The Shadow of Tyr

by Glenda Larke

  Arrant let Brand’s hand fall and stood, his arms loose by his sides. His mind refused to absorb the truth. Repeated words in his head spun in senseless circles: he can’t die, he can’t die, he can’t…

  Oh, Mirageless soul, Tarran murmured. Oh, Arrant, I’m sorry.

  ‘It’s all right, love,’ Ligea was saying, stroking Brand’s brow, uttering the lie as if that would make it truth. ‘We’re safe, all of us. It’s over.’

  Incredibly, Brand spoke. How he managed it, Arrant never knew, but the words were real, not just a movement of his lips, as his dying gaze fixed on Ligea’s. His lips quirked up. ‘I can think of worse reasons to die,’ he said. He sounded amused. His love spilled from him, and his life followed.

  Arrant felt the abrupt absence of his living, the blank space where once there had been a man. He himself dragged in a shuddering breath, knowing that the death was his fault, knowing that he had destroyed what little happiness his mother had in her life.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘Oh no.’ She raised her eyes to her son’s, her gaze barren of hope. ‘How will I ever live without him?’ The words held the stark simplicity of truth.

  His remorse was bile in his throat, bitter and self-accusing. She touched his hand, and he felt her compassion for his own anguish. In the midst of all her pain she could still tell him not to condemn himself.

  He didn’t answer that touch. He couldn’t.

  My fault. My betrayal. I listened to Thracius because I was jealous. I should have warded Rathrox.

  Arrant—

  Shut up, Tarran. I know what I did.

  She said, her voice little more than a whisper, ‘He was my closest friend. We were children together.’ She stood and walked over to Rathrox where he slumped, pressed against the wall by the ward. ‘Release him,’ she said to Arrant.

  He opened up the ward, and the ex-Magister sprawled to the floor. She stood over the remains of that once-powerful man, her rage blistering. Rathrox’s fear crept around the room like a ground mist.

  Arrant thrust the thought of Brand from him. He mustn’t think of Brand. Mustn’t look at him. He couldn’t cope with that. What have I done?

  She said, ‘I want you to understand exactly what I’m going to do, Rathrox. First, I’m going to kill you with my Magor power. With this.’ She supported her wounded arm with her good one, and showed him the cabochon in her bloodied hand. She had managed to call up a faint light into it, which she focused on his face. He tried to flinch away, but couldn’t. Still she didn’t kill him, not then.

  She went on, ‘And then I’m going to continue what I’ve been trying to do in Tyrans. First, I’m going to consolidate my power by hunting down every one of your compeers and your Jackals until there’s not one left. Then I’m going to build up the strength of the Senate still more and make them answerable to the citizens of Tyrans. The arbiters are already recodifying the Law on my orders, and I intend to make every citizen answerable to that Law. And the people who enforce the Law will answer to the Hall of Justice and the Senate. There will never be another Brotherhood, Rathrox. There will never be another Magister. And finally I’m going to limit the power of the Exaltarch. I’m going to make sure that there is never another Bator Korbus. And then I shall go home to Kardiastan, to live out the rest of my life in the land you stole from me.

  ‘And I’ll succeed in all that. I’ll succeed because I have this.’ She indicated her cabochon once more. ‘Are you ready to die, Rathrox?’

  She increased the pressure of her remnant power and he grovelled at her feet. Grovelled, like a frightened child. Spittle dribbled from his mouth. One hand clutched at her sandal in submission, his fingers clawed.

  ‘This is for my mother, Rathrox. For the Magoria called Wendia, who died in an ambush.’ She jabbed him with power. ‘And this is for my father, for Solad, whom you twisted into a traitor. And this is for Brand, who was a far better man than you could ever be. And this is for me, because of what you did to me and what you wanted to do to my son.’ Each time she mentioned a name, she increased the pressure inside the light.

  ‘No—’ He held up a hand, as if he could stop her. His fear stank like damp rot. ‘Please, Exalted One—’

  Her face twisted in disgust. The flare from her cabochon was short and sure. His face melted and he was dead.

