Song of the Shiver Barrens

by Glenda Larke

  ‘Thank you, Magoria,’ Berrin said. ‘That will be all.’ When she had left the podium, he turned to address Arrant. ‘Magori, we have finished listening to the witnesses. You now have an opportunity to address the Council. Or you can ask someone else to do it on your behalf.’

  Arrant took a deep breath. ‘I’ll speak for myself,’ he said. He had an absurd flash of memory: his rhetoric classes with old Cominus back in Tyr. ‘What would the old man think if he could see me now?’ he wondered, as he stepped forward to take his place at the lectern.

  It was good to be able to cling to the lectern-top; fatigue intensified the pain that ran through his body on a network of invisible pathways. The healers’ pain-control was wearing off. As he spoke, he tried to push the physical hurt somewhere else so that it wouldn’t sully the clarity of his mind.

  ‘I didn’t intend to hurt anyone,’ he began, ‘I swear. I thought I had control of my power and I had no idea that I would lose it. The only other time that happened, I was just nine years old. I—I deeply regret hurting my fellow students. I have no excuse, no explanation. I don’t know why it happened. Nor do I want anyone else to speak on my behalf. There is nothing to be said. You can all sense the truth of my words.’

  Berrin waited, but Arrant was silent. Berrin nodded. ‘In that case, we will proceed with—’

  ‘We don’t know that he speaks the truth,’ someone interrupted. Arrant sought the speaker, and found her seated behind Korden. Magoria-markess. ‘We know his mother had the ability to tell lies without us being aware of her mendacity.’

  Arrant stiffened. ‘That is a rumour utterly without foundation,’ he protested. ‘She never lied.’

  ‘She came among us pretending to be slave. Such a pretence—which she maintained for many, many days—is the ultimate deception, surely. And we believed her lies.’

  ‘She never lied,’ he reiterated. ‘If she had, you would have recognised the untruth. She has no ability to disguise a lie from a Magor.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Markess asked, her bitterness as unpleasant in the air as the bile on her tongue.

  ‘Please,’ Berrin interrupted. ‘Arrant’s mother is not charged with anything here. It is Magori-arrant’s shortcomings, or otherwise, that are the subject of this inquiry. And no one has offered a shred of evidence now, or in the past, that he can lie without us knowing it. If you have proof, then offer it. If not, sit down.’ He turned towards Arrant. ‘If what happened on the training ground yesterday is deemed by this Council to have been a deliberate act on your part, aimed at killing or injuring your fellow Magor, the penalty would be death. Are you quite sure you have nothing else to say?’

  ‘Nothing. Except to repeat that it was an accident. I may not have liked Lesgath, but Perry is my best friend.’

  ‘In that case, I shall put it to the Council for vote. If you believe Magori-arrant to be guilty of deliberately causing death and injury yesterday, please call colour into your sword. I repeat: guilty votes only, please.’

  Arrant’s heart pounded in his chest, unpleasantly evident. He expected to see the Korden family vote against him at least, and he assumed there would be others who would follow their lead.

  He was wrong. Not a single sword, not even Firgan’s, was unsheathed from its scabbard.

  Berrin did not look surprised. ‘Scribe, please note that the decision was unanimous: Magori-arrant is innocent of a deliberate attempt to kill or harm any Magor yesterday.

  ‘Next we must decide what should be done, as Magori-arrant has admitted to being the sole cause of a Magoroth death, and several injuries. He has also admitted to being unable to control his cabochon power.’ He cleared his throat before going on, and Arrant suspected he wasn’t happy with what was coming.

  ‘Berrin’s known Papa all his life,’ he thought. They had grown up together. Played together, studied together, fought together. And now Berrin has had to preside over this; yet another person being hurt by what had happened. Would it never end? Stricken, Arrant bowed his head.

  ‘I have two recommendations before me,’ Berrin continued, ‘lodged prior to this meeting. The first is related to the Council’s confirmation of the Magori-arrant as Mirager-heir on his next anniversary day. It has been proposed that this body vote to inform the Mirager that we will not favour the confirmation of Magori-arrant, because of his inability to control his cabochon, and that Mirager-temellin be advised to nominate another Mirager-heir as soon as possible. Magori-korden is the proposer and I yield the floor to him.’

