone.

  Garis didn’t know what woke him. It could have been the screaming of the shleths or the frightened yells of the men. Or perhaps the caterwaul of the wind as it whipped out of the Mirage in skeins of turbulence, each skein a tangle of slavering beasts.

  One of the creatures came tumbling down onto the makeshift cover that he’d rigged up. He leaped to his feet, or tried to, but had to struggle out from underneath the fallen cover first. When he emerged, he was in the middle of a battle.

  Cabochon light flared around him, red, green, gold: coloured shafts spearing the darkness, searching out the Ravage beasts that had arrived on the wind. He came face to face with the one that had crashed through his hide cover. There was no time to find his sword. The creature was so close that, when he raised his left hand, he jammed the cabochon into its eye. The head melted into a rain of muck that showered him. He slipped in slime and went down on one knee. While he was there, he managed to find his sword.

  He put his back to a perpendicular outcrop of rock, and fought another attacker that seemed to have two heads. When he had killed that, to his satisfaction, he checked to make sure that all its pieces were dead, then stepped away from the outcrop. He didn’t even see the thing that leaped out at him from under the fallen hide cover and clamped double rows of serrated teeth around his ankle. He heard the scrunch of cracking bones a split second before he felt the pain. He slashed his sword down and cleaved it in two, then burned each half to ashes—but the lifeless head and jaws were still embedded in his ankle. The smell of blood attracted another; weakness made Garis slow and outstretched claws raked his wounded leg from thigh to ankle. As he killed the attacker, he saw power leaking from him, along with his blood.

  ‘Samia,’ he thought as the sword tumbled from his hand. ‘Oh, Samia.’

  Just as the rumour spread that Lesgath and Firgan had put a hand to Arrant’s sword hilt, so did the gossip circulate about how Arrant had pestered Serenelle with unwanted attentions until Ryval, Myssa and Lesgath had retaliated and forced Arrant into licking Lesgath’s backside while Serenelle watched.

  Arrant wasn’t sure which of the stories was the more damaging. He did know it was hard not to think that every snigger he heard was directed at him, hard not to blush when someone gave him a knowing smile. ‘It’s nothing.’ He forced his inner voice to repeat the words over and over. ‘Embarrassment is nothing. You weren’t the guilty one; why should you feel embarrassed?’

  To his further irritation, Elvena Korden was drawn into the fray, apparently instructed to make life miserable for him. It started when he was in the library, and she built a ward across the floor so that he sprawled at her feet. A simple trick that would not have fooled anyone with a working cabochon. He picked himself up and ignored the tinkle of her laughter.

  ‘Well, well,’ she said, dimpling prettily, ‘Miragerheir! Are you blind, too?’ She could not have thought of a comment better designed to hurt him.

  Every time he was alone, she would use her senses to track him down and torment him with similar childish tricks. His inability to sense her approach, or to combat her tricks with a ward of his own, was devastating to his self-esteem. How could he be a Mirager one day if he couldn’t even stop the silly antics of someone like Elvena? Which was exactly the way the Kordens wanted him to feel, of course. He thought of taking the matter to one of the teachers, but he knew such a complaint would only make him look a fool.

  Myssa and Ryval, when they were not away fighting the Ravage, lent their own brand of torture to his situation, waylaying him as often as they could in the walled lane leading to the Mirager’s Pavilion, or somewhere else equally quiet. Ryval’s favourite trick was to put a hand to Arrant’s back and smile as if they were having a pleasant conversation, only to shaft pain from his cabochon directly into Arrant’s body.

  ‘Hurts, does it?’ he would inquire. If Arrant strode on, Ryval would keep pace as he chatted. ‘What are you going to do about it, lad? Complain? Retaliate with your own power? Of course, most people might remark that a Magoroth who can’t raise a ward against a bit of cabochon pain, or even notice a ward raised in front of him, might be a bit of a useless sort of Mirager-heir, wouldn’t you think?’

  Arrant was often tempted to call Tarran, but resisted. If his brother came in a hurry, believing he was urgently needed, who kne
w what repercussions it might have to the situation in the Mirage? And so he would endure the pain with as much stoicism as he could muster, fix Ryval with a steady stare and as serene a smile as he could manage and say something like, ‘Have you quite finished?’

