by Glenda Larke
‘I’m hoping we will have some Magoroth help to compensate. Your father will send people, of course.’
‘Will you be staying long this time?’
She thought she heard a wistfulness in his tone, but it wasn’t reflected in any discernible display of emotion. It was becoming harder and harder to read him. Did he know he was hiding himself? Or was it just something he did without being aware of it? Aloud she said, ‘I have to leave again soon. There is to be a slave uprising in Getria. The city should be ours soon. Next year, when you are nine, we will take Tyr.’
He didn’t say anything, almost as if he didn’t dare believe it. Or, perhaps, he couldn’t picture life being any different.
Vortexdamn, I wish I could have offered you a better life than this, Arrant. And then, sadly, I wish I could have had a better one myself.
Life went on as usual for Arrant. He studied and trained and shared part of his waking hours with Tarran. Foran kept him too busy to miss his mother when she was gone, although, in truth, he didn’t think it would have made much difference if she had been there all the time. Part of him felt Ligea had left him long ago.
She’s not a mother like other boys have mothers. An unbidden disloyal thought, but he couldn’t help what popped into his head, could he? Now, on the rare occasions he saw her, it was as a commander of an army, a woman whose glance barely softened when it alighted on him. This was not the woman who had played with him on the way to Kardiastan. This woman was a soldier, with a soldier’s eyes. With a hardness to her muscles that matched something in her core. He might not have been able to command his power at will to read emotions, but he could feel her toughness anyway. It wasn’t what he wanted from a mother. Nor what he needed.
Yet, as most of the fighting became concentrated around Getria, she was able to come back to the Stronghold more often. On one visit, she told him that his father was unable to send the Magoroth help she had hoped to receive. Her tone was neutral when she imparted this news, but he knew she was hurt.
Temellin doesn’t care enough…The thought writhed there in his mind, twisting his memories of his father.
And that was enough to bring Tarran to him. Temellin cares, he protested. I am sure he does.
‘Then why does he refuse to help us?’ he asked.
We—we don’t know, Tarran admitted. Arrant, everyone left, so we don’t know what’s happening any more. In the old days we had the power to find out even when no one came to us, but not now. We must conserve our strength. We are fighting for our very life.
Arrant felt those words like a blow, but didn’t know what to say.
Tarran continued, Next time a young Magoroth comes to collect their sword, we will ask for news. But that will only be what that person happens to know…
Getria finally fell to Gevenan’s men. The victory was greeted by jubilation in the Stronghold, but the joy didn’t last. Within four months of the city’s fall, it was besieged by a force that included the Jackal Legion and was led by Bator Korbus himself.
Gevenan and his men were trapped inside the city walls and the snow-season set in.
Ligea, who was in the Stronghold when she received the news, had to wait a month before she could leave because the passes were blocked with snow. As soon as the weather relented, she left with all the men she could muster. Yet again, Arrant could only watch them ride out, and both dream of and dread the day he would be old enough to go with them.
The day everything changed, just six weeks later, started normally enough: breakfast, chores, then sword practice, after which he went for his usual lessons with Foran, who was trying to coach him on how to create a wind with his cabochon. No, not a wind. Just a breeze. Just a waft of air enough to stir the feather Foran held in his fingers. And he couldn’t do it.
The week before, he had managed that much; in fact, he had created a whirlwind. Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to keep a hold on it, and it had gone spinning into the fireplace. It was just bad luck that the servants hadn’t yet cleaned out the ashes of the fire that had burned there the night before…
Foran had not been pleased. They’d both had to go and bathe.
Well, he certainly wasn’t having that problem today. He couldn’t even make a feather move.
Foran looked at him across the table. ‘Your mother just arrived,’ he said. ‘I’ve been sensing her approach for the past two hours. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me.’
He sat dumbly, joy and failure warring in his mind.
‘You had no idea, did you?’
It’s not my fault. I do try…‘May I go and—?’ But before he could get the question out, the door opened and Ligea strode in, laughing and aglow.
As she hugged Arrant, Foran said, ‘You look happy, Magoria. More good news?’
