The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  ‘Arrant…try…where are they?’

  He knew she was asking about the galleys. He heard the fishermen scrambling below-decks. He stared out into the mist, willing his cabochon to work, begging it. The gem flared, its power flooding in all directions. He had no control. He sensed emotion everywhere: fear on their ship, triumph in the forts, fatigue in the galleys, interest along the shore, disinterest on another vessel further upriver. He couldn’t sort anything out. Their emotions swamped him, drowned him: puzzlement, indifference, anger, rage, disgust, frustration. Sensation everywhere. He started to cry.

  The person in his head shrank, shrivelled, disappeared. His mother took him in her arms, held him tight, soothed, told him it didn’t matter, it was all right. ‘There was someone in my head!’ he cried. ‘Someone looking through my eyes…’

  She didn’t understand. ‘Hush, lad,’ she said. ‘Hush. There’s no one but us. You were feeling other people’s emotions, that’s all.’

  The ship slipped on; the extra sweep was brought up on deck and put in place. One of the sailors climbed the mast to the crosstrees, hoping to spot the galleys. No one spoke. The fishermen dipped their oars again and began to row. Cord squinted trying to see ahead, then staring down at the water to see which way it flowed. No one was sure any more where they were heading. The gold light in Arrant’s palm dimmed. The mist was cold and damp.

  They waited. And waited.

  And broke through the mist into sunlight.

  Ligea stood, holding onto the mast, and looked around. Behind them, the bank of fog hid the forts and the city and—somewhere—the galleys. Somehow the Fisherdream had slipped through to safety.

  ‘We made it, Arrant,’ Ligea murmured. But before he could feel relief, they both sensed the same thing: malevolence. It came across the water like a cold wind on a moonless night: invisible, yet chilling. It fingered them with threads of hate, slipping out of the mist to surround and choke them. Arrant had an absurd vision of a spider-like creature crouched on the land they passed, casting its hunting web in their direction, its avid hunger tangible and frightening.

  ‘Mater—!’

  She took his hand and held it tight. ‘It’s all right, Arrant. He hoped to catch us—but he’s failed. We’re safe enough.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A hunter, Arrant. A hunter of men. The man I mentioned to you, Rathrox Ligatan. He is the Magister Officii of the Exaltarchy.’

  Cold clutched at his heart and his shivering was inside, not visible. He strained to see through the mist. There was nothing, not even the shadow of the land, let alone the shadow of the waiting predator, but he had felt the mind of Rathrox, and he knew neither of them was safe from that man. The spider would never be satisfied until its prey had been devoured.

  Neither his mother’s smile nor her reassurance could vanquish his dread.

  Ligea Gayed, who had spoken with the Oracle’s voice. Ligea, who’d caged him under the temple for more than a day, left him to lie in his own body wastes, conjured up the whirlwind and wrecked portions of the city. Ligea Gayed, who had somehow found out that as a child she had been kidnapped rather than rescued.

  She’d had him at her mercy in the Meletian Temple all those years ago and let him live, her magnanimity the worst possible insult she could have handed him. You mean nothing, she’d said with her forbearance, your death is unnecessary to me, irrelevant to my ultimate victory. The insult rankled even worse than the failure of his plan to use her to bring down the resurgence of the Magor in Kardiastan.

  He felt such a curdling in his gut that he knew he would never feel well again until she was dead.

  She had a son now. People with children were vulnerable. You could do all sorts of things to people who loved their children.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The further they left Tyr behind, the more lighthearted Ligea became. This bright laughing woman who played with him, teased the crew, told jokes to the freed slave boy Palin, tried to teach them how to fish, even though it was obvious she knew nothing about fishing herself—this was his mother, she was fun and she was his. There were no messengers to interrupt them, no meetings necessitating her presence, no business needing her urgent attention, no legionnaires to flee, no battles, no fighting.

  Even the fishermen left Ligea alone most of the time and Palin preferred Narjemah’s company. They were all too much in awe of her to intrude unless she made the first move.

