by Glenda Larke
‘So let’s recap,’ Temellin said. ‘Where do we have cooperation?’
‘The Quyriots and Altan,’ Ligea said.
‘Corsene to the south of us,’ an unknown voice said.
‘Brand seems to think Cormel will rebel if they see everyone else rebelling first,’ Ligea added.
‘Gala’s already following your example and Pythia is a possibility, if Brand and Garis can organise it,’ the unknown voice added.
‘There may be others who take advantage of Tyrans’ problems as time goes by,’ Temellin said. ‘For example, Garis says the King of Akowarn is furious with Bator Korbus. Something about insulting a princess.’
‘Yes,’ Ligea said. ‘He said he’d marry her, brought her to Tyr, and there she sits, still unmarried while Bator makes use of her dowry. Temellin, I think I will go back to Tyr via Altan. I want to see the rebel leader there, Hotash.’
There was a long silence. Then his father said coldly, ‘All sea journeys have an element of danger. Why not just send a letter back with the Fisherdream?’
‘If I am going to be Exaltarch, I have to establish relationships with other people. The rebel leader in Altan will be an important man one day. I want to meet him. I want to talk about the future.’
‘How safe are your strongholds?’ someone asked, changing the subject after a strangely long silence.
‘The original one is as hard to find as a shleth egg, and easily defendable,’ she replied. ‘The others aren’t quite as well protected. However, they were chosen not just for their remoteness, but also for how easily they can be abandoned without loss of life. And, in fact, that has happened several times. The legions arrive, my men simply melt away into the mountains over the border into Quyr. They gather at a back-up location within a month.’
‘Get along with you! You think I didn’t see those pickle fingers of yours dancing their way into her bodice, you sly muck-sweating street sweeper? Get your backside out of my kitchen—’
Arrant sighed. His concentration had slipped and he’d homed in on some other conversation elsewhere by mistake. He waited for Tarran to laugh at the fumble, only to realise his brother had already gone.
He was like that, slipping in and out of Arrant’s mind without warning, his coming and going usually governed by what was happening back in the Mirage rather than what was occurring in Arrant’s part of the world. It took getting used to, but gradually Arrant was becoming aware that if he was upset, Tarran came. It was a good feeling: he could rely on his brother.
His father stood there on the seawall and watched them go. Arrant could feel some of his anguish at the parting, but knew it must be for his mother, not him. He’d hoped, right up to the moment of departure, that Temellin would change his mind and ask him to stay.
It hadn’t happened.
A hollow place under his breastbone filled up with sadness. He refused to let it out. He would not show how he felt. He didn’t want anyone’s pity. He didn’t want anyone to love him because they felt sorry for him.
You’ll see him again soon, Tarran soothed. It’s just a few years.
To Arrant, that seemed a lifetime.
The figure that was Temellin grew smaller and smaller until finally he blurred into his surroundings, at one with the harbour wall and the town beyond. Ligea stood at Arrant’s side, watching. Narjemah and Foran, Arrant’s new tutor, leaned on the railing next to her.
Cord was at the stern sweep, keeping an eye on the sail. The rowers shipped their oars now that the Fisherdream was away from the hazard of the shore and the breeze had picked up.
‘Shipmaster Cord isn’t so grumpy any more,’ Arrant said to Ligea.
She took one last lingering look at Ordensa, then turned her attention to him. ‘He’s going home, with quite a lot of money in his pocket.’
‘Why didn’t Papa want us to go to Altan?’ Arrant asked.
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ she asked lightly. ‘He was a little concerned about the sea trip, that’s all.’
That’s not the whole truth, Tarran said. Temellin doesn’t like Brand, and Brand is in Altan.
Why doesn’t he like Brand?
Because your mother does, Tarran said.
That didn’t make sense to Arrant, but he didn’t want to appear stupid so he kept quiet.
‘I’ve always wanted to go to Altan,’ Narjemah said as the Fisherdream encountered the offshore wind and picked up speed. ‘Imagine a land that’s mostly water!’