Light sparkled along her skin like moonlight on snow. ‘The time has come,’ she said. ‘Before the next snow-season, we’ll all be sleeping in the Exaltarch’s palace!’
We?
She touched her cabochon to Arrant’s, and the contact stimulated his into action. He was flooded with emotions. Foran’s: nervous anxiety, twinges of fear, a gentle sorrow. And hers: elation, joy, a ferocious excitement. He looked at her in surprise. Vortex, she loves this! Events that made everyone else feel jittery brought a shine of anticipation to her eyes. He hadn’t realised that. Her elation disturbed him.
She laughed and said, ‘We are finally ready—these next few days see the culmination of all my plans. My only regret is that Gayed Lucius doesn’t know how I spent his fortune! Ah, Arrant—how I’m looking forward to this coming battle…’
He suddenly felt as if his chest was stuffed with pallet-cotton. For a moment breathing became something he had to actively think about doing and his recently eaten lunch seemed to have a mind of its own.
She didn’t notice. ‘I want you to understand what’s going on, Arrant. You’re nine now—and oh, I’m sorry I missed your anniversary day yet again, didn’t I? Anyway, I think you are old enough. I have nine-year-old stable boys in my army.’ She turned to where Foran had pinned his charts on the wall, beckoning him over. ‘Come and look at the map.’ She pointed a finger. ‘We are here. This is Kardiastan here. Gala, Pythia, Cormel, Quyr, Corsene and Altan.’ She jabbed at each as she named them. ‘They are all at open war with the Exaltarchy. Down here, the King of Akowarn has declared himself free of vassalage and has closed his borders to all Tyranians, especially levy collectors. In Janus and over here in Pilgath, slaves are in open rebellion. Right here in Tyrans, we own the north, from Getria as far as the Cormel border.’
‘Gevenan isn’t stuck in Getria any more?’ Foran asked.
‘Not any longer. We broke through the ring and we have scattered the besieging forces with the help of my Magor power. The Exaltarch has retreated to Tyr with most of his men. The Jackals, however, are on their way here. Following me.’
Arrant paled. ‘Here?’ Fighting. Men with the light dying in the black depths of their eyes. That horrible smell of death that no one mentioned when they spoke of the glories of battle and victory.
‘Jorbrus is leading them. Do you know he’s been sober ever since Prianus was attacked? He’s a brave man, but one who no longer cares whether he lives or dies. They think he’s a traitor and they believe they have me—all of us—trapped. But tomorrow we’ll be away through the back pass, leaving them an empty fort while we sweep down on Tyr.’
His heart somersaulted. Tomorrow?
‘But won’t the Jackals follow as soon as they find the Stronghold empty?’ Foran asked.
‘They will try. But I have plans for them. Berg Firegravel and his men will take care of the Jackals.’ She grinned wickedly.
‘And me?’ Arrant asked. What about me? He felt guilty even as he asked. She had more important things to think about.
‘Well, that depends on how you’ve progressed with your Magor abilities. I could risk having you close by so that you’d know what was going on—if you can look after your own protec
tion. Otherwise, I’ll leave you in Getria, along with the others from here who cannot fight. You would be with Narjemah.’
He looked down at his feet, his shame a black thing in his mind. ‘I can only build a good ward sometimes. Sometimes I can do it really good.’ But not often.
She pursed her lips.‘Let me talk to Foran. Wait outside on the training ground. I’ll join you in a moment.’
Reluctantly, he went outside, and Tarran, who had been lurking inside his head since she’d arrived, said, Hey, things are really happening, aren’t they? You’ll be going to live in Tyr! That’ll be exciting. I rather liked Tyr, what I saw of it. Which wasn’t much, actually, I suppose. How about listening to what Ligea and Foran are talking about?
‘You know perfectly well that I shouldn’t. And that I probably can’t anyway.’ He scuffed his sandalled foot in the dirt. Overhead, jackdaws rose from the roof in a black whirl, calling to one another like yapping mountain jackals.
Go on, give it a try.