  Cord avoided the open ocean as much as possible, and the route of the Fisherdream to Kardiastan was a thread stitched through the coastal islands. When they anchored for the night in some sheltered bay along the coast, Arrant learned to dive from the deck into the sea. When the boat rocked gently at anchor, he would listen to the tales the fishermen told and the sea hymns they sang to their Altani gods. When they called in at various seaside villages to sell fish, buy fresh food and refill the water casks, he would scamper alongside the fishermen, asking a stream of questions. He climbed the mast, and mended nets. His skin bronzed as dark as a wet seal’s, or so Cord told him. There was always something new to see, something new to do.

  And then they arrived in Ordensa where fishing dhows fussily jostled one another in the harbour, protected by the curve of a stone seawall, and brown unpainted buildings with flat roofs lined a small river like tortoises come to drink. Arrant was wide-eyed with the strangeness of it all.

  He clung to Ligea’s hand, suddenly shy as they were surrounded by people speaking Kardi. He didn’t have trouble understanding the language—Narjemah always used it when speaking to him, and his mother often did too—but it was odd to hear everyone speaking it. And, when his cabochon obligingly worked soon after they arrived, it was even odder to feel the unfearing reverence the people had for Ligea, himself and Narjemah. It made him feel uncomfortable, as if his clothes were too tight.

  They stayed that night in the biggest of the brown houses, the only one that had two floors and many rooms. He found out later that the owner, the portmaster, had moved out to make room for them.

  The next day, Palin was dispatched to his family; a messenger was sent to the Mirage to tell Temellin of their arrival; and Narjemah went off to search for her family. ‘Don’t worry, Arrant,’ she said cheerfully as she prepared to leave, ‘I will be back.’ But he didn’t like her departure, nonetheless, and fretted.

  Still, there were other things to occupy him. The house was close to where the seawall began, and he loved sitting on that to watch the fishing vessels come and go from the harbour. It wasn’t long before he knew all the ships and their masters by name. And when he was bored, well, he could build sandcastles on the beach that nestled on the other side of the start of the wall.

  Once every couple of days, when there were legionnaires from a nearby encampment in the village, he and Ligea had to climb up onto the flat roof of their house, pull up the ladder behind them and then lie silent, concealed behind a low parapet, until the men left. Ligea didn’t seem to be worried, so Arrant wasn’t scared; it was all an adventure.

  Then his father arrived.

  Arrant was overcome with shyness. This tall, slim man—so unlike Gev or Mole—was a stranger, even though he knew the face so well. He smiled first at Arrant, saying in a strangely husky voice, ‘Well met, son,’ then he enfolded Ligea in his arms for so long Arrant became impatient and tugged at her anoudain. She laughed and they moved apart. Arrant, astonished, saw that they both had tears in their eyes. And then they turned towards him with shining smiles. He had never felt so loved. They flooded him with their feelings and his cabochon glowed in response. He was overwhelmed.

  The man squatted down so that his face was level with Arrant’s. ‘I’m so glad to see you here, Arrant.’

  He hung his head. He expected Temellin to laugh, but he didn’t. And he didn’t ruffle his hair, either. Instead he asked if Arrant had learned to catch fish when he was on the ship. And had he seen a shleth yet? What about the snakes in the street—did he know he could stroke them
? They wouldn’t bite…

  Arrant mumbled answers, and sneaked a few glances at his father from under his lashes.

  Temellin casually picked him up, seated himself and sat Arrant down on his lap. But he didn’t continue the questions; he chatted to Ligea instead. He spoke of mundane things, occasionally including Arrant in the conversation. He was so matter-of-fact about it that, within an hour, Arrant felt as if he’d known him all his life. At the end of the day, he was eager to hold his hand and call him Pater. No, Temellin said, not Pater. That was a Tyranian word, and he didn’t like Tyranian words. Just Papa would do; that’s what Kardi children called their fathers.

  Arrant went to his pallet that night happier than he’d ever been in his whole life. When he woke in the morning to see that Ligea had not slept on the pallet next to him as she usually did, he was unconcerned. He set off to look for her and found her sharing a pallet with Papa. They lay close to one another, the covers tangled around them. It seemed right somehow, and he snuggled in between the two sleeping bodies without waking them, his happiness complete.

