The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  Hurt? They feel hurt?

  No—they hurt us, the Mirage Makers. Their touch burns. Arrant, don’t hate…

  Arrant felt his brother’s worry in his head like a dull ache, and wondered if what he felt for Favonius right then was hurting his brother.

  He looked back at the village. There were too many bodies to bury just then, so Jorbrus and his sons were stacking them in the only cottage that still had part of its roof. Tarkis wept as he carried the blood-covered corpse of a girl. Arrant knew her: Janissa. She had taught him to play the game they called knucklebones. She’d just lost her front teeth and spoke with a lisp. He’d teased her about it when he’d seen her last.

  I hate Favonius Kyranon, he told Tarran. One day I will kill him.

  Tarran didn’t reply, but Arrant could feel him fretting. I can’t help it, he thought. I do hate this Favonius. And he does deserve to die for what he did here.

  When Jorbrus and his sons disappeared shortly after they had all started back on their way to the Stronghold once more, he didn’t ask where they went, or why.

  He knew, and he was glad.

  He and Narjemah and Nagus rode on upwards, alone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Once, they would have held this meeting in the Hall of the Magoroth in the Pavilions. There would have been an agate floor and a great beamed ceiling, while the walls would have been of polished adobe. It would have been a Kardi building, with Kardi simplicity. But the Pavilions were long gone; what had not been burned had been demolished by the conquering Tyranians. Over the many years of occupation, most of the other Kardi public buildings had vanished as well.

  Instead, they had this. This huge room with its columns and statues and its cold grey and white marble. Temellin would have liked to turn all his Magor power on it, to have reduced it to rubble and dust, but that would have been a foolish gesture. There were too few buildings in Madrinya as it was.

  He looked around at his fellow Magoroth, still chatting among themselves, and noticed the gaps. Selwith, dead in the battle at Asidin this past year, the only one of the original Ten to be killed in the fighting. Welmith and Kelsa, young Magoroth cousins, killed on a ship when wards broke during a sea battle. Fezani, whose head had been staked on the walls of Madrinya: no one had ever found out how the Tyranians had managed to kill him. Tavia, Garis’ wife.

  Temellin sighed.

  There were still fifty-eight of them, fifty-eight adult Magoroth in this long marble hall, most of them young. Happy now, able to think ahead to a new future. Temellin himself felt a thousand years old, scarred and sullied by every one of those years, by every battle, by every death, by every tortured body. Sarana, I need you here…

  Sarana, I need you.

  He buried his feelings deep so none would sense them, and wondered if he would be able to persuade this roomful of Magoroth to follow his lead in the one thing that mattered to him more than any other.

  He stood and began to speak at the first meeting of the Magoroth Council since they had gained their independence.

  ‘We have only one further policy matter to discuss,’ he said, just as the late-afternoon sun began to shine directly through the colonnaded arcades into the main hall. He strove to maintain the neutrality of his tone and hide his anxiety from those who had the power to feel it. ‘And it is a serious one. As you all know, we are the first of the provinces to have reclaimed our status as a self-governing state, independent of the Exaltarchy. We withstood the might of the legions because the legions could not concentrate on us—you all know that. Rebellion throughout the Exaltarchy over the past two years, including in Tyrans itself, saved us. Rebels elsewhere have suffered even more than we have, because they have no Magor. And their fight goes on.’

  He cleared his throat and looked around the small gathering. Emotions flickered around the room, invisible, yet as obvious to him as if they were sparks rising from a wood fire. Concern, worry, annoyance, doubt, cynicism—feelings to be read by all, unspoken, yet a language for all that. It was a struggle to ignore what was silently said, a struggle not to be thrown by the suspicion that danced in the air.

  He continued, knowing that he was about to confirm their mistrust of his motives. ‘I want you to consider whether we should now help them. In particular, help Miragerin-sarana in Tyrans, so that she will have certain victory. Then the Exaltarch will fall, and the true break-up of the empire can proceed.

  ‘If we don’t, we may find the Exaltarchy’s legions landing on our shores once more.’

