Song of the Shiver Barrens Read online

  In fond memory of my father Harold Larke

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Dedication

  Maps

  Part One Fathers, Sons And Daughters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two Brothers And Enemies

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Part Three Friends, Foes And Lovers

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Books by Glenda Larke

  Voyager Online

  Copyright

  About The Publisher

  Maps

  PART ONE

  FATHERS, SONS AND DAUGHTERS

  CHAPTER ONE

  Wind gusted and obliterated the whisper, but not before it was overheard. Ligea Gayed may not have seen the man standing behind her rolling his eyes, but she felt his exasperation. ‘It’s true,’ she repeated without turning around. ‘I was the worst mother in the world.’

  From where she stood on one of the two towers that guarded the river, she could see upstream to the walls and domes and columns of Tyr, aglow in the morning sun. The most beautiful city in the world, many said. There, along the riverbanks to her right, were the tiered seats of the Desert-Season Theatre, and the villa on Senators’ Row where she had been raised by a Tyranian general. You could no longer find a statue or a plaque or a tomb that commemorated his life anywhere in the whole of Tyrans. Petty revenge perhaps, but she’d do it again.

  The wind tugged the flaps of her skirting into streamers, whipping them over her head. Impatiently she thrust them away from her face, regretting that she’d thought it fitting that morning to wear the anoudain of the Kardi people, with its soft slit overskirt and loose trousers. She’d chosen it because this was the day she farewelled the heir to the Mirager of Kardiastan, on his way to take up his place at his father’s side.

  Arrant, her son.

  Behind her, General Gevenan could hold in his acerbity no longer. ‘Are you flipping pickled? You raise a lad as fine as Arrant Temellin, and you think you did a shleth-brained job? He’s proof of his upbringing, you moondaft woman.’

  She was silent. No point in enumerating all the ways she had failed Arrant, starting from the damage she had done to his Magor potential by overusing her power while he was still in her womb. Water through the aqueduct. You couldn’t bring it back again.

  But Gevenan wasn’t finished. He came to stand beside her, saying, And I’ll be cursed if I see why we are shivering here in a blasted cold seawind without our cloaks, just to wave goodbye, when you already said farewell to the lad this morning.’

  ‘A little breeze upsets the joints these days, does it?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I want to see his ship sail out.’

  ‘Sentimental mush! And this from a woman who once led an army and slit the throat of her predecessor?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’ve earned the right to a little sentimentality. Ah, there they are, see?’ Four biremes stroked their way down the centre of the river on the outgoing tide. She was sending her son to his father with an escort from the Tyranian navy, in style and comfort. Not the way she had first gone to Kardiastan, aboard a coastal ship laden with marble.

  So long ago. And she’d known so little. ‘He’s only thirteen,’ she murmured.

  ‘Mature for his age. One of the most talented riders I’ve ever seen, bar none. Good with a sword: he’s been well taught, after all,’ he added smugly. He’d had a lot to do with that. ‘True, he’s just suffered a hard lesson about being too trusting, but he’ll be better able to judge a man as a result. He’s a tad, um, learned for my taste perhaps, but he’ll get over that. He took responsibility for Brand’s death and faced his mistake like a man. It’s a fine lad you have there, on that ship.’

  ‘I know. But his command over his power is unpredictable, and that is what is going to count in Kardiastan. He can be dangerous, Gev. People won’t like that. And we both know what his Magor magic is capable of when it’s out of control.’

  ‘Am I likely to forget?’ He repressed a shudder at the memory of the carnage outside the North Gate the day Arrant’s power had killed both Tyranian and rebel soldiers. ‘But, Ligea, what does it matter now? Kardiastan is at peace; no one needs Magor power to rule. His cabochon can remain a pretty yellow rock in his palm, unused.’

  She shook her head. ‘I wish you were right. But in Magor society, there’s more involved.’

  He raised a querying eyebrow, his interest pungent to her senses as it drifted about him.

