Song of the Shiver Barrens Page 2

  When he stowed his tools in his shed in the dying light of dusk, his wife came out to join him, winding her hands nervously into the skirting of her anoudain. ‘I’ve never seen a sky like this before,’ she said. ‘And there’s a smell in the air that I mislike. What is happening, Rugar?’

  He put his arm about her and shepherded her back towards the house. ‘That’s the stink of the Ravage,’ he said with certainty, though he had never smelled it before.

  ‘Then ought not someone ride to tell the Magor?’

  ‘It’s only a smell and a dust cloud. We’ll tell the administrator, next time he comes through. It’s not our worry and I have better things to do than borrow a shleth and spend days on the road just to tell a Magor something they probably know about already. Now, what’s for supper, lass? That’s all I’m dwelling on at the moment!’ He patted her rump as they entered the kitchen, and she laughed.

  The wind whined around the house all night long, but the morning dawned silent and still under a blue sky, although the smell lingered on until midday. Everything was covered in fine reddish dust. Rugar trickled a fistful through his fingers, and wondered. He’d seen sixty desert-seasons come and go in his lifetime, and he’d never seen a dust storm like this one before.

  ‘Nothing good will come of this,’ he thought and, although he wasn’t a fanciful man, the hair stood up on the backs of his arms.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The blast of the afternoon sun outside the unshuttered windows of the Mirager’s Pavilion was intense, bleaching the light-drenched adobe, yet deepening the vividness of shaded walls. The heart’s-bruise flowers in the garden were a splash of bright blood in the shade and a flock of noisy keyet parrots flickered their vibrant wings and breast flashes at one another as they quarrelled under the vine leaves.

  Protected by outer walls of mud-brick an arm’s length thick, the Mirager’s private quarters were cooler and quieter than the gardens. Sounds from the other five pavilions scarcely penetrated the shimmers of heat and the thickness of the walls; shouts and laughter from students in the practice yard of the nearby Magoroth Academy seemed distant.

  ‘Is it my imagination,’ Magori-temellin asked his guest, ‘or is the weather hotter these days than it used to be?’ He handed a mug of orange juice to Magori-korden, and then poured another for himself. ‘Or is it just that I feel the heat more in my old age?’

  The older man laughed. Temellin was only forty-two, hardly old by anyone’s standards, particularly not that of a Magoroth. Magor power ensured good health well into their longevity. ‘Everyone is complaining,’ Korden said. ‘It is the wind from the northwest. It seems relentless these days, like a blast from the Assorians’ Hades.’

  ‘From the Mirage?’ Temellin knew his look was as bleak as the reply.

  ‘Well, from that direction, yes. Coincidence, surely.’

  ‘It feels wrong. Evil. I think I’ve sensed the Ravage in it these past few years.’

  Korden was dismissive. ‘Are you becoming fanciful in your decrepitude? Even if there is a whiff of Ravage decay, it means nothing. The Ravage sores cannot leave the Mirage, and the Ravage beasts cannot leave the Ravage sores. Let the Mirage Makers deal with it. They never wanted us there anyway, and now they have it to themselves, sores and all. Besides, is not that why your only legitimate child was gifted by Ligea to the Mirage Makers? To make them strong enough to resist the sores that eat away at their Mirage? Or so you said. If that was true, then let that child achieve his destiny.’

  Temellin frowned. Korden had once termed Pinar’s death murder, and called Sarana a Tyranian traitor for having a hand in her death. Even all these years later, Temellin felt the thread of dislike that wound through Korden’s words, made even more obvious by his petty refusal to call her by her rightful name. Korden had not forgiven Sarana, and never would. Even his mention of legitimacy was aimed at reminding Temellin that Arrant would never have been Mirager-heir if his other child, Pinar’s son, had been born.

  ‘Or is it you who doubts now?’ Korden persisted. ‘Perhaps you have had second thoughts as to whether Pinar’s murder was justified.’

  Temellin curbed his anger only with difficulty. ‘Sarana acted in self-defence, and Pinar’s actions caused her own death, as was explained to you at the time. Sarana saved my son the only way she knew how.’ All true, but Temellin hated the doubt he felt, not about how his wife and son had died, but about whether that son he had never known could do anything to help the Mirage Makers. How could an unborn human child help vanquish the Ravage? ‘I wish I could believe in that,’ he thought. ‘I wish my son could know that his life as a Mirage Maker means something.’