He allowed himself to be persuaded, pushing away the thought that Tarran really didn’t understand about things like manners. He focused his hearing in the right direction. He edited out the sounds from the neighbouring kitchen and homed in on Foran and Ligea—all without the slightest mistake, as though he never had any difficulty with such an exercise.
Easy as making a tree with feathers, Tarran said gleefully.
Arrant refrained from pointing out that anyone other than a Mirage Maker would have trouble with the creation of a feathered tree.
‘So,’ Foran was saying, ‘the time has come.’ He didn’t sound happy.
‘Yes—the Exaltarchy is taking its last tottering steps.’ Ligea did not bother to hide her own sense of satisfaction. ‘Now, about Arrant—’
A pause followed. Then: ‘What can I say? He’s a bright lad with a sharp, inquiring mind. He could be a scholar if that was his destiny. Or an engineer. He has a fine grasp of all branches of mathematics, especially geometry.’
‘But—?’
‘He’s no Magori.’
Arrant felt her anger even across the intervening space. ‘With his parentage, how can he be anything else?’
‘Magoria, I’ve tried everything and so has Narjemah. And so has he. Mirageless soul, how he has worked! My heart has ached for him. But he just doesn’t seem trainable. The power is there, but it is unpredictable and unreliable.’
Another pause. Then an agonised, ‘Why? Foran, why? You’ve worked with him for four years now. You must have some idea.’
‘I have thought of two possible explanations, but they are both just that: possibilities. I have no real answers.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sometimes, when I’ve been teaching children to read, I have come across a student who, although very intelligent, seems to have difficulties in comprehending the written word, no matter how hard they try. I have come to the conclusion that such children have a problem with communication within themselves. The eye sees the word, but somewhere between eye and understanding there is a—a break. It’s a very small break; they can see and comprehend anything else. It’s just the written word that escapes them. Sometimes, with training, they can overcome this problem. Sometimes not. Perhaps Arrant’s problem is similar: there is a break between his cabochon and his head. The power is there, waiting to be used, but his sense cannot always find and control it.’
‘And the second possibility?’
‘He has too much power.’
‘Too much power?’
‘It’s possible. Magoria, you and the Mirager-temellin stand at the end of a long line of highly skilled Magoroth, people who have chosen marriage partners with more care for their Magor lineage than they had for their own hearts. Power has been strengthened again and again by such unions. Temellin and you—you both have more power in your cabochons than some of your ancestors had with their Magor swords in their hands.’
That’s true, Tarran agreed. Some of your forebears couldn’t have trimmed their toenails with a beam from their Magor blades, not even to save their lives.
Arrant shuddered, although he wasn’t sure why.
‘So?’ Ligea asked.
‘So maybe it has come to the stage with Arrant where there is simply too much power concentrated in one person; too much for him to control. Perhaps we should be grateful that he doesn’t get his hands on it, so to speak; he might burn himself, and us, to ash if he ever did.’
Arrant sat down on the ground with a thump; the pallet-cotton seemed to have gone from his chest to his knees.
‘I don’t believe that,’ Ligea said flatly.
Probably another load of street sweepings, Tarran agreed cheerfully. I don’t suppose Foran knows what he’s talking about. You’re controlling your power perfectly at the moment, aren’t you?
Arrant didn’t answer. It was true, though; just then he could hear every word, he could sense every nuance—and it was suddenly so easy.
‘I could be wrong,’ Foran admitted. ‘But be wary of ever giving him a Magor sword.’
Her reply was as cold as snow-melt. ‘He will have his sword, just as every Magoroth does. It is his birthright. And one day he will exchange it for his Mirager’s sword.’
‘I doubt that. No one will accept such a person as the Mirager. He’d have to fight for the right, and he would lose. It wouldn’t come to that anyway; the Mirager holds his sword by consensus, as I am sure you know. Temellin can declare Arrant to be Miragerheir—in fact, he has already done so—but it has to be confirmed by council when he is sixteen, and what Temellin says will mean little if the lad is found wanting.