  ‘It’s a Magor secret, Gev. Let’s just say that it’s the Mirager’s power that ensures a new generation of Magor. How can Arrant follow in his father’s footsteps if he can’t control his power enough to do that? And if Kardiastan doesn’t have the Magor, they will be at the mercy of every invader and barbarian who eyes their land.’

  ‘Ah. Well, does he have to be Mirager then? Let someone else be Temellin’s heir. Being a ruler is a rotten job for a man of sense.’ He ran a hand over his greying hair. ‘Although I’ll admit I’d feel happier if he took the Mirager’s seat at some future point. I don’t want Tyrans to fall to some magic-making neighbour intent on conquest.’

  ‘It is the Magor who make the policy in Kardiastan, and the Magor don’t behave that way.’ Largely due to the restrictions the Mirage Makers placed on their behaviour, but she wasn’t about to explain that.

  He snorted. ‘Power corrodes eventually, Ligea. Not everybody perhaps, but someone, sometime. Anyway, right now we need to catch the whispers about what’s happening here in Tyr. With Rathrox Ligatan and Favonius dead, we have to make sure no one else steps into the vacancy. Because believe me, that’s what happens when greedy men seek power. They look for holes they can exploit.’

  ‘Watch the Lucii then,’ she said. ‘I don’t trust Devros. He has always had the ambition to place his well-padded posterior on the Exaltarch’s seat.’ As she spoke, her gaze did not leave the approaching ships. The banner fluttering from the mast of the second ship told her it was the vessel that bore Arrant. She could make out figures on deck, but they were too small to recognise, so she raised her left hand and bathed her eyes in the glow of her cabochon magic. With her sight enhanced, she saw Arrant was in the bow, leaning against the railing, while Garis, who had come to Tyr to accompany him to Kardiastan, was aft, talking to the helmsman.

  ‘Devros? I never take my eyes off the arrogant bastard,’ Gevenan said. ‘He makes me want to puke.’

  She frowned unhappily. ‘I want to leave Tyrans, Gev. I want to go home.’ Ah, the irony of that. She had spent less than half a year of her adult life in Kardiastan; half the Magor thought her more Tyranian than Kardi and therefore not to be trusted; and most of the rest would never f
orgive her because they blamed her for the death of Temellin’s wife. Bemused by the oddity of her own sentiment, she thought, ‘Yet I still feel it is where I belong. Where I want to be.’ Aloud she said, ‘I want the Senate and the Advisory Council ruling this land wisely so I can walk away.’

  ‘Go,’ Gevenan said. ‘Leave the Senate and Legate Valorian and me to manage as best we can. I won’t be around forever, but Valorian is young and he’s a good soldier. Make a fine general one day, even if he does insist on curling his hair and bedding every pretty athlete in the city. You could even call in those ships down there, right now, and take passage to Sandmurram with them.’

  ‘Don’t tempt me, you Ingean devil. If I were to do that, and a man like Devros became Exaltarch, fear of the Magor would drive him to find ways to bring Kardiastan down. He and his supporters already talk of controlling all trade across the Sea of Iss using a Tyranian navy, and it’s the ruination of Kardiastan they have in mind. Besides, they would reinstate slavery here in Tyrans.’ And to allow that to happen would be a betrayal of Brand…

  But she wanted to go home so badly. Temellin was there; that was reason enough, and soon there would be another: Arrant. She focused on his face. Serious, too serious for one of his age. Burdened by the deaths he had caused. Burdened already by the responsibilities soon to be his. He was looking directly over the prow of the ship as it approached the booms, unaware of her presence on the tower. He didn’t look her way, yet he should have; he should have sensed her. In the stern, Garis had raised his head to gaze in her direction and lifted a hand in greeting and farewell, but nothing in Arrant’s demeanour hinted that he knew she watched. She fidgeted, unsettled.