  His calm was a small victory, but a victory, nonetheless. He thought it would all end when Garis arrived, only to receive a letter from Temellin telling him Garis had been badly injured, and was now convalescing with Samia in Asufa. It could be months before he would be able to come to Madrinya.

  Arrant wrote back to his father, telling him not to worry; he had enlisted the help of Perradin, Bevran and Vevi instead. From then on, the four of them formed an inseparable quartet. If any of the Korden family chose to torment him, there would be witnesses.

  In the meantime, when he found his stylus broken or his slate smashed, when he suffered one of the other countless aggravations, he refused to react, and perfected a look of mildly contemptuous indifference. The number and severity of attacks lessened, aided by the need for the twins and Firgan to spend time in the Mirage. When they were away, Elvena faltered in her enthusiasm for Arrant’s persecution, and Lesgath confined himself to petty irritations.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Arrant told Tarran once when he did come. ‘I’m fine. What’s my pain and a few indignities compared to yours?’ And it was true. When he thought of it that way, he thought he could endure anything.

  But he also knew that, as his sixteenth anniversary day approached, he might be in more trouble than he could handle.

  A tiny part of his mind whispered a continuous warning: be careful.

  A beam of gold sliced through the cloth side of the tent and Ligea stepped through the slit. Devros of the Lucii was alone, as she had sensed. He stood with his back to her, washing his face at the bowl on a washstand.

  She looked around, assessing where his weapons were, and waited for him to reach for his towel before she spoke. ‘You’ve aged since I saw you last,’ she said. ‘Balding, I see.’

  He started so violently he sent the washbowl flying. For one frozen moment he stared at her. Then recognition came and he dived for his sword where it lay on the table, still in its scabbard. A stab of gold light jabbed him with pain and he doubled up before he reached it. ‘Vortex take you, Devros, didn’t anyone ever teach you not to annoy someone with a drawn sword standing right in front of you when you aren’t armed?’

  Gasping and clutching at his stomach, he straightened. ‘You son of a bitch!’

  She smiled. ‘Not really. “Daughter of a bastard” is probably closer to the truth. Now sit down in that chair over there, and listen very carefully to what I am about to say.’

  He hesitated, but did as she asked, apparently deciding that if she was going to talk, he wasn’t in any immediate danger. ‘You won’t get out of this camp alive,’ he promised.

  ‘Of course I will. I came in without anyone sounding the alarm. Although I must admit, if anyone were to look, they might have trouble finding the guards. By the way, I’ve placed a ward around this tent. That means no one can come in, so there’s no point in yelling for help. But let’s get down to why I’m here. Yesterday I stood on a cliff top and watched the last of the foreign armies—what’s left of them—sail for home with our navy nipping at their steering oars. You’re on your own, Devros. I could kill you now, oh, so easily. Or you could surrender your men, as well as yourself, and live. I’d prefer that, I admit, so I have drawn up a list of my terms for you. Basically it involves a modest existence on a country estate and a chance to see your grandchildren grow up, or death for every adult male Lucii who joined your rebellion and confiscation of all their estates. You choose. Every one of the highborn who followed you into this disaster will receive the same offer.’ She withdrew a piece of parchment from her tunic and dropped it on the table. ‘Read it and send me word in Tyr.’

  She hardened her gaze. ‘There won’t be another chance. You’ve seen my power. The only reason it has taken me so long to confront you like this is that I can only be in one place at a time. Now everything I have will be concentrated on you, because your allies are running like rabbits back to their burrows. Think about it. A month, and I want to see you kneeling at my feet in Tyr to kiss the hem of my robe in submission, or I will take immense pleasure in hunting you down.’

  She touched her sword to his where it lay on the table. The metal of his blade began to droop and then melt around the edges. Devros watched, the fear in his eyes unmistakeable. ‘Cold fire,’ she said. ‘Can you imagine what it would do to your guts? Or would you prefer heat, perhaps?’

  She directed the point of her sword out of the tent opening. He had to look over his shoulder to see what she was doing. The ridge of the tent opposite burst into flames. One of his men hurtled out of the tent, yelling. When Devros turned back, Ligea was gone.

  Outside the slit at the back of the tent, she said to Gevenan who had been waiting for her, ‘I loved doing that.’ Then added, as she sliced through the guy ropes that held the tent erect, ‘Almost as much as I would have loved to wring his neck.’

