Song of the Shiver Barrens

by Glenda Larke

  The roof above was stone-arched, and a series of slits around the top of the walls angled in suffused sunlight so the terracotta roof tiles glowed. A bell hung from the central arch, but there was no mechanism to ring it.

  The polished agate beneath Arrant’s feet was stepped, which meant that everyone had a view of the stage at the front. A single stone lectern dominated the centre of the stage; behind it two tiers of stone steps provided benches for speakers awaiting their turn.

  ‘Seat yourself on the bench,’ Grevilyon said. ‘There won’t be long to wait. As soon as the shadow hits the hour on the sundial in the gardens, the Chamberlain of the hall will ring that bell.’ He pointed upwards. ‘You can stay seated, if you like, as you have been hurt. But take my advice and—if you can possibly do so—stand. It will look better if you stand to face your accusers.’

  Arrant nodded. ‘Who—who’s in charge?’

  ‘Magori-berrin is the Master of Proceedings.’

  Berrin. Arrant had met him several times, but didn’t know him well. He was a quiet, thoughtful man who had considerable stature simply because he was one of the original Ten. Arrant had a feeling that at least he would be fair.

  ‘Grevilyon, if they find me guilty what is the penalty for killing another Magoroth by accident?’

  ‘I—I don’t know. They might ban you from using Magor power for the rest of your life. You’d have to relinquish your sword, I guess.’

  He thought about that. He wouldn’t contest either of those things. He didn’t want to use his power again, ever, anyway.

  He stared at the men and women now taking their seats in the hall. ‘Might they banish me?’ he asked.

  Grevilyon shrugged uncomfortably. ‘It’s possible, I suppose. Just to make sure that the Mirage Makers don’t bestow a Mirager’s sword on you after Magoritemellin’s death. They might think it wiser.’

  He imagined Tarran saying, Think of something else, you dolt, and forced himself to look up at the curve of the arches over his head. Built by Kardi buildermasters he guessed; non-Magor who’d had the help of Magoroth power to lift and carve. Skilled architects and engineers had learned to soar with the help of the Magor. It interested him, how they had built those arches. He understood the geometry of them, he understood why they stayed up, but he desperately wanted to know how they had been built. The mechanics behind their construction.

  He must ask Barret. Perhaps he could go to Tyr and learn how to build an aqueduct…He would enjoy that. He could still do something to be proud of, to leave behind when he died. He could still be a worthy man. He could try to forget that he had once been Magoroth. That he had killed and hurt and betrayed. Oh, Tarran.

  The bell above his head swung, struck by a beam of Magor power to produce a sorrowing note, rung repeatedly like a Tyranian temple bell tolling for the dead. Arrant exchanged a glance with Grevilyon and stood to face the crowd.

  He was glad he knew nothing of their emotions.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘This is not right,’ Magoria-ungar protested from behind the lectern. ‘These events happened only yesterday morning. Feelings run high because so many of our children were injured or endangered.’

  ‘Loyalty,’ Arrant thought. ‘She is loyal to her Mirager. But if she only knew it, I don’t appreciate what she’s trying to do. I want this over and done with. I want it finished before Temellin comes back, so that he doesn’t have to sit through this hell.’

  ‘Arrant’s father is not here to guide him,’ Ungar continued. ‘The lad is injured and must still surely be in a state of shock. To bring him before this body at this time—in effect, to put him on trial—is not worthy of us. I beg you to consider postponing this session of the Council.’

  As she sat down, Berrin said, ‘Is there anyone else who would like to speak on the appropriateness of this matter?’

  Korden rose from his place with his family in the front row. ‘Yes, I would speak,’ he said and went to stand at the lectern. He had the voice of an orator, and a tragic passion that brought tears to the soft-hearted in the audience. ‘I am the aggrieved party here. My son is dead, at seventeen. I wish everyone who was present on the practice grounds yesterday to give their testimony while it is still fresh in their vision, unmarred by faulty memory. I was not there. I want to know what happened. And I wish to make sure it will never occur again.’