  Papa taught him how to ride a shleth and took him out sailing in a small dhow. They fished from the bridge over the river. They built forts in the sand along the beach, pretending lumps of seaweed were legionnaires and the shells were Kardi attackers. Papa told him some of the old Kardi legends about the Mirage Makers and the Shiver Barrens and the way the Magor had once made illusions.

  He told one story of a woman, his own cousin, stolen from her family when she was only three in order to force her father, the Mirager, to betray his people. She was raised as a Tyranian so she would one day return and destroy Papa and the Kardi nation. She did indeed return when she was grown up, but instead of betraying Temellin, she fought to save her people and forced the wicked Stalwarts back across the mountains into Tyrans.

  And then Papa told him that the woman was Sarana, Arrant’s own mother, and he thought he would burst with pride.

  He also learned what the words Mirager-heir meant: that one day he would be a leader of Kardiastan, just as Papa was now. He hadn’t known that, and the thought was scary. But, well, it wasn’t something he had to think about just yet. He preferred to think of the day when he was bigger and Papa would take him to walk the Shiver Barrens so he would receive his own Magor sword from the Mirage Makers. Maybe his cabochon would work properly then.

  Papa tried to teach him how to manage it, but it still glowed only when it felt like it, not when Arrant wanted it to. Papa just shrugged and told him not to worry. Occasionally Arrant thought he caught a glimpse of Temellin’s love for him, and he would bask in the feel of it before it vanished, eliminated—he guessed—by his own inability to control his power to recognise emotion.

  Of course, there were times when neither Temellin nor Ligea wanted him around. They would give him over to one of Temellin’s Theuri attendants, while they pored over maps and discussed fighting. Military strategy, they called it. Arrant was used to that. Such discussions had always been part of Ligea’s life for as long as he could remember. He was happy enough to go off with the men who had come with Temellin: Theuri Lamin, who would take him shleth riding, or Theuri Scallis, who was teaching him to be a better swimmer. Or he could go down to the kitchens, where the cook would give him pastry to make shapes that he could bake in the oven and then eat with melon jam.

  Sometimes he sensed his mother was not as happy as she tried to pretend. He would catch her in a pensive mood, and see the sadness in her eyes, or his cabochon would stir when she was near, telling him things he didn’t want to know. When he asked her what was the matter, she said she was sad at the thought of leaving him. The pang of impending loss took his breath away. She couldn’t leave. She couldn’t.

  For a moment he hated her, just a little bit, but afterwards he felt bad, knowing it was naughty to feel that way. Knowing he didn’t really want to make her unhappy. He hugged her and told her he loved her. After that, he felt good again.

  It didn’t last.

  He was playing with the cat on the garden doorstep. Kardi cats had funny tails, all twisted, or short, or crooked. This one had a tail that curled around in a circle to one side, and he found he could thread stalks of flowers through the loop and they wouldn’t fall out. Drowsing in the sun, the cat didn’t seem to notice. In the room behind him, his parents were talking.

  His father had given him a lesson in using his cabochon to hide his feelings, and he was trying to do that so they would forget he was there. ‘Pull all your emotions into a ball and hide them here,’ Temellin had said, tapping his chest. ‘Pretend it’s a ball of string, all tied up…’

  He thought maybe he was successful, because they weren’t paying him any attention. If he peeked through the open door he could see them, but they never looked his way.

  Ligea was saying, ‘You’re telling me that I gave Pinar’s baby to them for nothing? Condemned that child to grow up as something, um, alien, all for nothing?’

  The bitterness in her tone was ugly. Arrant stared, cat forgotten. His anxiety swelled into something large and terrible. He tried to tie it up with the make-believe string. She couldn’t be angry with Papa, could she?

  When his father replied, he sounded sad. ‘We don’t know that yet. It’s only been, what, not quite six years? Maybe he’s not old enough to make a difference? All I can tell you is that so far nothing has improved. The Mirage is attacked by new pieces of the Ravage, and the old patches grow in size. We have lost part of Mirage City—even parts of the Maze. People have died. It’s—it’s not a good way to die. Once we launch the coming offensive, we will withdraw from the Mirage completely.’

