The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  She didn’t feign ignorance of what he meant, or protest that the palace didn’t employ servants with loose morals, or ask him why he wanted a girl like that. ‘Anrianna,’ she said immediately. ‘She’ll be cleaning along here somewhere.’

  Within moments she was back with a sultry-eyed girl from the Issian islands, who looked up at him from under her lashes—a come-hither look he guessed she had spent hours practising. He grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the guards’ entrance gate. At the same time, he fished in his pouch for a coin. He gave her the first one he found—a silver. ‘Anri-whatever-your-name-is, I want you to hang onto my arm for the next ten minutes as if the Goddess of Love has answered your every prayer. After that, you can have the whole day off. Can you do that?’

  She grinned up at him, already clutching his arm and simpering. ‘Oh, General, that’s going to be the easiest silver I’ve ever earned.’

  Gevenan gritted his teeth, and hurried her to the exit. As they stepped outside, he slowed down to a stroll, chatting calmly, a smirk on his face, even though every nerve in his body was screaming at him to run, to hurry, to do something. Oh, gods, Arrant, why did you do this?

  ‘Stay here in the barracks for at least half an hour,’ he said as they entered the gate, saluted by a legionnaire who only just managed not to snigger. ‘Then you can do whatever you like.’

  She beamed. ‘Thank you, General. Y’want anything more any time, you have only to ask this girl!’

  But he had already turned away, forgetting her existence. He strode straight to the office of Legate Valorian, the one man he could be sure knew how to think on his feet. He burst into the room without waiting to be announced. Valorian was seated behind his desk, speaking to his second-in-command, Tribune Descalis.

  Good. That was a stroke of luck. ‘Val,’ he said, ‘I need you. Now. And two of your best soldiers. As soon as possible, at this address, armed but not in uniform, on foot and unobtrusive.’ He slammed Arrant’s note down on the Legate’s desk. Valorian didn’t as much as blink. ‘That’s the first thing. The second thing is this. The Exaltarch is about to walk—knowingly—into a trap. I need a mounted force, horses, ready to move at a moment’s notice. The Exaltarch, with her personal escort and her chariot, are going to leave the palace any time now. She doesn’t want to be followed.’

  He looked at Descalis. ‘Tribune, I want her followed nonetheless. Use your best man, just one. He’s got to do it so unobtrusively that no one will ever know, especially not the people who are watching the palace gates and possibly the barracks as well, to see who leaves. He’s to find out where the Exaltarch goes and then double back here. You then get a couple of hundred men to that place on horseback as fast as you can. Surround the building and let no one in or out. I’m hoping that by the time you get there, Valorian and I will have already rescued the Exaltarch and her son. If not, it’s up to you. Don’t wait for us. In the meantime, I want every legionnaire in Tyr to be put on the alert—without it being obvious. Remember, we are being watched. Is all that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly lucid, General.’ Valorian turned to Descalis and added calmly, ‘Get me three non-military tunics and tell the Mendorian twins and that guide from Turion, the one with the beard and the limp—I forget his name—that I want them here on the double. And not a word to anyone about what you just heard.’ He turned back to Gevenan. ‘I’ll be there.’

  But Gevenan was already on his way out.

  Fortunately, Gevenan knew the pothouse named in Arrant’s note from his days as a slave in Tyr, so he didn’t have to waste time searching for it. As he expected, it was empty of people when he arrived; even the pothouse-keeper was missing. There was blood on the floor. A lot of it.

  It took him five minutes and a copious supply of coppers doled out to street urchins before he discovered that two or three men lugging a rolled-up carpet had earlier exited from the back door. If there was one thing Gevenan was certain about, it was that a pothouse in the Snarls would never have had a carpet on its floor. His hopes shrivelled. Had they already killed Arrant and this was the way they had removed his body? ‘What way did the men with the carpet go?’ he asked one of his small informants.

  The boy, sensing the urgency of Gevenan’s need, held out his hand again. Gevenan sighed and gave him another copper, instead of the clout about the ear that he felt like dispensing. The boy pointed to a laneway snaking deeper into the Snarls.

  ‘General?’

