by Glenda Larke
Arrant had to hide a shiver.
‘I don’t like this,’ Perradin said. ‘Not with both your father and mine away, and with Lesgath fuming. Too many things happening at once. I’m going to ask my mother to be here to watch the tests.’
Arrant turned away to drink at the fountain to cover the cold sweat of fear along his upper lip. When he stood straight again, he was able to ask calmly, ‘Could Firgan be using Lesgath without his knowledge? And Lesgath is so thick he can’t see it? It’s almost as though Firgan wants his brother to get so mad he’ll attack me with his Magor power, knowing I won’t be able to defend myself.’
Perradin’s eyes widened. ‘You mean—he wants Lesgath to murder you?’
Arrant shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
‘That’s—bizarre,’ said Perradin, but the tone of his voice told them he didn’t think it impossible.
‘I could still use my cabochon to defend myself.’
‘You’re not supposed to use a cabochon, not directly, in a sword class,’ Perradin said. ‘Still, you might like to consider doing so if you get in a fix. Better to be told off than to be dead.’
‘Thanks for pointing that out,’ Arrant said. ‘Especially when there’s nothing to say my cabochon will work.’
‘It always seems to work when you’re tested. Hells, Arrant, if Lesgath is that stupid, he’ll suffer for it afterwards, but that wouldn’t bring you back if he’s already killed you.’
Bevran frowned. ‘Hey, that’s right. Your cabochon does tend to work when we have a test. How do you do that, yet can’t fix it to work at other times?’
‘I just do it that way to annoy Markess and Yetemith,’ Arrant said solemnly. Bevran blinked, half-believing.
Arrant laughed and said, ‘I will explain one day, I promise. But it comes with a price, and I don’t like to do it too often, all right? What worries me, and Father too, is this: if Firgan wants me dead by Lesgath’s hand, then why did he have Lesgath put his hand to my sword in front of me? If I hadn’t known that, and tried to defend myself against an attack by Lesgath, any power I sent his way would rebound back on me, with possibly fatal consequences. Which would make it more my fault than Lesgath’s. We both think we’re missing something still.’
‘Arrant, I think you ought to have a terribly bad stomachache,’ Perradin said. ‘Or a splitting headache. Avoid the test.’
‘And who’s going to believe that?’
‘No one. But you’d be alive.’
‘A live coward no one will ever want as a Mirager, or the possibility of ending up a dead hero who’s no use to anyone,’ Bevran added, brutally frank. ‘Not much of a choice.’
Arrant exhaled. ‘No, I know. I think I need to get my cabochon working, if I can. You could try warning him, in the meantime.’
‘Warn who? Lesgath?’ Perradin gave him a strange look, and then thought about it. ‘I don’t think he’d listen to me.’
‘He might take notice of Vevi,’ Bevran said. ‘He used to like her rather a lot.’
Perradin stared at him. ‘Bev, how do you always know things like that?’
‘I watch and I listen. Unlike some people I know, who never seem to see anything, especially if it is right under their nose.’
‘All right, all right. Let’s go and have a word with Vevi.’ The two of them went off to find her, leaving Arrant alone on the bench.
Tarran, can you hear me?
A long pause made him think Tarran wasn’t able to reply, but then he popped into Arrant’s head. What’s up?
Arrant looked around the yard to show Tarran where he was, and what was happening. I think I might need some help in a moment. And more tomorrow, when we are going to be tested. He outlined what had happened.
Ah, Tarran said. You are in a fix. I don’t like it, Arrant. You’re right, Firgan means to do something.
How in Hades are you always able to grasp what’s been going on so quickly? You glimpse my life in chunks, with great holes bitten out by your absences, yet you’re always ready to plunge right in again.
Talent, sheer talent. I’ll stay around for a bit and do my best now. Afterwards, I’ll talk to the rest of me about staying with you for a day or two. Papa is here, and things are always quieter for us when he is fighting. I wish you could see him, Arrant. He scares the Ravage beasts.
Arrant smiled. He scares me sometimes, too.