  ‘Help her how?’ Korden asked. His long aristocratic face was pinched with distaste.

  ‘Send a number of Magoroth to Tyrans, the way we have sent Garis to other places.’

  There was a long silence. Temellin noted the exchanged glances, the fidgeting, the deliberate dampening of their emotions. They all knew how he felt about Sarana. They all knew she was the rightful Miragerin of Kardiastan: he had told them that long ago. And he knew that everyone in that room was glad she had elected to leave. With the possible exception of Jahan and his sibling wife, Jessah, not one of them had liked her.

  I wish Garis were here to back me in this, he thought. But Garis was still away, stirring up rebellion in the Exaltarchy’s provinces.

  ‘We owe Tyrans nothing,’ Korden said flatly. Temellin’s heart sank. Korden, in years the most senior of the Magoroth, was respected by all. Without his support, it would be hard to win over a majority of the Council. And Temellin needed consensus, for if a Mirager took action without it, he risked breaking the Covenant with the Mirage Makers. Without the Covenant, the Mirage Makers could withhold the bestowing of Magor swords and ultimately the granting of cabochons.

  Temellin’s stare in Korden’s direction was as hard as he could make it. ‘We owe Sarana everything. Without her, the Mirage would have fallen to the Stalwarts, and every one of our children would have been slaughtered. Without her rebellion in Tyrans, we might never have won here.’

  ‘She was the daughter of a traitor, of the man who caused our downfall,’ Markess said. Her bitterness contained the bile of loss; she was Selwith’s widow.

  Temellin tried to remain calm, to sound reasonable. ‘She was three years old at the time, hardly responsible for the actions of her father, who was, may I remind you, our Mirager. She was responsible for nothing. And if her breeding does matter to you, then why not consider who her mother was? Wendia was the first Magoroth to die fighting legions on Kardi soil. She died with her sword in her hand. By all reports, she caused the death of many legionnaires before they overwhelmed her. Sarana, then, was the daughter of a woman we honour for bravery.’

  Jahan stood, a troubled expression on his face. ‘I don’t think who Sarana is should enter into this,’ he said. ‘What we ought to be deciding is whether we want to ensure the success of the rebellion against the Exaltarch by helping the rebels in their fight. Mirager-Temellin is right. We should help those who fight the Exaltarch. Otherwise we may spend the rest of our lives fighting at our borders.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ Markess said, her flood of emotion deliberately scathing. ‘The legions are never going to return here, not in our lifetime! Bator Korbus cannot risk another such defeat—his own people would turn on him. Besides, I don’t think he could persuade the legions to return here, not after what we did to them.’ She gave a nasty smile. ‘Confronted with the Magor, their bowels turn to water.’

  ‘Markess is correct there,’ Korden agreed. He stood up as she sat down. The grey slashes in his hair and the deep modulations of his voice added to the distinguished air he exuded so effortlessly.

  Blast him, Temellin thought. How the Ravage hells does he always manage to appear so reasonable and wise, even when he is being just the opposite?

  ‘Mirager-temellin,’ Korden continued, ‘we do not need to help Sarana or the rebellion in order to save ourselves. We do not require saving. The legions are not coming back here. This decision should be made on the basis of whether we are in a position to aid others.
And my answer is no, we are not. You only have to look around Madrinya. People are hurting! So many have died; there are still thousands wounded. Ordinary Kardis. There are children suffering from the effects of an inadequate diet, caused by the breakdown in trade and transport since we went to war. There are people living ten in a room because so many homes were levelled. We all know the legions tried to wipe out vale after vale—crops destroyed, lakes poisoned, buildings fired. Even trees were felled and then burned so we could not use them. Trees!’ A collective shudder swept the room in response to his horror. In a land where trees rarely grew unless deliberately nurtured, the death of even one copse was a disaster.

  Once again, Korden aimed his words at Temellin. ‘We need to think of our own first. We need to lead our people, to make up for the years when we withdrew into the Mirage and ignored their pain. We need to tend our sick, to heal our land, to replant, to build anew. This is our foremost duty. This is your duty as our Mirager. Only when that is done can we consider what happens outside our borders. In fact, I would urge you to ask Garis to come home. He is needed here; we are all needed.’