  She began to fall, overwhelmed by her weakness, but Arrant was warned by his senses and caught her. He lowered her to the floor, cradling her head on his lap, while he channelled more power to her healing.

  She’ll be all right, Tarran assured him. She just needs time and rest. And food. She must eat. You should too.

  She was limp in his arms, yet it was an effort to touch her. His guilt was a physical thing inside him, a creature with a mind of its own. It crippled his thoughts, sickened his stomach. He glimpsed Brand’s body on the floor out of the corner of his eye, and felt that creature inside cut him off from future, past and present. He was Arrant, despicable in what he had done. Alone. Always to be alone because of what he had done.

  I’m here, Tarran protested. I’ll always be here.

  ‘But you can’t make things better. It will never be better,’ Arrant murmured. ‘You can’t bring somebody back.’

  Still his power stayed with him, strong and sure and true, doing all he asked of it. When he was sure Ligea would be all right, he rose to his feet and looked around. Almost to his surprise, Favonius and the other Jackal were still there, immobilised with pain. He drew back the power into his cabochon and released them. The Jackal staggered back, his face reflecting his terror. When Arrant did nothing, he turned and stumbled to the door. Arrant let him go.

  Favonius didn’t move. He knew it was useless to try. The expression on Arrant’s face told him he had reached the end of his road.

  Arrant knew exactly what he was doing. Thracius had fooled him, but that wasn’t why Favonius was going to die. He said, ‘You shouldn’t have called him thrall.’

  Favonius whispered, shocked, ‘You’d kill me for that?’

  ‘Yes. But more for a village called Prianus.’ He felt as if he were a hundred years old. ‘It’s a matter of what is deserved. But I don’t expect you to understand why.’ He raised his left hand.

  ‘No,’ the man protested, his revulsion spilling from him. He drew himself up, shrugging away the last of his pain, controlling his fear. ‘I’m a soldier, damn it! I was once one of the Exaltarch’s Stalwarts. I don’t want to die of—of desert-numen magic. Use my sword, so I can die on a good Tyranian blade, as a legionnaire should.’

  Arrant paused.

  ‘I could have been your father,’ Favonius said. ‘Arrant, you could have been my son. Don’t kill me that way. Please.’

  Tarran tensed inside his head, but said nothing.

  Arrant said, ‘You—or your men—carved the heart out of a child, and left it on the doorstep of his house. Would you rather I killed you like that?’

  Favonius’s voice was hoarse and wretched. ‘Better that, than to die by sorcery.’

  Arrant was tempted to cruelty: to bring the power back into his cabochon and see the terror in the ex-legionnaire’s eyes—but he couldn’t do it. He shrugged. ‘As you wish.’ His brother’s approval shimmered across his mind.

  He picked up Favonius’s sword from the floor, weighed it in his hand. His gaze met Favonius’. And suddenly it wasn’t easy any more. To plunge a blade into a man’s chest and know he was going to die in pain.

  He hesitated.

  ‘You know what?’ Favonius drawled, smiling. ‘I am so glad I killed that Altani thrall. It will pain your numen bitch of a mother for the rest of her life—’

  Arrant drove the sword in as hard as his arm could force it. Favonius Kyranon fell at his feet, but it took a while for him to die. Arrant watched, and hated it. And wondered at the fleeting look of amusement he’d caught on the man’s face as he fell.

  I’ll never be a soldier, he said, sharing the thought with Tarran. And he should have been happy with the ca
bochon. I could have killed him instantly then, without pain.

  He forced himself to look one more time at Brand. He’d killed the Altani, too, as surely as if he’d been the one to throw the knife into his neck.

  I didn’t deserve to know him, he told Tarran.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Standing at the door, Arrant looked down at his charred and blood-spattered clothing. When he rubbed a hand over his head, pieces of burned hair crumbled under his fingers. Exposed skin was raw and weeping. He hadn’t thought about it, but his magic had already set the normal processes of healing underway, and lessened his pain.

  Why didn’t my power work as well as this earlier? None of this need have happened!

  He looked across at Ligea. He had to get help for her, and quickly. Her wound needed stitching. But it was possible Rathrox and Favonius had a lot more ex-legionnaires or compeers at their command and they could be arriving any minute, called by the man who had just left.