  He waved a hand at Arrant without looking at him. ‘It is my belief that this youth is a danger to us all. We must take steps to ensure that our children are safe. That they are safe now, not tomorrow or next month or next season. It is already too late for Lesgath. We need to act, not postpone. True, it is unfortunate that the Mirager is not here, but his presence should make no difference to the outcome, surely. He is one man, and it is the Council which will decide this matter.’

  He tried to say something more, but emotions choked him. He returned to his seat and buried his head in his hands.

  ‘I am not a matter,’ Arrant thought. ‘I am a person.’ He raised his gaze to stare silently around the hall. ‘I will not crumble. Not today. Not until I am alone and they cannot see.’ Today he would show them what it was to be Temellin’s heir and Sarana’s son.

  ‘If there are no others who wish to give their opinion, we will vote on this first,’ said Berrin, scanning the hall for any other speaker. No one moved. ‘All those in favour of holding this deliberation today, unsheathe your swords.’

  Blades, spilling colour, rose into the air like the spears of an assembled phalanx. There was no need to count them. Everyone could see that Korden’s plea had not gone unheeded.

  Ungar gave Arrant a sorrowful shake of her head.

  Arrant fingered the hilt of his sword, now tucked into its scabbard. His shoulder and arm throbbed, and it was an effort not to fidget to ease the ache.

  ‘The glow of affirmation carries the motion,’ Berrin said formally. ‘Let us continue. We will first call Magori-firgan to speak on the events.’

  Firgan took his place at the lectern. His account of the early events of the class that morning was, as far as Arrant remembered, accurate. He was calm, but his voice broke several times. Once, when he was referring to Lesgath, he actually had to stop speaking, as if he was too affected to go on. Arrant ground his teeth in silent contempt; he was certain that whatever Firgan felt, it wasn’t grief for his younger brother.

  In command of himself again, Firgan continued. ‘I sometimes combine classes to give students, especially those about to have a test, a better idea of what happens in a real battle, where you can’t be sure of the competence of your opponent. Arrant held his own against his first opponent, Grantel, but Grantel’s physical strength won out in the end, so I decided to pit him against Lesgath, who is—was—’ he paused, biting his lip. ‘Who was closer to his height. However, I left Arrant on the sidelines for an hour. Many students benefit from observing.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Arrant thought. He’d needed practice, not observation. Moreover, Lesgath had been nearly eighteen, and although not much taller, he’d certainly been more of a man in musculature and body frame than Arrant. From that point of view, the fight had not been even.

  Once again Firgan seemed overcome with emotion. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse. ‘I think that was a mistake. Lesgath was tired when he took on Arrant. Arrant, on the other hand, was rested. However, he seemed to have perfect control. I never dreamed—’ He stopped again. ‘I never dreamed anything would go wrong, but I did keep a close eye on the two of them. I knew the two lads did not get along. Most of you will have heard the rumours. But students need to realise that if you lose your temper, you probably lose the fight.’

  He wiped a hand across his eyes and added in an almost inaudible murmur, ‘I wish I could turn over the hourglass, and live the day again.’

  Arrant just managed to stop a cynical curl of his lip. He was sure Firgan didn’t want to change a thing. And yet he must be speaking the truth…‘Goddess,’ he thought with distaste. ‘Th
e bastard actually would like to see it happen all over again. He enjoyed seeing his brother burn. He enjoyed seeing my pain.’

  ‘We sympathise with your grief,’ Berrin said. ‘If you feel you would prefer to continue your account some other time—?’

  ‘No, no. I shall go on.’ He squared his shoulders and touched the outer corner of one eye with a fingertip. ‘Lesgath kept taunting Arrant verbally. And then he hit Arrant with a pain-giving blast of power. Arrant was slow with his defence, and he was really hurt. And he went to retaliate.

  ‘I knew something awful was about to happen. I shouted at Arrant. I can’t remember exactly what. “No, don’t!” Something like that. I drew my sword. I flung myself towards him and seized him by the shoulder. I should have been able to stop him. I was just the crack in a hair too late. By then he had swapped his sword to his right hand and sent a shaft of cabochon power towards—towards Lesgath.’