  Yet now, now he could smell—no, not smell. He could sense the stench of rot on the wind. It touched his fears with the cold of bleak memories. Ravage pools corroding the bright beauty of the Mirage…

  Korden sipped his drink without looking at him. ‘But that is not the reason I came to see you. I wished to inform you of some news I have just received from Tyr.’

  Temellin’s face went blank as he curled his feelings deep inside, protecting them from scrutiny like a bud closing to avoid the trespass of frost. ‘Tyr?’ Korden had been in communication with someone from Tyr? ‘There’s not bad news, is there?’

  ‘Well, you will not deem any of it pleasant. However, it is disturbing, rather than catastrophic. Arrant is unharmed; do not fret. In fact, my correspondent tells me that Garis was readying for his departure with the lad. They will be on their way by now, I dare say.’

  Temellin, maintaining a bland expression only with effort, thought irritably, ‘Damn the man. He’s playing some sort of game here. I wish he would just say something outright for once, in plain language.’ Knowing Korden wasn’t about to change, he attempted to curb his impatience and said with a calm he did not feel, ‘So the disturbing part is—?’

  ‘Doubtless you know that Brand is—or was—the Altani plenipotentiary to Tyr? Well, it appears that he has been sharing Ligea’s quarters in the palace, and presumably her bed, for some time. They even travelled to the interior together. Quite the imperial scandal of Tyrans, I understand.’

  Temellin sat rigidly still, his face a blank mask. ‘Yes, I knew he was there. Sarana told me. And as far as I am aware,’ he added quietly, ‘such liaisons do not worry Tyranians overmuch. I am not sure why it should worry you, either.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t. It seems to have been of considerable concern to your son, though. Perhaps not to be wondered at? Unfortunately, he did not display any great maturity in the matter. He became jealous and betrayed Brand to Favonius Kyranon. You will doubtless recall the name—the leader of the Stalwart invasion of Kardiastan? Another lover of Ligea’s once, so I understand.’

  ‘Her name is Sarana. Miragerin-sarana. Never use that tone of voice when you speak of her. Even if nothing else is of consequence to you, she is your cousin.’

  The ice of Temellin’s tone did not faze Korden. ‘All right. Sarana. Of course. Anyway, here is what I was told. Favonius used Arrant’s information to seize Brand, who then became the bait to trap Ligea. Er, sorry, Sarana. In the rescue attempt, Brand was killed. So was the ex-Magister and head of the Brotherhood, Sarana’s former puppetmaster, Rathrox Ligatan. He was behind the whole plot, it seems. Sarana was badly injured, although my informant said she would recover. Arrant did not conduct himself with even minimal distinction throughout the affair.’

  Temellin’s thoughts churned. ‘Mirageless soul, Sarana…are you safe? And sands blast you, Garis, why have you sent no word of this to me?’ He placed his mug down on a table with a steady hand, but his voice, when he trusted himself to speak, was as harsh as a knife on a grinding stone. ‘And you just happened by all this information how?’

  ‘Let’s say I regard it as my duty to be informed about the lad who is destined to be our Mirager-heir.’

  ‘He already is the Mirager-heir, Korden. As well you know.’

  ‘Of course. I meant destined to be Mirager-heir
as confirmed by Magoroth Council, rather than just Mirager-heir by birth and his father’s wish.’

  ‘An overly fine distinction at this point in time. Arrant is only thirteen.’ Tradition decreed Council confirmation took place when the heir was sixteen. ‘It seems you’ve been spying on my son.’

  ‘Nonsense. I have friends in Tyr, merely.’

  ‘There are several gaps in that story that don’t seem to make much sense.’ Temellin cocked his head to one side, meeting Korden’s gaze with a hard stare. ‘I am beginning to wonder whether I know you any more, Korden. I always thought you were loyal. A man of honour. You have been invaluable as an adviser to me over the years, for which I am deeply grateful. But I am the Mirager, and my position demands respect and a measure of loyalty.’