  Careful when you go outside, Tarran warned.

  He took a cloak from the hook near the door, flung it over his blackened clothing and let himself out into the street. He blinked, surprised to find himself under a midday sun. Somehow, he had thought more time had passed than that. Time enough to sunder his world.

  Brand is dead. An hour ago, he was walking these streets, just like anyone else. It didn’t seem right that it should still be the same day, that the sun should be shining, that other people should be laughing as they passed by.

  Gevenan’s here! The thought popped into his head without him even being aware that his positioning power was working. He turned, and saw the Ingean General striding towards him, his worry dominating the air like a coming storm. Further away, a contingent of guards blocked the roadway. They were led by Legate Valorian, his curls looking unusually tousled, his charm in abeyance. Telios and the Jackal who had rushed out of the house in such a hurry were now sullen-faced and stationary in the grip of several of the guards. Valorian had a tight grip on Telios’ ear and, by the look on the man’s face, his hold was painful.

  Arrant felt a rush of gratitude as Gevenan came up; the General would know what to do. And then gratitude slid into burning shame.

  ‘Arrant? Gods, lad, are you all right? Where’s your mother and Brand? Were we in the wrong house?’

  Arrant pointed to the door behind him. ‘In there,’ he said. Brand is dead. If I had done things differently, he’d be alive. He wanted to say the words aloud, but nothing came out. He wanted to say he was sorry, but how could you say sorry to the dead?

  Gevenan gestured to Valorian to bring up his soldiers, then turned back. ‘What happened to you? You look awful! You look as though someone decided that barbequed Magor meat should be on the dinner menu.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, astonished to hear how firm and normal his voice sounded. Brand was dead, and he’d caused it. There should be something different.

  ‘Are there any more Jackals in there?’

  ‘Not that I know of. You’d better check the roof, though. That’s the way they came in.’ So in command of himself. He could have been a soldier, reporting to his commander. A lie, all of that. He was a stupid child. A traitor.

  ‘Ah. That would explain why we couldn’t find you. We were beginning a house-to-house search. You’d best go and wait with those soldiers down there, the ones guarding those fellows, while we check the place out.’

  Arrant nodded, but once Gevenan and his men had entered the house, he walked away in the opposite direction, into the serpentine twists of the Snarls.

  Are you all right? Same question, but from Tarran this time.

  I don’t think I’ll ever be all right again. He was shaking inside and his fingers trembled, even when he kept his fists closed tight. Splinters of memory danced through his mind. Brand’s sightless eyes staring at nothing. His mother, risking everything for him. The way the blade had slipped into human flesh and the light had gone out of Favonius’ eyes because he, Arrant, had decreed it so.

  Arrant? Where are you going?

  Tarran’s puzzled touch in his mind was tentative. Guilt was not an emotion that bothered the Mirage Makers too much.

  He replied, Just…walking. I’m all right. And I think I want to be alone now.

  Arrant, you can’t blame yourself—

  He cut his brother short. Ah, but I do, Tarran. I do. Please, I need to be alone. I can’t face anyone who—anyone who knows. Not—not at the moment. Just go. He was too ashamed.

  Bewildered, hurt, Tarran withdrew.

  Arrant walked on at a steady pace, without any real aim, looking neither right nor left. He kept himself wrapped in the cloak; he avoided meeting the glances of those in the street; he wanted so desperately not to face anyone. How could he ever look his mother in the eye again?

  Mater, I’m sorry. I was jealous. I couldn’t let you be happy. And now I’ve taken it all away.

  If it had been possible, he would have torn all that had happened that day from his mind and cast it from him. He didn’t want to face it. It wasn’t bearable.

  Brand was dead. He’d been everything Ligea had said he was: an honourable, decent man who had loved her. Loved her enough to die for her, die gladly. Even past his last breath, he’d found the strength to tell her how worthy he felt she was of that death—to make a joke of his devotion.

  How can I live with what I have done? If he hadn’t been so jealous, this never would have happened. If only he had warded Rathrox, Brand wouldn’t have died.

