by Melanie Rawn
“Thank you, they’re beautiful. But what are you doing here? I thought you were visiting at Longriding until Ilsevet’s.” Sarra buried her nose in the flowers and inhaled. “How does she get them to smell like blueberries? And how did you know about—?”
“Mage Guardians are by and large admirable people, but they’re also the most prolific gossips on Lenfell.” He dragged a chair over to the bed, sat down, and said, “Now, since you’re looking perfectly well and lovelier than ever, what do you have planned for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?”
“Don’t tell me you forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
“Your adoring husband’s Birthingday, of course.” Telomir shook his head sadly. “Women are such unsentimental creatures. It’s always up to men to remember important occasions. If it weren’t for us, you’d forget your own Birthingdays.”
“Especially when we reach an age where we don’t wish to be reminded,” Sarra retorted. “At which point, a man’s so-called thoughtfulness becomes suspect. I don’t have anything planned, and Collan doesn’t expect—”
“Sweet Saints, of course he does! But don’t worry about a thing, I’ve got it all planned.”
And as much as they begged, bullied, and finally commanded him to tell, he said not a word more about it. Instead, he rattled on about the weather, the Ostins, the Maurgens, and any number of other chatty topics, proving the truth about gossipy Mages. Sarra kept up the conversation instinctively, adept in the social nothings required of high position. Cailet veered between envy of her skills and gratitude for the chance to observe them. She kept hoping that maybe one day she’d learn how to do this herself.
Half an hour later, Elomar came in, declared Sarra to be tired, and evicted her visitors. Outside in the corridor, Telomir dropped his cheery demeanor and addressed Cailet seriously.
“Will she be all right?”
“Yes. Get the details from Elo, I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
“I understand. Come, I’ll walk you back to your rooms and we can have a private talk.”
“Will it take long? I have a lot of things to do before I leave—”
“Learn to be gracious, Captal,” he murmured. “Especially when there are others around who might hear—like those people over there. Besides, we should be seen talking in public.”
“A minute ago it was privacy you wanted. Make up your mind, Telo.”
“Very well. The truth of the matter is that we must speak in private about something public, but must be seen talking in public, although what I have to say is strictly private.”
And to think she’d recently accused Sarra of talking in circles. “Shall I look curious, worried, amused, or bored?”
“That’s the spirit. Interested but not concerned.”
Cailet assumed what she hoped was an appropriate expression. They walked through the corridors conversing in quiet tones about exactly nothing, while those they passed nodded greetings. Reaching the official quarters of the Council, their progress slowed as the hallways grew more populous. Bureaucrats hurried from one appointment to the next; couriers moved even faster across slick marble or wood floors, adroitly dodging any and all obstacles to the swift delivery of messages. Few took their time getting where they were bound, and these were all Important, at least in their own estimations. Councillors, several members of the Assembly, a Minister or two—they strolled and dawdled, admiring artworks and tapestries and the views out the windows, chatted with each other or the aides accompanying them. But of all the people moving through Ryka Court, not one failed to nod or bow to the Mage Captal. Neither did anyone say a single word to her. If Telomir’s advice about her expression was responsible, she’d have to perfect this extremely useful face by practicing in front of a mirror.
At last they reached her private chambers. Lunch was laid out on the low table between chairs; Cailet warmed up the soup and bread with a casual spell. As steam wafted from the bowls, Telomir laughed.
“Exhibitionist.”
“I can make yours stone cold again if you like,” Cailet offered sweetly.
“Your pardon, Captal. What I meant to say was ‘Thank you for your thoughtfulness.’” As they sat down, he added, “Though I know we have Tarise to thank for the meal. She’s right, you know. You really ought to have somebody in your service to do all the everyday things.”
“Complained to you already about my recalcitrance, has she? Well, truly told, I’m beginning to think it wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.”
“It’s an excellent idea. Once you start the school, you’ll need someone to organize you, keep track of appointments—and order the meals, because you never eat unless something’s shoved in front of your face.”
Cailet sighed. “Oh, very well. I’ll make Tarise’s day happy by telling her to keep an eye out for someone. But not a Mageborn.”
Telo looked surprised. “Of course not. Your privacy must be inviolable. Now, would you like to eat in peace, or shall I tell you why I’m here?”
“Your choice. If the news would sour the soup, then you’d better wait.”
“Your school, then. Have you decided on a location yet?”
“I thought I had, until we ran into some local resistance. Anniyas still has loyalists out there, mainly in remote areas. But of course I want someplace remote, so . . .” She shrugged.
“You’d think they’d’ve gotten the idea by now. It’s, what, thirty weeks since she died?”
“I wish somebody’d remind the people in upper Cantrashir and around Tillin Lake.”
“Takes time, I think, in rural communities.” He paused to savor the soup. “They’re always more conservative—and more independent—not wanting any change in government that might mean attempts to interfere in the way they’ve always done things.”
“I grew up in The Waste,” she reminded him, amused. “I know all about resentment of Ryka Court’s meddling in local affairs.”