‘Magoria, Arrant is a fine boy, but I doubt that he’s the stuff that Miragers are made of. Even his character lacks…well, independent strength, somehow. Why, he still has an imaginary friend, and he’s really far too old for that kind of nonsense. He should have outgrown it.’
‘What imaginary friend?’
‘Didn’t you know? Well, he does try to hide it, but occasionally he forgets and I hear him talking. It’s not uncommon among lonely children, but Arrant has more important things to concentrate on. It’s time he forgot such silly diversions.’
Does he mean me? Tarran asked indignantly. A silly diversion?
Arrant sighed. ‘I think he must. I don’t have any imaginary friends.’
There was a long silence, then Ligea said, in a neutral voice, ‘Sometimes I think perhaps you were the wrong person to be given charge of my son, Foran. Anyway, it’s time for you to return to Kardiastan. I shall arrange it as soon as we have taken Tyr. In the meantime, stay with Arrant. Keep him safe if he himself cannot manage his own warding. Right now I shall see for myself just what progress, if any, he has made in his Magor studies.’
Arrant stopped listening as worry swamped him.
Hey, don’t panic, Tarran said. You can do it, you know you can.
‘Yeah. I shall probably set fire to the roof tiles and scare bloodspots into every egg the hens lay for the next year,’ he said. As Ligea came back outside, he tried to look less gloomy.
‘Arrant,’ she said, ‘I want you to show me what you can do.’ She was coaxing; it was a role that didn’t suit her and he almost flinched away when she laid a hand on his shoulder.
‘Can you focus on, um, the people in the kitchen and tell me what is happening?’
You can do it. You just did—
And once again he could, much to his surprise. There was something bubbling on the stove; the fire crackled on the hearth. ‘Chop those up finer, my girl, else cook’ll be after you—’ ‘Fetch in some more water, Filgo, and then stoke up them coals—’ He could hear it all, even the ragged purr of the kitchen cat.
He told her what he heard.
‘And their emotions? What is the lad Filgo feeling as he goes to get the water?’
He frowned. ‘He’s—I dunno. He’s sort of empty. The girl chopping the vegetables, that’s Kimma, she’s sullen. Like someone who’s just had an argument. And the other f
ellow there, that’s Rorn. He’s sort of excited. Like he’s got a secret that no one else knows.’
She gave a husky laugh. ‘Exactly right! I bumped into him on my way in to see you and Foran, and told him that he had to kill all the chickens for cooking because everyone would be leaving. Apparently he hasn’t told the others yet. Arrant, I want you to show me what else you can do.’
She took him through the standard elementary uses of a cabochon, and he found he could do it all: suppress or enhance the golden glow of the gem and the way it tinged his skin, draw wards that held, cause pain, burn holes at a distance, enhance his sight and hearing, even manage the talent that usually gave him the most trouble of all: telling a lie from the truth. He wasn’t sure who was most surprised, himself or Ligea.
Then she led him over to the rough-built stone barrier that edged the training ground. Beyond, there was nothing but the eroded fissures and rugged walls of the canyons that led southwards towards Prianus, Getria and Tyr. She waved her arm towards the cliff walls scoured by the raw savagery of time and weather, then rested her hand on his shoulder again. ‘Bathe your senses in light, Arrant, and tell me what you can see and feel and hear out there.’
The wind first. He could hear its low whine among the rocks as it gusted up the canyons. He thought: Cabochon—why is all this suddenly so simple? Then the desolate wail of a bird of prey…Yes, he could see it, too, bring it closer, identify it by the russet colour of its feathers, note the way it rolled, whiffling to lose the wind from under its wings so it could plunge down after its victim.
And then he felt them. Hundreds of them. Gorclaks too. And one, one who burned with venom. The air shimmered with his emotion, rippled—
‘What do you feel?’
I’ll be Ravage-blasted! What in the world is that?
‘Legionnaires,’ Arrant said, answering them both. ‘A whole legion? Too many to count. I can sense Jorbrus. And there’s someone there…’
‘Who?’ Ligea asked, sharply attentive.
‘I dunno. But he hates us.’ He was unable to suppress a shiver.