  He was silent, and bowed his head, biting his lip.

  Arrant tried to stand straight, to meet the accusing looks now fixed on him as heads turned from Firgan to him. It was hard. So Vortexdamned hard. He wanted to shout at Firgan, to say: ‘How did you know I would lose control? How could you know? What did you do?’ Instead he had to meet the blame-filled gaze of the Magoroth. He was glad he could not feel the scorn that must have been rampant in the hall.

  After a moment, Firgan raised his head. ‘I will never forget what happened next. Never. Gold exploded from Arrant. It rushed outwards in all directions. Such power! It was so wild and uncontrolled and—and savage. It mowed down my brother like a scythe in the hands of a madman. It sent students flying through the air to smash into the yard walls. Mirageless soul, I will remember the—the crunching sounds of bodies slammed against the adobe bricks as long as I live. Thank the Mirage for the instincts and swift response of my sister, or the carnage would have been unbelievably shocking, a match for the Shimmer Festival massacre. We owe her a debt of enormous gratitude. But alas, not even she could save her own brother. Or, perhaps, Perradin Jahan.’

  There was a long silence before Berrin said, ‘A question, if I may, Magori-firgan. Why were you unhurt?’

  ‘Well, I could say it was because I was positioned behind Arrant, and therefore not in the direct path of that murderous blast. But, er, there is something else I should confess here, although you have probably all heard the rumour anyway.’ He sounded rueful, even embarrassed. ‘I suppose I should be ashamed to admit this, but I once placed my cabochon in his sword hilt. You see, he had a reputation for killing people by accident, and I was going to be teaching him Magoroth sword techniques. It may have been bad manners, but well, I am still alive.’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Possibly what happened is this: Arrant had been using his sword. It was filled with undischarged power. When he switched it to his right hand, he brought it back in a swing behind him. When everything went wrong, power leaped out of his sword as well as his cabochon, and most of the sword power hit me. That power was deflected back at him, through my cabochon, because I had protected myself by once holding his sword. I was gripping Arrant by the shoulder…and thus he was burned but I was unhurt. Arrant was lucky he didn’t die, right then.’

  Arrant froze, horrified. Everything Firgan said could have been true. It could have happened exactly that way.

  Maybe Firgan had done nothing wrong at all. Maybe that obscene triumph emanating from him in the practice yard was just delight that Arrant was making a mistake and losing control? ‘Oh gods above,’ he thought, ‘it was all my fault! Tarran might be dead because of me. Perry too.’

  He would have fallen just then if Grevilyon had not grabbed his arm and steadied him. Nausea threatened to conquer him as he stood there, attempting to remember the sequence of events. Everything was so muddled, so twisted by horror. His fault. His, not something Firgan did.

  Berrin spoke, his tone subdued. ‘Thank you for your honesty. Was it also true that Lesgath had held Arrant’s sword, and Arrant knew this?’

  ‘Arrant knew I had held his sword, of course. I would never have dreamed of taking such an action without telling the person concerned. It would have been unethical in the extreme to do otherwise. But to my knowledge, Lesgath never handled Arrant’s sword. He certainly never did so in my presence, as I have heard Arrant asserts. And I find it highly unlikely that he took that action on his own. Now, of course, we will never know for sure, because he is dead.’

  Firgan glanced at Arrant. ‘I am sorry for you. I know that you didn’t mean anyone to be hurt. But I beg of you, take steps to make sure this never happens again. Lesgath did not deserve to die at seventeen, on the threshold of his life. He was a Magoroth, and he was needed to defend this land. He—he was my brother, and our family is forever changed by what happened yesterday.’

  Gretha started sobbing at that point, and Elvena hugged her, glowering sourly at Arrant.

  Arrant hardly noticed. He was thinking furiously. Firgan couldn’t utter an outright lie in front of an assembly of Magoroth without them knowing. So when he said Lesgath had not placed his hand in the hilt of Arrant’s sword, he spoke the truth. The man must have swapped the swords in the racks around, so that Lesgath had picked up someone else’s, thinking it was Arrant’s. Firgan had deceived them both.