“Well, then, don’t be too hard on the good folk of Cantrashir and Tillinshir. Have you tried Sheve? Most of the people who own most of it are friends of ours.”
“You can talk in here, you know,” she said, tearing off another piece of bread. “It’s Warded six ways to the Endless Mountains. What you mean is my sister and her husband will soon be running the whole Shir. No, I can’t ask them to sell me any of their land, and I can’t be tied in any way economically or politically to a place owned or governed by people I know. That’s why I’ve been looking in Tillinshir and Cantrashir. I’ll find a place, Telo. Don’t worry.”
“At the risk of curdling the butter, I am worried. What’s all this about a plot to kill you?”
She shrugged. “It’s being taken care of.”
“This is serious, Cailet. Their reasoning is politically sound.”
“For the good of Lenfell, I have to die? What kind of sound politics is that?”
“The kind that sounds good to people who don’t like Mageborns. They’ll find plenty to agree with them, and give them all the help they need.”
“I can protect myself.”
“Do you know who’s behind it?”
“More or less.”
He sat back in his chair and regarded her narrowly. “And that’s all you’ll say about it.” When she only nodded, he tried one last time. “I trust my father not to leave you undefended, but you know these people will never give up. You also know who’s really behind the plot.”
Relenting, Cailet said, “Glenin will keep trying to kill me as long as both of us are alive. It’s her duty as First Lord—oh, don’t look so surprised, Telo. You know and I know that if she isn’t yet, she will be soon enough. She’s powerful, clever, and far too ambitious to settle for anything less. And if I outlive her, she’s got a son to try his hand at getting rid of me. But I can’t live my life behind a bastion of Wards.” She smiled a little as she used Elomar’s phrase. �
�Lusath Adennos did, because he was ordered to by Gorsha—and by you, if you’ll recall.”
“It was necessary. He understood that.”
“Yes, but he didn’t much like it. Not that he was the same type as Leninor Garvedian, with more energy than sense.”
“You judge your Captals harshly—Captal.”
“Not judge, Telo. Understand. And not yet as thoroughly as I’d like, but more and more as time goes by. I have so much work to do, I can’t possibly cower inside my Wards, flinching at every sound, waiting to be assassinated.” Precisely what she’d done for almost a whole day—not something she cared to admit.
Telomir gave a long sigh. “You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Of course. Now, tell me your news.”
“What?” He blinked, taking a moment to reorganize his thoughts. “At least it may get you out of Ryka Court for a while. But the decision about what to do is yours, naturally.”
“What to do about what? Out with it, Telo.”
“There’s something strange going on up north. Aside from Falundir’s old place burning down in Sheve Dark, there’ve been reports of Wraithenbeasts across half the Wraithen Mountains.” He waited for a reaction; when she offered none, he continued, “It had to come up sooner or later. Fear of Wraithenbeasts, I mean. The last of the old mountain Wards are finally gone—I’m astonished any lasted as long as they did, with no one to renew them—and it might be that the wolves and kyyos are free now to hunt the herds anytime they like. But one report has it that a twenty-foot grizzel got its throat torn out. No pack of wolves is stupid enough to attack a grizzel. A hundred miles from that sighting, a silverback was found with its legs ripped off. There’ve been at least five decapitated kyyos—”
“—all completely unnatural occurrences,” Cailet finished. “Predators would have eaten the prey. These were meant to be found. How reliable are the witnesses?”
“In most cases, very. One of the kyyos was found by Fiella Mikleine, and you know she’s the last person to succumb to hallucinations or hysteria. A wheatfield has more imagination than Fiella.”
“So I’m to go up there and see what’s what.” It was all so simple. The Captal would stroll on in and solve any problem with a wave of her hand. She would call magic on command and at their convenience, the Council’s very own tame Mage who performed on request, no applause or gratuities necessary.
She kicked herself mentally. It wasn’t their fault they saw the old Mage Guardians in her, a tradition of Captals centuries ago. The new young Captal was a living symbol of the old days, when Wards and spells protected Lenfell. And if these Wraithenbeast reports were true—
Telo was saying, “I spoke with Fiella myself about the dead kyyo. She said when she found it, there was a strange feeling all around—as if she were being watched by something in a darkness she couldn’t see, only feel. Something waiting to get her.”
“She felt it as a Mage?”
“Not exactly. You know her, not a scrap of whimsy, doesn’t even have nightmares like the rest of us.”
“Do you?” Cailet asked, intrigued.
“Don’t you?” he countered.
Not if there was a light left burning in her bedroom. The legacy of Gorsha’s Wards: the Mage Captal was afraid of the dark.
“Forgive me,” Telomir said at once. “That was unconscionably rude.”
“What did Fiella sense?” Cailet asked quietly.
After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “She compared it to the way she felt when she was ten years old, and went with her mother to Ryka Court when the Scholars were pleading Leninor’s case. She saw Auvry Feiran halfway down a corridor—and wanted to run like hell.”
Cailet gave a shrug to indicate that the reference didn’t disturb her. It did—Why is he so horrifying to everyone? Anniyas was the monster!—but she was damned if she’d own up to it. “I’d like you to come back to The Waste with me, Telo, if you would.”