  ‘Forever?’ she asked.

  ‘Forever.’

  ‘That child has haunted me,’ she whispered. ‘When I see Arrant grow, and know there was once another, with just as much right to live.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have lived at all, but for what you had the courage to do. He has a life, Sarana.’ The words were comforting, but Arrant heard the barrenness of his father’s tone. There was no joy in what he said, none.

  ‘No.’ The word was wrenched out of Ligea. ‘I took his life and condemned him to—to an existence. But I did it for a reason. And now what you have told me has taken away the validity of that decision. Goddess, I am sorry, Temellin.’

  Arrant felt her tearing grief, her shame, as if it were his own. He wanted to run to her, but something held him back. They were silent so long, he peeked around the doorway into the room again. They stood close together, Papa’s hands on Ligea’s shoulders, but neither of them seemed happy.

  When his father dropped his arms, she changed the subject. ‘Garis,’ she said, in bright tones that didn’t seem to ring quite true. ‘You said you had a letter from him this morning? How is he? Where is he?’

  ‘Brand’s back in Altan but he left Garis in Gala. The rebellion there is doing well. The whole island is waging war on Tyrans and, from what I hear, the Exaltarch is pouring more and more legions in with less and less effect. You did know Garis’ wife died, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. Brand wrote. Mirageless soul, Tem, she was so young.’

  ‘And a child left motherless, too.’

  They were silent for a while, and Arrant knew they were speaking with their emotions, even though he couldn’t feel them. Then Ligea said, ‘You should marry again yourself.’

  ‘No,’ he said. There was a long silence during which neither of them moved. ‘I can’t.’

  She stirred unhappily. ‘Temellin, I don’t know how long it will be before I can return. Things—things are not as easy as I once thought they would be. It will be many years. Too many to ask you to wait. Too many for us to plan a future together.’

  Temellin’s stab of grief made Arrant wince. He looked again, to see Papa shake his head. ‘Don’t ask it of me, Sarana. I cannot and will not marry someone else. I’ve married someone I didn’t want to wed once before and, as you know, it led to disaster. Pinar and I ended up loathing each oth
er. I won’t do it again. I won’t settle for second-best. Mirageless soul’—he waved a hand at the rooms upstairs—‘after that, how can I think of wanting anything else? Any one else? The thought of you is sometimes the only thing that makes it worthwhile to open my eyes on a new day. You and Arrant. And you will come to me. You must. How can I go on if I don’t believe that?’

  She was silent. He reached up and wiped a thumb down her cheek. Tears, Arrant thought. She’s crying, and she never cries. Well, hardly ever. His own eyes filled. They had been so happy; why did they have to go and spoil it all? Why couldn’t they just all have fun?

  In his misery, he jabbed at the cat and the indignant animal ran away, trailing flowers from its tail.

  The good times ended when he dreamed another nightmare. Another dreaming so horrible he could hardly believe it all happened in his head, hardly believe he could imagine such things in his sleep.

  He woke terrified, with memories of teeth and claws and spines and tusks slashing at him. Of creatures shockingly dedicated to attacking him. The night was quiet, and he was alone—yet he knew what he had seen in his dream was real; he knew in his thundering heart that the bestial horrors were more than just dream-creatures. Somewhere they really existed. He could taste their hate for him, sourish and corrosive in his throat. And they were close. They wanted him.

  He sat up on his pallet, his throat constricting, his mind jolted from fear into blank nothingness, his emotions so tied up in knots that he cut them off rather than feel them. The ball was there under his ribs and he didn’t want it like that, but it was so tightly wrapped he didn’t think he could untie it.

  Shivering and unable to think, he staggered out of the room looking for Ligea. Reaching the top of the stairs, he looked down. Cold, numbed, he tried to speak, but his spasming throat would make no sound.

  Papa and Ligea were there, sitting close together on shleth pelts by a driftwood fire, and they were alone. He tried to speak, his mouth moved, but no words came out. Why didn’t they sense him? Inside he felt awful. Everything was wadded up tight, painfully tight. It hurt.