  He was going to a home he had never known, to a father he barely knew, to become heir to a position he might never be able to fill. His control over his power was incomplete, and on occasion that power had revealed itself to be as destructive as a winter sea gale. And there would be so many who would not welcome his coming because he was the son of Sarana Solad, Miragerin of Kardiastan, who had become Ligea, Exaltarch of Tyr.

  ‘Gods,’ she wondered, ‘what kind of legacy have we left for your future, Arrant?’

  Arrant fixed his gaze on the sea ahead of them as they rowed through the booms. The River Tyr broadened beyond into the estuary and hence to the Sea of Iss. He didn’t glance at the towers on either side, and he refused to look back.

  That life was gone, done with. He had to put it behind him, all of it. Even the good things. Like studying in the public library. The luxury of the palace baths. The classes with the Academy scholars. Geometry lessons with old Lepidus. He regretted that; he loved the certainty of mathematics and the shapes it suggested to him. When he looked at buildings now, he saw language in the angles of their structure…Did they have mathematicians in Madrinya? He had never asked.

  ‘Don’t think about that, you fool,’ he told himself. Don’t look back at Tyr, at the elegance of the temple columns and the beauty of the caryatids, at the Desert-Season Theatre, at the villas on the hillsides, at the domes of the palace where his mother was right then. ‘It’s gone, that life is past. You are going to Kardiastan to be Mirager-heir.

  ‘And don’t think about the bad things either. Brand dying because you were a jealous fool. All those soldiers dying because you couldn’t control your power. From now on, you look forward, not back. Ever.’

  He kept his gaze fixed on the open sea, the churning in his stomach a mixture of excitement and anxiety. He was going to his father. Magori-temellin, the Mirager of Kardiastan, liberator, hero, whose other son was one of the Mirage Makers. He’d met his father only once, and his memories of the month they had spent together in Ordensa when he was five were mixed. Childish things, much of them—building sand forts on the beach, playing with the cat, learning to swim. And memories of a man, a tall, brown laughing man with strong arms, carrying him on his shoulders.

  And then that awful night when the Ravage had come, choking his dreams with their threat and their gleeful promise of horrible death. He had wanted his father to save him. He had run to find him. Instead he had heard Temellin say to Ligea, ‘I don’t want him.’ Even now he could hear the sound of that voice, the chill of those words.

  Temellin hadn’t wanted him. It still hurt, all these years later. Perhaps Ligea had told Temellin about his son’s inability to manage his power, and that was why Temellin uttered the rejection—a Mirager uninterested in a son who wasn’t a proper Magori, for all that his cabochon was gold.

  Sweet Elysium, how could he make his father proud of him if he couldn’t call on his power when he needed it, if he couldn’t control it when it did come? How could he ever be Mirager after Temellin? ‘Who,’ he asked himself, ‘would want a Mirager like me?’

  He heaved in a calming breath. He had to stop feeling sorry for himself. He had to learn the knack of cabochon control. He would practise until he was exhausted, if that was what it took. He would study hard. And he would be careful. He would never try to use his power when he was by himself, just in case he hurt someone. He would never lose his temper or give in to his fear, because those were things that might make him lose control. And he would show Temellin that he could be a true Magori, a proper Mirager-heir. ‘I have to make him proud of me,’ he thought. ‘I’ll do it, I swear I will.’

  Besides, he had to be strong to help Tarran. Tarran depended on him, spending as much time as he could within the sanctuary of Arrant’s mind to keep himself sane. Oh, brother, he said, not knowing if Tarran would hear, I’d do anything to make it easier for you. It could so easily have been Ligea who died in place of your mother, and me who became the Mirage Maker.

  ‘Deep thoughts?’

  He jumped, and then cursed inwardly. He ought to have felt Garis’s approach; instead he had been startled. ‘Yes. I—I have a lot to think about. Magori, can I ask you something about the Mirage and the Mirage Makers?’