‘Only the Delta is like that,’ Foran said. ‘The central part of Altan is as dry as Kardiastan.’ Foran was an Illuser and Arrant hadn’t made up his mind whether he liked him or not yet. He didn’t smile much and he moved as though he was wearing rusted armour. His fingers were all crooked, too. Narjemah said that was because he was old.
At least Narjemah was returning with them to Tyrans. She had promised she would always look after him until he was grown up, but he had been worried that she might change her mind when she discovered they were not going to stay in Kardiastan. However, she didn’t seem to mind at all. She’d tried to explain it to him, even though he didn’t quite understand. ‘In Kardiastan I feel the horror of what I’ve lost because the other Magor look on me with pity. Their pity reminds me every day that I am no longer complete and never will be again. I don’t mind going back to Tyr. There I can sometimes forget…’
Tarran, Arrant asked, looking back at the coast, his fear sudden and real, you don’t think you’ll have trouble coming into my head when we are in Altan, do you? Foran says it’s a long, long way from Kardiastan.
Tarran thought about that. No, I don’t think so. After all, I can come to you in Tyrans, can’t I? And that’s a long way, too.
Arrant breathed a sigh of relief. He could no longer imagine being without his brother. Why do you often have to leave in such a hurry? he asked.
Because of the Ravage. Hey, can you go up there into the front of the ship? I like the feel of the wind. It tastes good!
Narjemah says that’s cos the sea is salty. He edged past the bow oarsman into the prow of the ship. He’d already realised that everything to do with the sea fascinated his brother.
We don’t have the sea in the Mirage, Tarran explained. And we don’t taste things, either. I didn’t know what taste was till I found you.
Really? That’s weird! What’s the Ravage?
The thing that eats us from the inside. It’s full of monsters. They make us sick. The others need me cos when I am there, the Ravage is not so strong. But I don’t like it. It hurts. That’s why I like it here—I can’t feel it any more. And when I go back I can fight it better cos I’ve been here.
Arrant frowned, trying to sort through that. I don’t think I understand. Monsters? You mean it’s like nightmares?
Tarran considered. You know how you scraped your elbow the other day? And it got all sore and had that yellow stuff oozing out of it? And you had to get your mother to fix it?
Arrant nodded.
Well, the Ravage is like that. Only it’s huge and it has horrid things inside it. And it can’t be fixed. He deposited a picture in Arrant’s head.
Arrant’s eyes went wide.‘Oh. Oh.’ He was looking at the monsters of his dreams once more. He was shocked into an appalled silence. The creatures of his dreams were real. And they had threatened to eat him alive.
PART THREE
ARRANT AND TARRAN
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
When he was older, Arrant sometimes thought the trip to Kardiastan sliced through his life like a Rake across the Shiver Barrens. On one side was the firm ground of a childhood that centred around his mother, the years when he felt loved and secure no matter what happened; on the other side, a life of shifting sands that had no centre, when the future threatened rather than beckoned, a time of uncertainty, made bearable only by Tarran’s frequent presence in his mind.
The trip back to the Stronghold via Altan, marked by endless travelling, discomfort and fatigue, lacked the joy of the outward
journey. The time on board ship was often boring, although Foran insisted on daily lessons. Arrant didn’t like Altan, he didn’t like the way Ligea spent most of her time with the Altani rebels instead of with him, and as a consequence, he sulked most of the time he was there.
From Altan, they sailed through the Issian Isles to the head of the Gulf of Tyr, thereby avoiding the city altogether, to disembark, unremarked, in a tiny fishing village where Cord had friends. There, they hired mounts and a guide to the next town, where they bought some horses of their own. From there, they made their way to Bryssa, mostly along dusty country roads that offered no wayhouses or comfortable tabernas. In Bryssa, Ligea contacted Arcadim’s agent, and they joined another moneymaster’s caravan along the paveway to Getria. From Getria, it was once again a long journey on horseback to the Stronghold.