  Gevenan turned to see Valorian arriving with a set of identical twins in tow, all of them bristling with weapons. Gevenan groaned. ‘Ocrastes’ balls, you look like a bloody walking arsenal! Didn’t I ask you to be inconspicuous?’

  Valorian gave a sweet smile. ‘Unobtrusive was the word, I believe. And I am not sure I would know how to be either. For whom are we looking?’

  ‘At the moment, it’s not who, it’s what. A rolled-up piece of carpet. I hope you have a stack of coppers in your pouch, Val, because this is going to take a small fortune paid out to every scummy-looking urchin you see.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Rathrox rested his knife against Arrant’s throat. Occasionally his hand wavered and the edge of the blade pricked the skin. Arrant tried not to move. Time edged by, an agony of waiting. Telios returned briefly to reassure Rathrox that Ligea’s guard had gone away. He was sent back out to watch the street.

  When Arrant finally heard Ligea coming down the steps from above, he took advantage of Rathrox’s distraction to twist around and look. She had her left arm bound with cloth flat against her chest, the cabochon over her heart. Favonius walked beside her, his sword pressed to her side. Two men, ex-legionnaires, walked behind them, each with a blade in their hand.

  They were followed by Brand, guarded by another two armed men. Their expressions were hard enough to have been hacked from a rock face. More Jackals, Arrant guessed. Both had their swords out; the tip of one rested against Brand’s back.

  ‘Try to free that hand and I swear I’ll sever it, my sweet,’ Favonius said to Ligea as they reached the bottom of the steps.

  Damn them to the Ravage, Tarran said. The Magor die if they’re separated from their cabochons. It’s a horrible, lingering death. Takes days. He must know that.

  Arrant felt sick. He couldn’t imagine a world that didn’t contain his mother.

  Ligea ignored Favonius’ words as though he hadn’t spoken them, and he flushed as if she’d slapped his face. She looked around the room, assessing the situation, even before she allowed her glance to rest on Arrant. She sent out a wave of love when she saw he was untouched.

  I felt that! Tarran cried.

  So did I, Arrant said. Relief suffused him. Not only was his cabochon beginning to work, albeit a little later than he would have liked, but he was feeling better. The intense throbbing of his headache and the moving zigzags in his vision were ebbing away.

  The room was crowded now. Eight of them if you count Favonius and Rathrox. And only three of us, Arrant thought.

  I wonder if she knows she won’t kill herself with her own cabochon? Tarran asked.

  She will use it anyway, whether she knows or not, he answered with conviction. She’s just waiting for the right moment.

  She was tightly controlled, her face expressionless. If she despised him for what he had done, she never showed it. He wanted to tell her all that he could by way of his own emotions, but didn’t know how.

  Try, Tarran said. Your power is growing every minute. Tell her you have it!

  How? It was a cry of despair. He didn’t know how to show his feelings. The ball inside him was huge, grown larger with guilt, everything confined within, compressed, twisted tight. How could he ever rip the fabric of something so hard and galled?

  Love her enough to tell her, Tarran said. That’s all.

  Arrant stared at her, and something of his guilt and despair and self-loathing fell away. Love her enough…

  ‘So,’ Rathrox said to her, ‘we meet again.’ He tapped the handl
e of his dagger with the forefinger of the hand that held it. The tip jabbed deep enough to open up a trickle of blood down Arrant’s neck. ‘Be careful what you do, because the first person to die will be Arrant here.’

  She stared at the ex-Magister, expressionless. ‘You would be the second.’

  ‘Ah, but I would get such pleasure from knowing I had stolen your son from you first, Ligea.’

  She inclined her head and, incredibly, the corners of her lips curled up in a half-smile. And somehow, with that faint twitch of the lips, she managed to mock him. ‘Rathrox,’ she said, ‘d’you know, I think I would prefer that you use my title when speaking to me?’ Her voice was silky, yet full of menace.

  ‘Ah, no,’ he said. ‘I’d rather choke than name you Exaltarch.’

  ‘Oh,’ she returned, her tone bland, ‘I didn’t mean Exaltarch. I meant Miragerin. Miragerin-sarana.’