  ‘Of course. But don’t call me Magori. It makes me feel far too old.’

  ‘But you are. Oh, er, I mean, well—older than me, anyway.’

  Garis gave an audible sigh. ‘Why is it the young always think of any adult as being in their dotage? My daughter thinks I’m ancient enough to have been birthed before the standing stones were erected. I am ten years younger than your mother, in fact. So, drop the Magori and call me Garis.’ He grinned amiably and Arrant smiled back. ‘Now, what exactly do you want to know? How much did Sarana tell you?’

  ‘Well, she said the Mirage Makers have become weaker over the centuries. She told me they created the Mirage, but then saw it eroded away by the Ravage sores. And that they hoped—believed—that the advent of a new Mirage Maker, a human embryo, would make them strong enough to resist. But it hasn’t worked. Every year, a little more of the Mirage disappears as the sores grow larger.’

  Garis gave a quick frown. ‘Well, we haven’t been to the Mirage lately, you know. We left once Kardiastan was free of Tyrans. That was, what, six years ago? So we don’t really know what has happened since. We assume that things have got better—or will get better as Pinar’s son grows up.’

  Arrant shook his head. ‘It hasn’t got better.’ The Mirage Makers had suffered more as Tarran grew older, not less, but they didn’t know why. Maybe they had just made a wild guess at what would help, and had been mistaken. What was it Tarran had said? I need you. We may not have much longer. Come home. Maybe, if you came, you could think of some way to help us.

  Garis was staring at him, puzzled. ‘How would you know it hasn’t got better?’

  Arrant reddened. ‘Er, well, it’s more likely it hasn’t.’ He wasn’t going to talk to Garis about Tarran. The Mirager, not Garis, should be the first to learn about the connection between his two sons.

  ‘We have no reason to think anything is amiss,’ Garis said.

  ‘But you don’t know that.’

  ‘No. Not for sure.’

  Tarran was suffering, and no one even knew about it? ‘Don’t you think someone sh
ould go and find out?’ he asked acidly.

  His vehemence startled Garis. ‘Arrant, we have all sworn to uphold the Covenant between the Magor and the Mirage Makers. You will soon, too, at a special ceremony. And that Covenant states that the Magor leave the area beyond the Shiver Barrens to the Mirage Makers. In return they give us our Magor swords, including the Mirager’s sword which makes our cabochons. But you know all this, surely. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

  ‘Of course she did. But the Mirage Makers made an exception when the Magor were in trouble. They allowed you to live in the Mirage to keep you safe from the Tyranian legions. Don’t you think it would be a good idea to check if they are in trouble now, and need our help?’

  ‘We don’t break the Covenant lightly. Besides, if they needed our help, I’m sure they would have asked for it. They speak to each young Magoroth who comes to them to collect his sword, after all. But perhaps you had better talk to your father about all this.’

  ‘I will.’

  Garis gave a sudden laugh, but sounded more approving than amused. ‘Let’s hope it’s not too long before your mother follows us to Kardiastan,’ he said, and turned to take one last look at Tyr.

  Arrant glanced behind to where the two towers guarding the river were now hard to see beyond the shimmering glare from the water. ‘I wonder if I’ll ever come back,’ he said, and hoped he never would.

  On the same day that Arrant left for Kardiastan, in a vale a thousand miles from Tyr, a farmer looked up from his fields and worried. A long low bank of maroon cloud hemmed the sky beyond the rake that bordered his valley.

  He watched it uneasily throughout the morning as he tilled his melon patch. Any cloud was a rare sight in a land where it never rained, where water came from under the ground, not wastefully falling from above, but he knew enough to understand this was not a rain cloud. Rain would never colour the sky this shade of bruised purple-red. Even as he watched, the blue began to disappear, devoured by the advancing billows. Soft warm breezes blowing from beyond the rake intensified to become vicious hot winds that scorched his skin as the day passed.