  Korden rose once again. He looked gaunt and strained, but there was no doubting his strength of purpose as he began to speak. ‘We all know that a Mirager or Miragerin usually comes to that post because they are the eldest child of the previous Mirager. I would remind you that there have been exceptions in the past, where an heir has been deemed unsuitable by the Council, and the Mirager—governed by his promise to rule by consensus—has acquiesced, after which the next in line was appointed Mirager-heir.’

  Arrant, still standing without the support of the lectern, interrupted. ‘Hey, wait a moment. Surely it can’t be, um, appropriate for you to bring this proposal forth. You are the next in line.’ He surprised himself. That was his voice ringing out over the hall, clear and deep and authoritative? He stood rigid, trying not to droop with fatigue. Inwardly he quaked, aware of his youth and his inexperience and the frailty of his position, amazed at his own temerity. Was he mad? ‘Oh, sweet Elysium,’ he thought, ‘I have to prevent Firgan becoming the Mirager-heir.’ Temellin would expect it of him. It was time to apply all the rules about public speaking that he learned in his rhetoric classes.

  He met Korden’s gaze and refused to flinch before the man’s pain. ‘Your grief, Magori-korden, for which I accept responsibility, and for which I will bear the guilt for the rest of my life, excuses you. But nonetheless, you are next in line, and it ill becomes you to make a proposal that concerns the next heir.’

  Both Berrin and Korden opened their mouths to speak, but Arrant held up his hand to stop them, even as he pitched his voice to override their words. ‘I will make all that irrelevant, if you like. I’m not moondaft. I am aware of my inadequacies. It was the hope of both the Mirage Makers and myself that I would overcome my inability to manage my cabochon whenever I wanted. That has not happened, and our hopes have ended in a terrible tragedy for your family, and others. I agree with you, Magori-korden. It must not happen again. There will be no more attempts by me to use my cabochon. And as a Mirager can only be someone who can manage a Mirager’s sword and bestow cabochons, I will relinquish my role as Mirager-heir right now. There can be no other decision open to me.’

  A deathly hush had fallen over the hall. Every eye was fixed on Arrant. He had an idea that he had surprised them all, that they had expected him to fight for his position. But he had not finished. ‘There is one thing, however, that I think should be quite clear to everyone,’ he said. ‘Mirager-temellin is not an old man and may yet have other heirs. He may also have grandchildren—my children—able to take up a Mirager’s sword one day. Moreover, he is not present. This is not the time to decide who will take my place as heir. Nor is it your place to recommend anyone.’

  They wouldn’t be doing it at all, if Temellin wasn’t blind, he added to himself, unable to keep a rein on his inner bitterness. And who among them remembered that Sarana had a Mirager’s sword and could rule in his stead? ‘Your Mirager is very much alive and capable of leading this nation. As we argue here, he fights for us all. He battles the Ravage to save the Mirage Makers—so that your children and grandchildren will have Magor swords and cabochons. He battles to save Kardiastan. I may not yet be old enough to sit here as a member of this Council, but you can’t tell me that it is honourable for you to debate the question of an heir while the present Mirager is absent fighting for you.’

  ‘Well said!’ someone called from the back of the hall, and there was scattered applause. Ungar smiled; Grevilyon, and a handful of others whom A
rrant recognised, nodded their agreement. It was all he could expect, he knew. Too many people had family members suffering because of the events of the day before. Wounds were fresh and raw, and he could not blame them.

  Firgan stood up again. ‘I’d like to argue the point,’ he said, almost snarling.

  Berrin nodded and gestured him to the podium.

  ‘Really, Arrant made the point for me. We need to have a Mirager-heir because Temellin is fighting. What if he dies? And the likelihood of that is greater than most of our warriors because he is blind. I vote that we should decide on an heir now, just in case. Mirager-temellin can argue our decision when he returns.’

  Ungar spoke again after Firgan, pointing out that all this could be discussed if and when the Mirager died, and to discuss it as if it was highly likely was bad-mannered to the extreme. After her cutting remarks, no one else rose to comment.