  Love her enough? At that moment, Arrant thought her magnificent. He wept inside, and the love he felt for her was more than forgiving; it was accepting. His own fault was so huge; how could he find fault with others? He not only didn’t care that she had sought something in Brand’s arms, he was glad she had found it. Something inside him tore. He felt emotion flow away from him, a river of it escaping. The relief was enormous.

  Rathrox was startled by her words. An eyebrow shot up. ‘So, you actually found out who you are—amazing.’

  ‘That’s right. Bear in mind that you face not only the Exaltarch, but the Miragerin of Kardiastan.’

  He shrugged. ‘What difference does it make? We have the means to keep you docile.’ He indicated Arrant by prodding him contemptuously with his free hand. His eyes never left Ligea’s. ‘As you can see, your ill-gotten bastard brat is alive and well. And he will stay that way, as I have promised—but always under my heel.’ He smiled. ‘Ah, Ligea, you’ll die piece by piece, knowing what we are going to do with your son. Can you have any idea of how much you are going to suffer?’

  But she was looking at Arrant, giving the faintest of nods, acknowledging that she had felt all he had tried to tell her. She knew he had access to his powers. He moved his hands slightly to show her the way they were bound palm to palm. Her lips tightened.

  Arrant felt Rathrox pour out a stream of triumph and loathing like a deluge of floodwater filled with debris. ‘Do it now,’ the ex-Magister said, nodding to Favonius.

  It was a moment before Brand or Arrant or Ligea understood, a precious sliver of time lost to their incomprehension. Both Arrant and Ligea felt the nastiness of Favonius’ emotions before either realised his exact intention: to sever her hand. Everything happened at once then, a whirl of movement that lasted less than a minute, yet which seemed to stretch forever.

  Tarran shouted in Arrant’s mind, You can do it! But even as Arrant called up all the power he had, two Jackals grabbed Ligea by the arms. Favonius cut through the cloth that held her hand flat to her body, and twisted her arm so that her palm faced the floor. Still holding her by the wrist, he swung his sword, aiming at the fold of her elbow.

  A great flash of colour swept out of Arrant’s cabochon. The ties that bound his hands burst into flames and his arms flew apart. Rathrox jabbed at him with his blade. It never connected. The power slammed into the ex-Magister and hurled him across the room to hit the stone of the opposite wall. Arrant screamed in pain as his clothing caught fire. Flames licked his hair, his face. Yet his horror at being burned could not obliterate the sight of what was happening to Ligea.

  Held tight by the two Jackals, with Favonius holding her left wrist in a grasp of iron as he swung his sword, she must have known that to struggle was futile. She did the only two things that could possibly save her: she let her power free—and she lifted her feet off the ground. A swathe of her gold power blasted the stone slabs of the floor. Stone chips exploded under their feet, unsettling their footing. The sudden weight of her body unbalanced those who held her, but still Favonius’ sword stroke connected. They all crashed to the floor. Blood sprayed them as they fell.

  Simultaneously, Brand turned on one of the Jackals who held him, punching him in the stomach with a balled-up fist. He head-butted the other, and took a sword cut on his thigh in return. He grabbed the first man’s sword right out of his hand while he was still gasping—and killed him with it. The second Jackal, nose broken, blood pouring down his face, stumbled back into a defensive position, preventing Brand from helping Ligea.

  One of the Jackals near Arrant whipped off his cloak and wrapped Arrant in it. He lost sight of the fight. He felt the man beating his hands on the cloth to put out the flames. He rolled across the divan, away from him. Tarran screamed advice into his head. He thumped onto the floor and flung off the cloak. He rose on one elbow and killed his rescuer with a shaft from his cabochon. He misjudged the force necessary, and the beam went right through the Jackal’s torso to blast a hollow in the wall behind.

  Arrant looked around. Brand had killed the second man he had been fighting, but another had taken his place. The Altani was limping badly from his wound and he was losing the duel. Rathrox, apparently dazed and uncomprehending, was on the floor next to the wall, his dagger lying beside him. Even as Arrant glanced at him, the ex-Magister’s conscious mind blanked out and he slumped back.