Instead of being restricted by his blindness, he has honed his other senses and melded them to his Magor abilities to create a warrior who inspires us all. But, Arrant, we worry. He takes such risks for us. One day—one day he will take one step too far.
Arrant swallowed back the rise of emotion into his throat. That’s—that’s who he is, Tarran.
‘That’s great,’ Perradin said, coming back again just in time to note the gold beginning to fill Arrant’s sword as he put his left hand to the hilt. ‘That’ll give Lesgath second thoughts when he sees. And Vevi is going to talk to him. She doesn’t think it will do much good, but she’s going to try.’ He nodded at the sword. ‘Will you be able to keep it like that?’
‘I hope so. The trouble is, I have little experience at using a Magor sword with its power intact. I’m worried about making a mess of things anyway. I have to be extra-careful I don’t hurt anyone by accident.’
‘And how old were you when you last did that?’ Perradin asked. He already knew the answer. Arrant had once told him what had happened, and when.
‘Perry, I didn’t have a Magor sword then. I have an even greater potential for making a mess of things now.’
Don’t think about it, shleth brain.
Perradin looked taken aback. ‘That’s right. You must have done all that with a cabochon. I never considered that. Skies above, Arrant, you must be the strongest Magori ever born.’
‘Yes, sure. Once every ten years when I’m not trying.’ To Tarran he added, Try to give me warning if you have to leave, all right? I don’t want to blow everyone to Acheron in little bits this time.
I’ll do my best. Things seem quiet here at the moment. We will get you through this test together. It is important, isn’t it? It could be the last in Magor sword combat before your sixteenth anniversary day and your confirmation as Mirager-heir.
‘You are very quiet,’ Perradin said, staring at him. ‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Just thinking. Don’t worry.’ If there ever is a confirmation. The Kordens are still trying to make damn sure there won’t be.
‘There are times when you seem to be in a vale a thousand seas away.’
‘Sorry. It is a way I have when I’m thinking.’
‘Yes, I’ve noticed.’
Perradin’s tone was so dry, Tarran remarked, I think he knows you are talking to me.
Probably. He’s not dumb.
‘Arrant,’ Perradin continued, ‘even as dreamy as you are, and with a cabochon as unpredictable as a desert wind, I sure as the sands are dry hope you stay the Mirager-heir, because I would hate to see Firgan there in your place.’
On the surface it was lightly said, but Perradin let his emotions free, and Arrant could—for once—read them. Admiration, concern, loyalty: it was all there. Even love, of a kind—diffident, embarrassed, but real. He blinked, taken aback. ‘Thank you, Perradin,’ he said and did his best to show his friend his own appreciation.
He couldn’t have been very successful, because Perradin grinned and punched him on the arm. ‘Idiot,’ he said.
Tarran laughed. I think you overdid it. If Perradin didn’t know you so well, he’d be thinking you made a pass at him.
Arrant muffled a groan. He just didn’t get enough practice at emotional chatter.
For the combined Magor sword combat classes Yetemith and Firgan were stricter about who was paired with whom, taking care not to mix people who were too disparate in ability.
Except, Arrant noted, for himself. When Firgan saw that his sword had filled with gold light, he said, ‘We are getting sick of this from you, boy. This som
etimes you can, sometimes you can’t. It smacks of puerile game-playing. It is time you showed us you are worthy of being Mirager-heir. You can fight someone from the senior class, and I am going to be watching you, every step of the way.’ He signalled to one of Lesgath’s friends, Grantel, who lumbered over.
‘Adjust the power in your swords to its lowest level, please,’ Firgan continued, ‘and let me see a beam hit the ground in front of you. I want to see no more than a puff of dust.’ He gave Arrant a glare. ‘Understand me, boy? No funny games out of you just because your sword has colour.’
‘No, Magori.’
‘And no touching each other with the blade under any circumstances.’
‘No, Magori.’
They both demonstrated their control over their power by producing a beam that did no more than nudge softly at the ground.
‘Good. Now keep it that way. Begin!’