  ‘I am loyal. But my honour will not allow me to see an incompetent Magori—any incompetent Magori—be officially named Mirager-heir by Council. Surely that is understandable. I have heard the lad is without control of his Magor skills, that during the war he slaughtered men on his own side by accident. How can he possibly give our newborn Magor their cabochons if he cannot control his power? This nation cannot afford another disastrous Mirager such as Arrant’s grandfather, Mirager-solad.’

  Every muscle in Temellin’s face went tight. ‘You would compare him with a traitor like Solad?’ He allowed Korden to feel his fury. ‘A harsh judgement of someone you have not even met.’

  ‘Perhaps. But by all accounts he has displayed considerable power which he cannot manage with even a modicum of skill. He could be a danger to any of us, especially if he still does not possess the, um, acumen a lad of his age should have. Skies above, the boy trusted the man who was once Legate of the Jackal Legion! Nonetheless, I am willing to delay any kind of public pronouncement until I do make his acquaintance.’

  ‘Generous of you.’ Temellin paused and considered. If he failed to control his temper now, he would be the loser. With all the cold calm he could muster, he said, ‘However, you have been misinformed. Yes, Arrant is a more powerful Magoroth than any one of us, even without his sword. He blasted a hole through the walls of Tyr when he was nine. I certainly could not have done that at such an age, especially without the aid of a Magor sword. Just as certainly, it will take a degree of maturity and experience for him to harness such Magor strength. We do know that on occasion he can already wield his power properly, because Sarana has tested him.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  Temellin thought, ‘Not quite a lie, but close,’ and continued aloud, ‘We Magor fought long and hard to rule this land. I will not relinquish it on my death to an heir who cannot keep it safe, even if he is my own son. You insult me even to suggest that I would be so irresponsible.’

  Korden was taken aback. ‘I—er, it was not my intention to insult you.’

  ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. As you can imagine, it’s my fervent hope that there is no great hurry for any decision in this matter. I have no intention of dying yet a while, and we have two and a half years after Arrant arrives to train him before his confirmation at sixteen.’

  ‘He shall have that respite, of course.’

  Temellin caught the truth of that and breathed a little easier, blessing the Magor ability to hear a lie. He inclined his head in acknowledgement of Korden’s promise.

  ‘We both want only the best for Kardiastan, yet you can also be a sentimental fool at times, Temel. We have reason to know that.’

  Temellin knew that was a snide comment on his love for Sarana, but Korden, downing the last of his orange juice, gave him no chance to retort. He stood, saying, ‘I must take my leave of you. I promised Lesgath I would watch his training session. That youngest son of mine is progressing admirably.’

  The smile Temellin gave as Korden left was forced. Alone again, he flopped back into his chair, with a sigh that was almost a growl in the back of his throat.

  From the doorway on the other side of the room, another voice interrupted his descent into open irritation and desperate worry. ‘The bastard. He’s about as subtle as a Sandmurram serpent.’

  Temellin turned, suppressing another sigh. ‘Hellesia, you shouldn’t listen at doors, you know. Korden must have known you were there. I certainly did.’

  The woman who entered the room carrying a tray with another jug of juice shrugged carelessly, saying, ‘Course he knew. Chided me about it last time he was here. I blamed it on my slave mentality. Was a time when we had to listen because we could be killed if we didn’t anticipate our master’s wishes, every damn one of them. Everyone knows ex-slaves find it hard to change their habits, particularly one as ingrained in us as that.’

  Temellin shook his head in rueful appreciation. ‘Slave mentality? Is that what you call your devious nature?’

  Once named the most beautiful girl in Madrinya, Hellesia had carried the same serene loveliness that graced her youth into her maturity. Now in her mid-thirties, she did not regard her looks as a blessing, however, but a curse. Much of the horror in her past life had been precipitated by the beauty of her face and the curves of her figure. As a consequence, she drew her hair back into a severe knot at her nape, used no powder, eschewed perfumes, and did her best to appear unattractive. She was not entirely successful.

  She laid the tray down on the table. ‘I was bringing in some more juice, but once I heard what he was saying, I decided my presence would not be appropriate. Dangerous man as well as an arrogant one, Tem: a friend who thinks he knows what is good for you. Why don’t you plant your sandalled foot in his superior backside and tell him not to come back?’