  He handed her her cloak as the tent collapsed. ‘Brand did once tell me you had a penchant for extravagant theatre. Let’s go home, woman. My knees are aching.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  ‘Settle down, class!’ Firgan’s voice boomed out over the yard. ‘Gather around. I have an announcement to make.’

  Firgan, not Yetemith. Yetemith was there, but quietly leaning against the practice yard wall. The first class was with wooden swords, but Arrant had been hoping that Yetemith would take it, not Firgan. He hated it when Firgan taught. Fear seeped into every moment, contaminating every pleasure he might otherwise have taken in learning, singeing every thought with suspicion.

  ‘Theuri-yetemith and I have been assessing your success with handling your Magoroth swords,’ Firgan began. ‘We have decided that, apart from the obvious exception among you’—he stared at Arrant—‘you are all doing well.’

  Arrant stared back, his face wooden.

  ‘So, we have decided to bring forward this year’s two combat tests to this week; that is, both with and without power. Starting tomorrow. With the combat tests out of the way, you will have more time to concentrate on your weaker subjects. Of course, you, Arrant, who are obviously way behind the rest of the class in Magoroth sword combat, may say this is unfair to you. After some discussion, it was pointed out that no matter how much time you have, you never seem to improve, therefore to grant you more time is pointless.’

  Serenelle giggled and there was muffled tittering from the direction of Lesgath and his friends.

  ‘Fail the exam,’ Firgan continued, ‘any of you, and we’ll drop you back to join the next class that starts Magoroth sword combat.’

  Perradin muttered, ‘What in all hells is he up to? Why now, when the Mirager is away?’

  Arrant shrugged. ‘He wants me to fail. To look bad when I come up to be confirmed as Mirager-heir.’ Six months. Only six months more.

  ‘Of course,’ Firgan continued, ‘it is also perfectly possible that the Mirager-heir will miraculously manage to pass the test. Perhaps he will one day be able to explain why his cabochon works only during examinations.’

  More laughter.

  ‘Anyway, expect to be tested as from tomorrow. And as for today’s combat classes, they will be a heavy practice. You will be changing opponents often. We’ll start with practice swords, then move to the Magoroth sword. We are mixing you in with my seniors to give you a wider variety of fighting styles and levels of skills. Collect your practice swords, please.’

  ‘Sandblast it,’ Arrant thought. ‘This is not going to be fun.’

  The students filed over to the armoury shed to rack their Magoroth swords and pick up their wooden swords, then the morning’s practice began. Firgan and Yetemith walked around the yard, intervening every now and then to comment on what one combatant or another was doing wrong and how to correct it.

  Half an hour int
o the class, Arrant found himself pitted against Lesgath. Arrant spun Lesgath’s practice blade out of his hand in less time than it took to tie on a sandal. Several students noticed and guffawed, which didn’t improve Lesgath’s temper.

  ‘You are a knucklehead,’ Serenelle told him afterwards, when it was her turn to face Arrant. ‘What in all the wide blue skies do you think Lesgath will do to you later, when we are all using our Magoroth swords?’

  Arrant’s jaw tightened. Even with practice swords accidents occurred. In his years of training, he’d seen teeth knocked out, wrists broken and ears torn; how much more damage could be inflicted in a Magoroth class when an attacker and a defender were unevenly matched?

  He refused to show Serenelle he was worried, but he was. Nothing was predictable any more. He didn’t think Firgan would partner him with Lesgath, not when everyone knew his sword was useless against him. But still, the whole Korden family were consolidating their position for concerted action against him in the near future, he knew it. ‘Vortexdamn it, how soon?’ he wondered. ‘While Papa is still away? And exactly what can I expect? Gods, I wish Garis would come.’ Garis’s recuperation was slow. The injury must have been severe, to incapacitate a Magoroth for so long, and he worried.

  In the break between classes, which they spent in the tree-shaded Academy courtyard, he said as much to Perradin and Bevran, and then added, ‘They wouldn’t dare to hurt me, not with everyone knowing I can’t use my sword against Lesgath, even if I could call on the power.’

  ‘Lesgath’s awfully mad,’ Bevran said. His gaze followed Serenelle as she crossed the courtyard. Perradin rolled his eyes. Bevran’s futile hankering after Serenelle had become the worst-kept secret in the Academy. ‘I heard him swearing about you to Serenelle a while back. He sounded nasty.’ He turned back to Arrant, giving his full attention. ‘I eavesdropped, actually. I reckoned if they can, so can I.’