  Grief speared Temellin. He felt their approval of Korden’s words—their emotion not sparks now, but ropes woven of the strong fibres of their belief. They turned to him as one, and the only pity for his predicament came from Jessah and Jahan.

  There wasn’t even any need for a vote.

  When they filed out of the hall a few minutes later, most avoided looking at him. Out of courtesy, they curbed their feelings and muted their conversation. Most, he knew, would take no pleasure from his grief. He had their respect, sometimes even their love. Could he blame them if they cared for their own more than others fighting far-off battles? They’d had their fill of death and war and being warriors.

  The room emptied of all but Korden. He remained where he was, seated at Temellin’s right hand, flicking his fingernail against his exposed cabochon. It had become a mannerism with him, born perhaps of his sense of wonder that they could at last wear their cabochons openly.

  ‘Do you really hate her that much?’ Temellin asked.

  ‘That’s unfair. I don’t hate her at all.’

  ‘That’s a lie. Every time you mention her name I feel your antipathy.’

  ‘That’s a different thing to hate. I don’t like her and I don’t mind admitting that.’

  ‘Why—because she was the one who saved your wife and children from the Stalwarts instead of yourself?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Temellin. I don’t like her because she is Tyranian, not Kardi, for all her birth. I don’t like her because I think she is a cold-eyed bitch. I don’t like her because I think she used you.’

  ‘Used me?’

  ‘She’s the mother of the next Mirager.’

  ‘You think she did that deliberately? How little you know! Korden, she could have been the present Mirager—Miragerin—if she had so chosen!’

  ‘She knew we’d never stand for it.’

  ‘You would have had to, had I refused to use my sword to make cabochons. I gave her the choice.’

  Korden failed to contain the contempt he felt. ‘Then you’re more of a fool than I thought. Temel, she went back to get revenge on those who mocked her. She went back to obtain far more power than we were prepared to offer. That’s the kind of person she is! All right, she’s not the evil woman I once thought her to be, but she is still tainted by what was done to her by those men. She is not an honourable person. And I will never forgive her for taking the next Mirager of Kardiastan away from his birthplace.’

  Temellin was silent for a long time. He fingered the hilt of his sword where it lay, poking out of its scabbard on the table in front of him. ‘You are angry with me for refusing to take Arrant after his birth.’

  ‘So angry, I dare not even let you feel my rage, because you would never forget it, Temellin.’

  ‘So be it, but it was indeed my doing, not hers.’

  Korden slammed his hand palm down on the arm of his chair. ‘It was the idiocy of a man who lost his wits when he fell in love. And she connived at it! The heir should be brought up here. Trained by the Magoroth, in his homeland, among his own kind. How can he learn to lead Kardis if he never meets any? What you did, in some puerile attempt to please the woman you loved, was irresponsible and idiotic. Culpable! And you didn’t ask our permission.’

  ‘I didn’t have to. Family matters are not governed by Magoroth consensus!’

  ‘A family matter? The boy is the next Mirager! Surely that concerns us all? Surely that even concerns the Mirage Makers! It was morally wrong, Temellin. And stupid. Cabochon knows what sort of a Miragerheir we will receive when you send for him. In fact, you’d better send for him right now; he will be safer here than in the middle of a rebellion. And at least he will learn who he is, and what his duties are. And he had better be a capable Magoroth, or I will fight to prevent him being recognised as Mirager-heir to my very last breath. And so will my family.’

  He leaned in closer to Temellin and lowered his voice in volume, even as he increased its intensity. ‘I have eleven children, Temel, every one of them Magor-strong. Four of my boys proved themselves over and over as warriors and leaders during the war. My eldest daughter, Erenwith, has a clever mind and enormous popularity. The next, Flavissa, is one of the finest Magoroth talents I have seen. Any of them would make a fine Mirager, and if your boy doesn’t match up, then I’ll be asking the Magoroth Council to make someone else Mirager-heir in the hope that they will consider one of my family. Just because leadership is usually passed down from father to child doesn’t mean it always has to be that way.’