  An hour later, he stood on the narrow arch of a bridge that crossed over the River Tyr. The water below was swift and dark, skeining out from the city sewers towards the sea in writhing cords. A little further downstream the river broadened into the port waterways and was lined with wharves and warehouses; here, however, there were only narrow stone buildings, their backsides jutting over the black water, their midden shutes stuck out of the walls in an untidy stinking row.

  I can’t endure this.

  Thoughts going round and round. The same thing, different angles, each glimpse as painful as the last. With his stupidity, he’d killed a man who hadn’t deserved to die. I can’t live with this. I can’t.

  He looked down at the water. He could jump and let it carry him out to sea until he was too tired to swim any more. There was no one around. It would be so easy…He’d heard that drowning was not such a bad death. So easy to do. He could just drift along out to the ocean. Drift into death, and peace. The water slid past so fast, the tide must have been on the ebb; he’d be out to sea in no time. With nothing to worry him.

  And Tarran will have nowhere to go. Nowhere safe from the Ravage. And Ligea will grieve. How could he add to the pain she would have to face when she woke?

  He clutched at the stone balustrade of the bridge, wanting to weep, but had no tears. He must bear the unbearable, because he was needed, because he had a brother and a mother. He couldn’t erase one error by committing another.

  Tarran, oh Tarran, I was wrong—I do need you.

  His brother came immediately, as if he’d been waiting, and enfolded Arrant in the embrace of his mind.

  Arrant felt Tarran’s flicker of horror when he realised what Arrant had been contemplating. Yet his brother didn’t try to speak. There was no way he would ever understand why Arrant had been about to jump off the bridge, but he did know what was needed: unquestioning love. And he gave it willingly.

  Arrant wasn’t sure how long he stood there with Tarran in his mind, but at last he said, I’m all right now, Tarran. I’m not going to do anything silly, I promise you. I might be able to do it to myself, but I couldn’t do it to you.

  He felt his brother’s relief. I’m glad. I couldn’t do without you, not really, you log-headed lump of a human. There’s too much of this piss-weak humanness in me still. I’d—I’d go mad with the Ravage pain if I couldn’t come to you sometimes. Quite apart from that, I, um, I happen to like your company. Arrant, you’re as odd as a shleth’s hairy backs
ide but…I like to have you around, you know.

  ‘Yeah. I know.’

  It’s—it’s more than that even. Arrant, I need you. We—we may not have much longer. Come home.

  He was appalled and tried not to show it. ‘What—what do you mean?’ He choked. How could he go on if Tarran was gone? ‘Gods, Tarran, I will do anything to help!’

  Just come home.

  ‘You mean Kardiastan?’

  Yes. Maybe—maybe, if you came, you could think of something…some way to help us. And then, with an apologetic farewell, he was gone again, pulled into the troubles of the rest of his being.

  Arrant didn’t move. Without Tarran, he felt cold. He didn’t know where to go. How could he face his mother? Or Gevenan? Or Narjemah? How can I face myself?

  So he just stayed there, looking down at the water. Going over and over what had happened, as if he could change anything just by wanting it so. Weaving back the gall in his middle into that tight, hard lump with its impenetrable skin. Reducing pain down to something that was manageable, that didn’t stop his breathing in his throat…

  And after a while he became aware that he was no longer alone.

  Several people had crossed the bridge since he’d come here, but they hadn’t given him more than a curious look and he’d hardly noticed their passing. This time someone stayed. He glanced up to see a man standing a few paces away, a pack hefted on his shoulder. Shocked, Arrant stared, thoughts jostling. The man was Kardi. He was even dressed Kardi-style, with no concessions to Tyranian fashion. About thirty years old, or a little more, a strikingly handsome man, almost femininely beautiful. A finely featured face, and a lithe, athletic body, although he was short. A head for a sculptor to model, was Arrant’s stray thought. And then: Brand’s dead, and I’m thinking about sculptures? What kind of person am I?

  The man spoke first, his words an echo to Arrant’s thoughts. ‘It’s strange, isn’t it,’ he remarked, ‘how the world goes on, even when you think yours has come to an end.’ He held up his left hand and showed him the cabochon there.