Song Of The Shiver Barrens

Book 0: Mirage Makers

by Glenda Larke

Genres: Fantasy

Synopsis

Ligea's son, Arrant, leaves Tyrans for Kardiastan to take his place as Mirager-heir, while Ligea prepares to halt an insurrection. But Arrant's skills as a Magoroth are dangerously inconsistent, and his father, Temellin, finds it difficult to communicate with this secretive young man he barely knows. Arrant's singular ability to communicate with his half-brother, Tarran - a part of the collective mind known as the Mirage Makers - leads them both towards the possibility of a tragic clash with the encroaching Ravage. As Arrant's enemies among the Magoroth plot to ruin his family and his future as heir, he begins to realise there is a greater mystery to solve if he is to prevail.

Release date: December 8, 2011

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 576

Sample

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 forgive 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 should 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.


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.


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 su