Arrant knew it would be difficult. Being good with a normal sword didn’t mean much in a Magor fight. The cutting edge of a Magor weapon was much sharper and the power of a Magor sword extended beyond the tip of the blade. To use it involved a different fighting technique. In practice fights such as this, the aim was more not to touch the other fighter with the blade, for fear of really hurting him, but rather to thrust at him with carefully controlled power subdued to non-lethal levels. A successful combatant kept his opponent offbalance at the same time as he harmlessly diverted any beam of power sent in his direction.
What’s wrong? Tarran asked, aware of his brother’s ambivalence as he and Grantel circled each other.
Until now a working cabochon and a Magor sword lesson rarely seemed to coincide. I don’t have experience at this.
Grantel lunged; Arrant sidestepped neatly and followed up by levering Grantel’s weapon sideways with a beam of power. The youth, though, kept his balance. Gods, it’s like trying to fight a tree trunk, Arrant complained a moment later, as several more of his attacks were brushed aside by the strength of Grantel’s arm as an extension of his sword. The youth was almost twice as broad as Arrant.
You could defeat him if you used your power more, um, effectively, Tarran said. Dig a hole under his back foot.
With this level of power I don’t think I could. Besides, I might hurt him.
Shivering sands, this is a fight, isn’t it?
Can you shut up for a moment? I can’t concentrate with you chattering like a demented wood-squirrel in my head.
Just then Grantel swung his power beam across to hit Arrant’s blade. His power may not have been strong, but the physical strength behind the blow sent Arrant’s sword spinning away across the yard. Grantel whooped and laughed.
At least your Magor skills are performing consistently, even if your command of them is, um, amateurish, Tarran said.
Oh, thanks. And stop laughing—you’re supposed to be on my side.
Just as well this wasn’t the test, Tarran said cheerfully.
‘That was pathetic,’ Firgan said. ‘Arrant, when you are up against an opponent who has greater physical strength, you have to make use of your Magor power, else how can you win? Both of you were doing the same thing—acting as though the power was no more than the physical extension of an ordinary sword. It is power, you hollow-brained idiots! Just because it is powered down doesn’t mean it can’t be used in innovative ways. Go and watch Mikess and Rovanel over there and see how it should be done.’ He pointed to where two of the senior students were facing up to one another under Yetemith’s watchful eyes. Mikess, half blinded by grit after Rovanel’s power had puffed dust in his face, was now using swordlight to blind Rovanel.
Tarran, Arrant said as he trudged to the side of the yard to watch, we have to think more about why, when you are inside my head, I have power.
We’ve been through all this before. You always have power. The difference is that you can find your power when I am here.
All right, put it that way. I just want to know why.
Tarran was silent for a moment, then he said sadly, I am not sure we will ever know exactly why, any more than—than Samia knows why she has freckles and you don’t, or Perry knows why he can’t do geometry and you can. It was the way you were born, and I don’t believe we’ll ever change it. If you keep hunting for reasons or trying to change what is, you will waste your life. He paused, then added, Use me while you can. After that—I have no answers.
The uncharacteristic sadness of his reply so permeated into Arrant’s mind he was incapable of replying. He picked up his cloth from the bench on the sidelines and wiped away his sweat. Perradin and Bevran and Vevi came over to join him, Bevran grinning broadly. ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘I just heard Firgan praising you to Lesgath, and Lesgath is furious.’
‘Praising me?’ Arrant was astonished. ‘Firgan? Are you sure?’
‘He said that you had more power in your sword than the rest of us put together.’
‘You eavesdropped again?’
‘Of course. Firgan told Lesgath that in battle, you have to expect the unexpected, and he’d be dead if he had a real fight with you. He even told Lesgath he thought you’d beat him every time you fought, because you use your head and Lesgath doesn’t.’
Arrant gave a bark of unamused laughter. ‘And he just told me I was a hollow-brained idiot. What’s he up to?’
‘He must have been trying to infuriate Lesgath,’ Perradin said. ‘You need to be careful if you end up fighting him.’
Arrant didn’t comment. Instead, he asked, ‘Vevi, did you get a chance to talk to Lesgath?’
‘I tried. I suggested he consider if Firgan really has his best interests at heart. I pointed out that if he hurt you, he’d be the one in trouble, not Firgan.’