  But why?

  And then he understood, the realisation sickening. ‘Sandblast him to Hades,’ he thought. ‘He wanted me to think I couldn’t defend myself against Lesgath; he wanted Lesgath to think he was safe from me, which gave him the courage to taunt me. Firgan engineered me into believing Lesgath couldn’t be hurt by my sword. When he saw me about to use my power, he thought I’d use my sword, believing in my heart it wouldn’t harm Lesgath. He was wrong—I used my cabochon because I didn’t want to hurt myself in the rebound of power, but in the end it didn’t matter. I killed Lesgath anyway, probably because I couldn’t handle both the cabochon power I was using and the sword power that was being channelled back into me through Firgan. Firgan gave me the plans and I followed them, fool that I was. And that ends any chance I ever had of being confirmed as Mirager-heir, so Firgan’s got what he wanted.’

  He turned his attention back to the lectern, where Firgan was now addressing Berrin. ‘Magori, may I be seated? I—’ He shook his head and rubbed a hand over his forehead. ‘If there are any questions, later perhaps…’ Without waiting for permission he stumbled to his seat, where he sat abruptly, dropping his head into his hands. His shoulders heaved. Korden slipped an arm around the shoulders of his eldest son who had all the appearance of a broken man, devastated by his grief.

  ‘Hells,’ Arrant thought, ‘am I the only one here who can see his hypocrisy?’ He took a deep breath, savouring the bitter irony. He had killed the wrong brother. Lesgath might have been a nasty bully, but Firgan was more than that. He was a man who would happily see his own brother dead—not because he stood in the way, but simply because he’d had the misfortune to be a piece that had to be sacrificed to achieve a victory in a game of power.

  And the man had won.

  A patter of conversation through the hall brought Berrin to the lectern, calling the hall to order and asking the next witness to step forward.

  One by one they came up to give their account of events, most of them entering from outside because they were not yet old enough to be part of the Council. Some, like Vevi, were wounded. She had broken her arm and grazed her face. Her evidence was concise, given without glancing at him. Others, like Grantel, were unharmed and muddled in what they said. Some, like Bevran, tried to lessen Arrant’s guilt in their telling. Others, like Yetemith, were virulent in their fury at him. The story they told was more or less the same as the one Firgan had recounted.

  The only person whose testimony differed slightly was Serenelle, and that was because Berrin questioned her in a different way. ‘You raised a ward and saved many people with the speed of your reaction and the strength of that warding. The Magoroth—no, all of Kardiastan—owe you a debt of grat
itude, Serenelle Korden. We are deeply sorry that we have to question you at this time of your grief for your brother.’

  ‘Thank you, Magori.’ She sounded composed. The look she gave Arrant was more inquisitive than hostile. ‘I am ready to tell you what I know.’

  ‘I suppose the question that puzzles most of us here is this: how were you able to react so quickly? Were you expecting trouble?’

  ‘Not precisely. Firgan said—this was before Arrant fought with Grantel—that there was always a possibility that Arrant’s power may get out of control. So, just before each of the fights Arrant was in, he asked me to wait and watch. If anything went wrong I was to fling up a ward. He said it was just a precaution. So I was watching. When Firgan shouted, I started to build the ward across the practice ground, between Arrant and the rest of us. Unfortunately, I didn’t get it finished in time so a few people were either burned, or flung across the yard. Like Perry’.

  ‘So we have Firgan’s foresight to thank for the safety of most of those on the practice ground?’

  ‘Hey, he couldn’t have done it without me,’ she said pertly. ‘I can raise a ward faster than any other damn Magoroth you care to name.’

  Arrant almost smiled. Although she didn’t sound upset, let alone grief-stricken, there were times when he actually liked Serenelle.

  She looked across at him. ‘You owe me hugely, Arrant Temellin, for that warding. And don’t you forget it.’ Then she turned back to Berrin. ‘It wasn’t deliberate, you know. I saw his face before he passed out. He was appalled. He’s just a complete daftbrain when it comes to Magor stuff.’