  ‘Let’s vote then,’ said Berrin. ‘Bearing in mind that Magori-arrant is refusing to be the Mirager-heir from this day, the question is this: should we in this assembly discuss the identity of the next Mirager-heir so that we can make our wishes known to the Mirager? All who feel that the discussion should continue, please show your sword colour.’

  Once again, Arrant was surprised. Gretha and several of the Korden children, including Firgan, made moves to draw their swords but were stopped by a cutting gesture and a glower from Korden himself. No one else in the hall moved. Arrant felt overwhelming relief; he had bought his father a respite.

  ‘Perhaps we should consider closing this meeting of the Council—’ Berrin began.

  ‘There is another proposal in your keeping,’ Firgan protested, climbing to his feet once more, ‘as you well know, Magori. And we should consider it, for it is surely urgent. How can we be satisfied with Magoriarrant’s assertion that he will not use his power again? He has a gold cabochon in his palm and a Magor sword at his side. He is a Magoroth with power he cannot control, no matter how much he would like to. What guarantees can he possibly give us that we can believe? That he can believe? How do we know that in a moment’s anger he will not raze this pavilion, or kill innocent people walking down a street quite by accident? He can’t give us that assurance. He doesn’t know himself what causes his problems.’

  He met Arrant’s stare and held it. ‘You know I speak the truth, lad.’

  The sick feeling inside Arrant suddenly magnified tenfold. ‘Sandhells,’ he thought, ‘what is he planning now? I’m not Mirager-heir any more and it’s still not enough for him?’ Fear rippled through him in a rising tide.

  Firgan turned from him to face the Council members. ‘Are we going to risk losing more of our children?’ he asked. He didn’t sound impassioned, but heart-broken. ‘I am a soldier, and I have seen too many battlefields. I never expected to find another here, within our pavilions, where we keep our precious children safe. Children flung through the air like sand on the wind. And yet that is what I saw yesterday: a battlefield strewn with bloodied, broken children. It was sheer luck and quick thinking that saved most from death and no more than a traumatic experience. My brother’s charred, burned body, smoking on the sand…’ His voice broke and he struggled to regain his composure. ‘There is only one solution that offers us safety.

  ‘Arrant’s cabochon must be broken.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Firgan’s words stilled the hall. Then all present—except Arrant himself—were buffeted by the shock that echoed in the wake of those words. And every Magoroth clenched their left hand tight in horror, as they considered what it was to become non-Magor.

  Never to know again the true closeness of Magor love and friendship. Never to know again the climax of love-making that came from the clasp of two cabochons. To lose the ability to curb pain and heal; not to sense others nor feel emotion as a physical presence, not be able to refine emotions into a potent form of communication. To give up the Magor sword and the security it provided. To lose the right to be addressed by title. To be no longer a member of the ruling class of the land, no longer accorded respect because you were a Magor warrior and had Magor talent.

  Arrant saw their horror, but could not feel it. ‘I have lived most of my life being ordinary,’ he thought. ‘It is not so very terrible, is it?’

  Ungar was the first to move, the first to speak. She leaped to her feet. ‘No! Anything would be better than that. Breaking cabochons was a Tyranian horror, inflicted on those of us they caught—a torture beyond bearing. And you would mutilate our Mirager’s son in such a fashion? I will never permit that to be done in my name.’

  Gretha scrambled up in a fury. ‘Then do it in mine. I have lost a son because of this—this abomination of a Magoroth. How many more have to die before his warped power is gelded?’

  ‘I could never face the Mirager again, if I voted for such a thing,’ someone called from the back of the hall.

  Berrin attempted to bring order to the room, and was ignored. ‘Would destroying another Magor bring back the one we have lost?’ someone else asked.

  ‘My brother lies between life and death still,’ Grevilyon said to Gretha, ‘and I would never consider such a punishment justified. And neither would either of my parents.’

  ‘Well, they’re not here, are they?’ Ryval shouted at him. ‘And we are!’ For once Myssa nodded, agreeing with her twin.

  Voices were raised all the way around the hall, arguing with passion. Berrin held up his hand for silence, but the gesture had as much effect as a hand raised against the sands of the Shiver Barrens would have done.