‘What did he say?’
She snorted. ‘He lost his temper with me. I’d say he has the brains of a shleth embryo, only I’d probably be maligning the shleth.’
‘Quiet,’ said Perradin. ‘Here comes Theuri-yetemith.’
The class continued for another hour, with Arrant waiting on the sidelines for either Yetemith or Firgan to pair him up with another student again, but they both ignored him. This was nothing new; he normally spent the whole of a Magor sword class idle, but it was galling to have to sit out the opportunity to practice when he had power in his weapon. He spent the time quietly using his Magor power under Tarran’s tutelage. He built a series of small wards along the wall. He practised manoeuvring a breeze he created. He made small dust devils. He used his power to rearrange the gravel nearby into patterns. And he envied his friends, sparring in the centre of the yard.
At the end of an hour, Firgan came over to where he stood. ‘You can fight Lesgath this time,’ he said.
‘What are you trying to prove, Firgan?’ he asked, rudely dropping the respect due to a teacher. ‘You know there’s not a blasted thing I can do against Lesgath without risking my own life.’
‘Just get out there. If you are worried about backlash, then just use your power defensively—or more creatively in offence. Anyway, no backlash is going to hurt anyone if the sword is kept powered down. Don’t be such a baby.’ He seized Arrant by the shoulder and pushed him to where Lesgath waited.
There, he addressed them both. ‘Maybe with an opponent you don’t like, the two of you will show us what you can really do. Let me see that your swords are powered down to the minimum.’
You bastard, Arrant thought as he pointed his sword at the ground and allowed it to do no more than stir the dust.
Lesgath grinned at him as he followed suit, but waited until Firgan stepped back before murmuring, ‘Winning a swordfight with a wooden sword means nothing, Arrogant. This is where we separate the Magoroth warrior from the Tyranian imitation.’
Right then, Arrant found it hard to remember his father’s advice about not losing his temper; his rage simmered to fever heat inside him.
Deep breath, said Tarran.
You don’t breathe. What the hell can you know about deep breaths?
Not much,
but still, I’ve heard it helps.
Sometimes you say the weirdest things, Tarran.
Arrant took a deep breath, and kept his voice level, his tone calm. ‘And just how am I going to give you the defeat you deserve when you have protected yourself against my sword? You are never going to know your true worth, or lack of it, in combat with me, because you cheated before we even began. Where, then, will be your satisfaction? And if you are so sure of your superiority, why was it necessary in the first place?’
‘Because you kill by accident, that’s why,’ came the sneering answer.
Pleasant fellow, Tarran muttered. Don’t let him rile you, Arrant.
Oh, I’m riled, Arrant said. It’s a permanent state when any of the Kordens are around.
‘All right, you two, cut the chatter,’ Firgan interrupted. ‘Salute and begin!’
The two of them gave a token salute which was barely polite. Gods, Arrant thought, if I knew what Firgan really wants me to do, I’d do the opposite. But I don’t know.
They started with some tentative sparring, standing well apart using the extension of power beyond the sword tip, just as he had earlier with Grantel, but that soon palled because neither of them seemed to be getting anywhere.
Careful, said Tarran. I can sense a slight increase in power levels. His, that is; not yours.
Arrant thought about that as he deflected another lunge from Lesgath. The beam of power slid over his head as he caught it on his blade and pushed it upwards. He didn’t try to take the offensive. There was no point—any magic sent against Lesgath would rebound. Lesgath attacked again and again; each time Arrant blocked and fell back.
Firgan stood with folded arms, a smirk on his face as he watched.
Lesgath was exasperated. ‘Who’s the coward now?’ he asked. ‘Fight, you foreign bastard!’
But Arrant continued to be cautious.
You are making him mad, Tarran crowed.
That is not good, Arrant said, irritated.
Firgan watched the two of them with an almost avaricious anxiety. ‘Don’t drop your wrist like that, Arrant,’ he said. ‘You lower the tip of your sword and give Lesgath an opening. Which he was too slow to take advantage of, lucky for you. Lesgath, keep your wits about you.’