It wasn’t entirely an uneventful journey. Between Altan and the Issian islands, they encountered a storm that terrified Arrant into thinking the ship would sink. On the way to Bryssa, a small squad of legionnaires stopped them and demanded to see their palms. Ligea and Foran killed them all. Tarran, feeling Arrant’s panic, came to comfort him, but even so, he once again felt the pain and terror of the death of strangers.
After Getria, there seemed to be legionnaires everywhere and Ligea used her positioning powers to avoid them, which slowed their progress.‘They are still hunting the Stronghold,’ she said, her voice grim. ‘They are not going to give up until they have found us. Foran, I am glad we’ll have another Magor there—your positioning powers will help sense any attackers. Invaluable, especially if I am elsewhere.’
He smiled slightly. ‘I am an Illuser, not a Magori. My powers are not as far-reaching.’
‘Better than nothing.’
Arrant winced. He was the nothing.
Five months after leaving the Stronghold, as the desert-season made its long slow slide towards the snow, they rode back through its gates.
To Arrant, the building looked smaller than he remembered. Smaller and more grim.
While they’d been away, the Jackal Legion had come back in force to search for their missing soldiers. They’d reached the now-deserted village of Prianus, but failed to find the way up to the Stronghold. More by accident than anything else, they had followed the defiles down to First Farm, but the farm workers had been well primed. Homfridus lied, telling them that yes, there had been a troop of legionnaires come once before to search his farm, but of course there was nothing to find. After that, he added helpfully, the legionnaires had just headed back the way they had come, towards the mountains. ‘It’s difficult country,’ he’d told them, shaking his head in sorrow. ‘Landslips are common. A man can disappear forever up there.’
The Jackals had searched the farm, but there was nothing to arouse their suspicions. Sentries had given plenty of warning and by the time the legionnaires had arrived, the forges looked dirty and rarely used, the workshops seemed rundown and poorly equipped, the artisans were all wearing slave collars and the herds of Quyriot plateau ponies were nowhere to be seen.
The Jackals moved on, baffled.
There were still sometimes reports of legionnaires searching the farms and foothills and mountain trails, but none found the paths to the Stronghold. The village of Prianus remained empty, the marble quarry disused.
Arrant wasn’t unhappy with his life in the Stronghold. Narjemah spoiled him as usual, and Gevenan or one of the other soldiers coached him in wrestling and swordplay. Gevenan also passed on much of his rough wisdom. ‘A dead hero’s no use to anyone,’ he said, waggling his sword under Arrant’s chin. ‘And a fully trained legionnaire would find a lad your size about as dangerous as a dung beetle. In battle, he wouldn’t even notice the nip. So learn to use your cunning, and to run like a ten-legged lizard when things look bad, all right?’ Or, ‘There’s no honour in battle, lad, and don’t you forget it. Killing your opponent from behind may not be particularly honourable, but it’s a damn sight safer than meeting him face to face.’
Foran taught him to read and write and figure, which he enjoyed. In fact, the only part of his tutoring that he hated was the most important of all: his Magor studies.
What made his troubles with his power doubly frustrating was his knowledge that he did have talent—sometimes. There were times when he could call the colour of power into his cabochon at will, when he could far-sense, read emotions or do most of the things he ought to have been able to do. But there were even more times when he couldn’t. And even when he could, things often didn’t happen quite the way anyone expected.
Foran would say, ‘Bathe your eyes in the glow of your cabochon, that’s right. Now look at that tree growing on the cliff. Think of yourself as being right there, in front of it…’ He would do everything Foran asked, but instead of seeing the tree up close, there was a fair chance that he would see a nightmarish brown network of lines and blurs and flowing circles instead. It was like gazing into a looking glass and expecting to see his own reflection, only to be faced with the features of a stranger.