  Temmellin tensed. Korden had never been so blunt before, and there was more than enough truth there for it to hurt. Perhaps Arrant’s talents wouldn’t match up to those of Korden’s children. Nonetheless, the thought of a member of the Korden family—particularly Tirgan, the eldest—being made Mirager-heir left Temellin feeling ill. He said, as calmly as he could, ‘Arrant is being raised by Kardis, Korden. By Sarana herself, by his Theura nurse and now by Illuser Foran. Moreover, he can only benefit by the wider exposure to peoples outside our nation. Haven’t we learned anything from what happened to us? Mirager-solad and those before him ignored the outside world, pretended it didn’t exist, and look what happened! Your children have skills, it’s true, but they look inwards. My son will know what’s out there when it is his turn to rule this land. He will be a Mirager to be proud of.’

  ‘You are a foolish dreamer, Temel! May the Shiver Barrens swallow you—’

  ‘So you can rule as you’ve always wanted?’

  Korden’s breath caught. ‘I never desired it to be at the price of your death. You must know that.’

  Temellin took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Yes, I know that. But you wanted it, nonetheless. And now you have revenge of a kind: you have led the others into refusing help for Sarana.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for revenge!’

  ‘No, I know.’

  ‘It was right, Temel.’

  ‘It was betrayal.’

  ‘Nevertheless, right.’

  They exchanged another hard stare. It wasn’t the first time they had flirted with an irrevocable schism.

  Korden broke the eye contact first. He stood, nodded, and left the room. Temellin stayed behind, sitting alone in a patch of light from the last rays of the setting sun.

  Sarana, he thought. Sarana. I am so, so sorry.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  It was raining when Ligea and her escort passed through the burned ruins of Prianus two months later, on their way up to the Stronghold. Gusts of wind sifted the drizzle at them from all directions, ensuring the shivering misery of sodden clothes and chafed skin.

  She’d been warned what to expect. Narjemah had sent a message telling her. Even so, her spirits foundered at the sight of those desolate ruins and blackened beams.

  Goddess, Favonius, how could you come to this? You, who once spoke to me of honour?

 
She rode straight through with her men, not looking right or left. Your fault, the stones whispered as she passed. You should have killed him when you had the chance back in the Mirage.

  ‘Will we have to abandon the Stronghold?’ Arrant asked her the following day. ‘Narjemah says we ought to, cos they’ll find us here too.’

  ‘When I am here, I’ll know if Favonius or his Jackals come anywhere close,’ she reassured him. ‘And if I am not around, there is always Foran. He can also sense the approach of strangers.’

  Ligea felt Arrant wince and slipped her arm around his shoulders to give him a hug. ‘There’s no need to be afraid, really. You will be safe here. You know what the trails are like, Arrant. A twisted maze of defiles, each looking just like the last. I had to have a Quyriot guide along that route almost ten times before I could remember the way myself!’

  He didn’t seem comforted, and she wondered if she had mistaken the reason for his wince. Maybe he’d thought her words a comment on his continued Magor incompetence. Apart from that day at Prianus when he’d sensed the two legionnaires Favonius had left behind, his powers had been erratic. Foran had just told her that he’d burned a hole in an untapped wine barrel the day before, when he was learning how to light a candle. What should she do about that? Commiserate? Scold him? Gods, he could have hurt someone. Perhaps his lack of control could threaten them all…

  She hid a sigh. Being a mother was so damnably hard sometimes. Why had no one ever warned her there were so many pitfalls?

  She smiled brightly and let slip her delight at the good news she carried. He didn’t react, so she added, ‘Cheer up—I have had such good news from your father! I actually knew a while back, but I wanted to tell you myself instead of sending a message. Kardiastan is free. The last of the legions left Kardi soil about four months ago.’

  He still didn’t react, almost as if he had already known. But that was impossible, of course.

  ‘That’s good,’ he said. ‘But doesn’t that mean there will be more legions here, to fight you?’