  Arrant listened, coldly detached, as if it wasn’t him they were discussing. He thought the consensus was on Ungar’s side. And his, he supposed. To crack a cabochon was too barbaric, and too reminiscent of the horrors of occupation and enslavement.

  Arrant looked over at Berrin. ‘Stop them,’ he said. ‘I wish to speak.’

  Berrin angled his sword upwards and sent a beam of power to ring the bell under the roof. Even then, it was a few moments before the impassioned voices were reduced to a murmur. ‘Magori-arrant wishes to address the Council,’ Berrin said formally. ‘But before he does, I would like to remind everyone that there is another possibility that might be considered before making any irrevocable decisions. Arrant could go into voluntary exile.’

  Arrant gave a wry smile. ‘And kill Tyranians by accident instead?’ he asked.

  ‘Or we could ward you here for the rest of your life,’ Ryval said, his nastiness spilling over to reveal itself in the twist of his lips.

  ‘Thank you for that kind thought, Ryval,’ Arrant said, deliberately dispensing with the man’s title. ‘However, I do not think there is argument necessary here. I am willing to have my cabochon broken, as long as there is a way to do it without risking my life.’

  Ungar was on her feet again, appalled. ‘Arrant, you don’t know what you are saying.’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact I do.’ Even to his own ears, he sounded surprised. ‘Do you think I want to live the rest of my life worrying myself sick that I may kill innocent people because I can’t help it? I thought I had found the way to control my power, but yesterday I discovered it didn’t work. I might query Firgan’s motives, but not his logic. I want this done. I want it done now, before my father returns to stop it, because stop it he will, if he can.’

  He stepped up to the lectern so that he could hold tight to the top. He wanted to stop the trembling in his hands. His detachment had melted away into the realisation of what he was proposing, and he was scared. ‘Let me have the courage to do this,’ he thought.

  ‘Arrant, I beg of you,’ Ungar pleaded. ‘Grevilyon, go fetch your mother—! Berrin, you are the most senior person here, stop this travesty, now. We must wait for Mirager-temellin’s return.’

  Even as Grevilyon left the hall to fetch Jessah, Arrant turned to Korden, who had not spoken for some time. He was sitting motionless, hunched over, staring at the floor with his forearms leaning on his knees and his hands dangling down. He
looked up when Arrant spoke his name. There could be no mistaking his pain.

  ‘My father always said you were a man of honour, Magori,’ Arrant said, striving for formality in order to counter the terror that threatened to shred his ability to speak. ‘I questioned that honour today, but in truth—of all men, it is you I would ask to do this for me. For both of us. Would you?’

  There was a breathless hush in the hall. Even Ungar was rendered silent, her tears rolling down her cheeks, as they all waited for his answer. Slowly, Korden stood. He said heavily, ‘It does need to be done. I am sorry, Arrant, but we both know it’s true.’

  ‘I know.’ No matter what Firgan had done to precipitate or take advantage of what had happened on the practice ground, the fact remained: he, Arrant, had lost control of his power. Even with his brother in his head. And only the gods knew what he had done to Tarran.

  Korden looked over at Berrin. ‘Close this meeting,’ he said. ‘There is no need for a vote. Arrant knows what needs to be done and is man enough to accept it. We should honour him for that, and end this now.’

  Korden turned his gaze on Ungar. ‘Have one of the healers attend to us in the Mirager’s room,’ he ordered in a tone that allowed no refusal. ‘And send Jessah in, if she can come.’ He gestured to Arrant. ‘Come, lad. Let’s get this over and done with.’

  Ungar choked, her dismay so potent even Arrant felt it. He turned away from her and joined Korden; together they walked the length of the hall between the now-silent gathering. One of the Magoroth stood. Then two or three others. Then the whole hall rose to its feet, in tribute to a youth who had, before their eyes and with the courage and integrity of a single decision, become a man they could respect.

  Korden led him to a door at the side of the hall and together they entered a small room with a low table and a number of chairs. ‘This is the Mirager’s room,’ he said. ‘Where your father waits for the Council to assemble before he makes his entry.’ He turned towards Arrant. ‘He will never forgive me for this, you know.’