  He wondered how to explain it to her; she was not Magor and her history was not his. ‘Try to imagine what it was like, Hellesia. Ten Magoroth children, destined to be rulers, but whisked away from home to live in the Mirage with all its strangeness. I was five when we were told that we were the only Magoroth left alive in the world—that our families had been slaughtered.

  ‘Korden was the oldest, the one with the best memory of the life and the families we had lost. I was the Mirager, true—but what does that mean when your country is ruled by invaders? And yes, we did have Illusos and Theuros teachers, but Korden was the one who took on the responsibility of our Magoroth legacy, who became a mentor to the rest of us.

  ‘Picture it, if you can. Orphaned children struggling to be strong when their whole world was gone. A five-year-old Mirager looking up to his ten-year-old cousin. Then ten years old, to Korden’s fifteen. Fifteen to his twenty. He was my guide, my teacher, my rock. How can I turn on him now because he questions the suitability of my son to rule after me? In the end, he might be right. And I don’t believe he wants to be Mirager-heir, even though he is next in line after Arrant. Even though I know he has always been jealous of me. How could he not be? He knew more than I did, he was the oldest, yet an accident of birth decreed that I was Mirager. Worse still for him when he found out that Sarana was alive and she had more right to be Mirager than either of us.’

  ‘And you don’t think a jealous man can also be treacherous?’

  ‘In Korden’s case? Never! He struggles with his jealousy all the time, but his sense of honour won’t let him give in to it. Besides, he can’t lie to me, you know. When he says he doesn’t want to be Mirager-heir, I can feel his honesty; to me, it’s as real as the smell of the blossom in the garden.’

  ‘A handy skill, that. The one I most envy in you Magor, I think.’ She came to stand behind him, placing her hands on his shoulders. Gently she started to massage away the tension in his neck and back. ‘Perhaps Korden is as loyal as he can be, as you say. Places the best interests of his own brats over the offspring of any of his friends, though; you ought not forget that. And his love for his family blinds him to their faults. Lesgath? Korden’s youngest son is no flashing blade in the practice yard! And that eldest hunk of his? Korden wants to see Firgan supplant your Arrant? Not a good man. Not a good human being.’

  Temellin closed his eyes, leaning back to enjoy the
skill of her fingers as she teased away the knots. ‘Firgan? He fought brilliantly during the war, and with great courage. We owe the Rift victories to his leadership.’

  ‘Fine soldier does not always mean fine man, you know that well enough. Fact is, he’s a nasty piece of handsome sculpture. Admit it.’

  He shrugged, refusing to commit himself even though he knew what she said was true.

  ‘People with mean souls treat a paid servant like me the same way the Tyranians treated their slaves. Beneath notice. And his soul is beyond mean, Tem. Beware.’ She paused, then continued. ‘Charismatic, though, I’ll give him that. Has a following both among the Magor and the non-Magor who served in the army. A fighting-man’s man. Dangerous. Bold. Treacherous.’

  Temellin leaned back in his chair, impressed. Hellesia was unsettlingly astute. Firgan had hinted often enough that it was time Kardiastan expanded beyond its borders, and that in order to ensure future prosperity, they should step into the gaps left by the disintegration of the Exaltarchy. The man enjoyed war and the only thing that had held him back so far was that his following was small. Most Magor had tired of fighting.

  ‘And Korden’s other children?’ he asked.

  ‘I hear the next one, can’t remember her name now, has considerable Magoroth skills and a sweeter nature. Unfortunately, totally without ambition, uninterested in anything beyond her growing family. I think she has five children, last count.’

  ‘Her lack of ambition is a disappointment to Korden,’ he agreed.

  ‘Can’t be much more than twenty-six years old, silly girl. There’s a bunch of others after her who I don’t know. All wed, living in other towns. Then there’s the twins, Ryval and Myssa. Loathe one another, so the servants say, yet don’t seem to be able to live apart. Lovers since they were thirteen or so in spite of their antipathy. I know you Magor favour sibling relationships, but that particular one seems a bit twisted to me. After them comes Elvena—she must be about seventeen now. Totally preoccupied with her beautiful self. Her mother encourages her self-obsession. Then Lesgath. Youngest of the lot is another girl, Serenelle. She promises well, I think. Bright. The servants like her anyway.