Embarrassed by his inadequacies, Arrant asked Tarran to avoid coming when he was working with Foran on his Magor powers, and his brother respected his request. If he came at the wrong time, he slipped away again immediately. He preferred to be there when Arrant had normal lessons anyway, because he enjoyed those. He was also convinced his presence was necessary in order to correct Foran’s misconceptions, and he didn’t hesitate to tell Arrant so. That’s a load of city sweepings, he would say when Foran twisted history. We remember that. The ruler of Kardiastan at that time was Errinwith, not Gowanlin, and he didn’t kill the envoy from Tyrans; the man died of a pain in the belly—
Arrant would have to stifle a giggle and pretend he hadn’t heard a thing.
They hadn’t been back from Altan more than three weeks before Ligea and Gevenan rode out again. Arrant pouted when his mother told him she was going away. ‘I want to go too,’ he whined.
She sighed. ‘Do you know how much I hate it when you whinge?’ she asked. She gathered him onto her lap. ‘Arrant, I miss you terribly when I’m not here, but you don’t need me to teach you now. You have Foran.’
‘Where are you going? Why can’t I come?’
‘I am going to all of the other strongholds. And their farms. Gev and I have to check them all, to see if the soldiers are well trained and ready for the war. We have to make sure there are enough horses, and weapons and armour. We have to see if all the commanders and cohort leaders know their orders. I shall be back before all the snow has melted from the mountains, I promise. But we ride to war on your sixth birthday.’
‘Can I go with you then? I practise with my sword all the time, and Gev says I throw the javelin real good.’
‘You do, I know. I’ve seen you. But no, Arrant. This war is for men, not children. Your job is to stay here and learn to use your cabochon.’
He stood on the watchtower with Foran and Narjemah and watched her leave with Gevenan and a small force of soldiers and auxiliaries. The gusting wind was cold, but the three of them stayed up there until Ligea and her soldiers were out of sight.
It was four months before she returned, just as the snows began to melt—and, as promised, she rode out again three weeks later on the day Arrant turned six.
He had expected her to spend the intervening time with him; it didn’t happen. Most of the time she was with her commanders, poring over maps and talking strategy. Bored, he didn’t bother to listen. His disappointment was an ache at the back of his throat, unexpressed and raw. He knew she didn’t have time for him. He knew why—but none of it helped. He wanted his mother.
When she did leave, at the head of a marching column of three thousand men, he gazed down from the watchtower once more. This time he didn’t know when she would return and she made no promises. Before she went, she tucked the Mirage Makers’ clay head of Temellin and the jar of Shiver Barrens sand into the pack where he kept his personal treasures, and told him they were his now.
Rathrox Ligatan looked at the new reports just handed to him by the Exaltarch, and shuddered.
‘This is not some small raid,’ Bator said from between clenched teeth. ‘We are only two months into the desert-season, and we’ve already had attacks on every legion stationed in the north, on every wayhouse, on every garrison, on every border customs house.’
Rathrox raised his appalled gaze to meet his Exaltarch’s rage.
‘And she is there,’ the Exaltarch continued. ‘A woman with a scarred face and a power we cannot fight. She is back in Tyrans.’
Ligea. But neither of them mentioned her name. ‘She’s only one person,’ Rathrox muttered.
It was the worst thing he could have said. For a moment he thought Bator might burst a blood vessel, he was so angry. Finally he spat out, ‘Every time she appears in person, her soldiers win a substantial victory. She is going from one area to another, granting that success to her helot rabble. Tell me, Rathrox, how can we kill her?’
Rathrox wanted to shout ‘It’s your soldiers at fault! Why have they failed to kill her from a distance with a whirlsling?’ Instead, he said calmly, ‘The Brotherhood uses different methods from the army. When we find her son, we will have a hold over her.’ He felt his guts stir at the thought. Revenge. Gods, how he wanted it…‘If I can still have command of the Jackals, I will find her lair, I swear. We know the general area. It’s just a matter of finding a clue, or a traitor.’
They stared at each other. Two men in their sixties, seeing their whole life’s work unravelling at the hands of one woman. It was impossible, but it was happening.
‘I am riding out to join the army,’ Bator said. ‘Find the child, Rathrox. For both our sakes.’ For once he didn’t threaten. There was no need.