  Ligea’s blast of power had killed the two Jackals who had been holding her, but Favonius’ sword stroke had caught her across the forearm, opening a gaping slash from elbow to thumb, baring the bone. She was clutching the cut, but blood splashed onto the floor. She faced Favonius, with her cabochon shedding a glow onto his chest. He still had his sword in his hand. He said her name and smiled. He didn’t believe she would kill him. And the light in her cabochon flickered and died. She staggered back, gripping her arm, as blood and power drained away together.

  Strength, Tarran said. She’s losing strength with the blood.

  Arrant tried to stand to go to her, forgot his feet were still tied, and crashed to the floor. He stared down at himself. His hands shook. His tattered clothes smoked. He smelled burned hair. Everything hurt. He had red rings burned around his hands. And he had no time to think about any of it. He grabbed his dagger and cut the twine that tied his ankles.

  Favonius’ triumph was potent in the air. Arrant read his intention in his emotions: he was going to kill her—and enjoy it. Without thinking, Arrant held up his hand, palm outwards. For once, his cabochon did everything he asked of it. A short burst of gold bathed Favonius in pain. His sword fell to the floor.

  ‘Tell that man to drop his sword and stand against the wall,’ Arrant said, and his voice sounded harsh and adult to his ears. When Favonius hesitated, he increased the pain. From between clenched teeth, Favonius gave the order, and the man who had been fighting Brand obeyed. Arrant widened the breadth of the gold light to include him. It was quicker than building a ward and right then he didn’t care how they felt.

  Brand limped towards Ligea. ‘Ocrastes’ balls—Ligea!’ he said. ‘Your arm—!’

  Oh shit, Tarran said. She’ll bleed to death if she doesn’t stop that—

  ‘Help me carry her to the divan,’ Brand said, and then added to Ligea, ‘hold your arm up, above your head.’

  ‘Arrant can get the bleeding under control,’ she said as they laid her down. ‘Will you stop fussing? I’m not going to die.’

  Arrant held her arm and poured in his healing power, subduing her pain almost as an afterthought. ‘What about your power—?’ he asked.

  ‘It’ll come back. I’m just weak from loss of blood right now, that’s all.’

  That was exciting, Tarran said. He was bouncing around in Arrant’s mind like an excited puppy.

  Shut up. Let me concentrate. He was having trouble believing everything was going to be all right. He’d been such a fool, and yet they were all safe. Somewhere in his head was the thought that his stupidity didn’t deserve this ending.

  ‘Brand, you’re hurt,’ Ligea said. ‘Your leg—!’ She struggled up into a sitting positio
n.

  Brand cradled her against him. ‘I’ll attend to it in a moment. It’s not serious.’ He ripped a piece off his own tunic to bind her wound, but Arrant had already stopped the blood flow and pulled the ends of the broken blood vessels together so they could mend. He wondered how the magic of his cabochon knew how to do that when he himself didn’t.

  That’s me, you dolt, Tarran said. The Mirage Makers know all sorts of things.

  That interested Arrant, but he couldn’t consider it then. His focus was all on Ligea—until Rathrox’s burst of triumph broke inside his head.

  By that time, it was already too late.

  The dagger had spun out of the ex-Magister’s hand, aimed at Ligea. And she was too weak in power to sense it, too weak in body to dodge it. But Brand, who had no powers at all, saw.

  He had just tied off the ends of the makeshift bandage on her arm. He flung himself in front of her, even as he pushed her down. The ward Arrant erected was just a second too late.

  Brand took the blade meant for her in the side of his neck. His life began to ebb even as he toppled; in horrified silence, Arrant felt it fade.

  The world fell apart.

  Ligea knelt by Brand on the floor. Her grief and outrage sent Arrant reeling. ‘Ward Rathrox!’ she snapped, and he obeyed without thinking, trapping the man where he stood, propped up against the wall.

  Ligea gathered Brand into her arms with infinite gentleness. ‘Heal him,’ she gasped at Arrant. ‘For pity’s sake, heal him. I have no power left.’ She eased the dagger out.

  Arrant grabbed Brand’s hand, but Tarran’s Mirage Makers’ knowledge told him there would be no healing this time. The blade had severed too much. The spinal cord was cut. He was choking on blood. The rise and fall of his lungs was stilled.