“That’s what I like about you, Captal. You don’t tell, you ask, just as if I weren’t a man.”
“Oh, it’s easy enough to do when I know for a fact you’d come with me whether I wanted you to or not. Is there anything else I should know about this?”
“I’ve told you everything I’m aware of. And now that you know, you can think about it for exactly one day. Because tomorrow night we’re all going out to give Col-Ian the finest Birthingday dinner he ever had.”
“And you’re not even going to hint at where, are you?”
“I love surprises.” He grinned, and suddenly—though they were very little alike to look at—he reminded Cailet of his father.
She couldn’t help grinning back. “I hate surprises.”
“In the Captal business, you’d best get used to them.”
9
CAILET entered the hospital room just as Tarise was brushing out Sarra’s long golden hair. Any worries she’d had about her sister’s health were soothed away by the excitement in Sarra’s eyes and the color in her cheeks. She wore a richly subtle outfit that blended four shades of silvery-blue: shirt, tunic, loose trousers, and fringed shawl.
“Sarra, you look beautiful.”
“Nice try, but we all know better.” She plucked at the folds of her tunic. “I used to look pregnant. Now I just look fat.”
“You look beautiful,” Tarise said firmly, adding, “Shut up,” when Sarra opened her mouth to disagree. “And so does Cailet. And so, truly told, do I.”
“And so will Lusira,” Cailet remarked wryly. “But don’t tell me you actually approve of my hair, Tarise.”
“It’s getting long enough to curl a bit. If you let it grow to Sarra’s length, it’d be—” She broke off, and for just a moment, imagining Cailet with Sarra’s wealth of blonde hair, Tarise came close to the truth. A puzzled frown shadowed hazel eyes, and tension thinned her lips. But as soon as it was there, the expression was gone. Cailet hid a smile for Wards that Gorsha had constructed around herself and Sarra long ago. No one would ever see past those Wards who did not already know the truth—or, as in Collan’s case, a version of it.
“Long hair?” Cailet shook her head. “I don’t have the right face. Too many angles.”
Tarise considered critically, then sighed. “Well, maybe. But at least you might try it one of these days.” As the hour chimed somewhere in the distance, she added, “Hurry, we’ll be late. Here’s your wrap, Sarra, and don’t you dare take it off until we’re indoors.”
“I didn’t know we were going outdoors,” Cailet remarked. “What’s Telo got planned, anyway? A dinner cruise on the lake? That would be fun, I’ve never done that before.”
It turned out to be nothing so mundane. In fact, it turned out not even to be on Ryka.
They assembled in Telomir’s suite as requested. Lusira and Elomar—in matching velvets of Healer’s green—were already there. So was Rillan Veliaz, Tarise’s husband, wearing formal clothes with an elegance that belied his grumbles about how uncomfortable they were. When the ladies’ beauty and the men’s distinction had been given their due, they all sat around drinking wine, nibbling cheese and crackers, speculating on Telomir’s plans for the evening (he grinned and shook his head at all suggestions), and waiting for Collan.
Last to arrive, the guest of honor was well and truly surprised. “You said dinner in your rooms with Falundir,” he complained.
“I lied,” said Telomir. “Come on, we’re already late, thanks to you.”
Two carriages were waiting in a courtyard. These took them to a bookbindery in the city. Cailet, seated beside Telo and opposite Sarra and Collan, gave a start when she recognized the shop. “Telo, you can’t be serious.”
“Never more so. Come along, children,” he urged, shooing them through the shop doors. “Gorynel’s Griddle awaits!”
“Gorynel’s Griddle,” indeed!
Gorsha, darling, I hope the food and wines are so wonderfu
l that you really, truly, sincerely regret being dead.
You’re a cruel woman, Cailet Ambrai.
Within the bookbindery—now owned by the Ostin Web, Telomir informed them—was a Ladder to St. Eskanto’s Shrine at Wyte Lynn Castle. The shrine, too, had been taken over by the Ostins; the ancient Votary turned out to be the great-uncle of Tiva Senison, Lady Lilen’s first husband. He ushered them through the silent shrine, which was in infinitely better condition than the first time Cailet had seen it, and out to the street. Another pair of carriages transported them to a lovely old residential block right next to the main keep. As they assembled once again outside a porticoed entry, Collan regarded Telomir with real admiration.
“You’ve got style, Telo, I’ll give you that. Not many people will travel two thousand miles for dinner.”
Humph. My son the connoisseur. He probably couldn’t get reservations in Firrense.
Cailet giggled, earning a baffled glance from the man whose father had just maligned him. As she accepted Telo’s arm and escort into the restaurant, her amusement turned to awe.
The exterior of Gorynel’s Griddle—venerable gray stone and a tasteful trio of columns—gave no indication of the opulence of the interior. A quick count of tables (only fifteen in a large room) and calculation of the cost of the decor told Cailet that the prices here would be atrocious. The walls were hung with crimson velvet draperies. The chairs were upholstered in pewter-gray silk. Crystal so dazzling it hurt the eyes competed for lamplight with gilt flatware and the finest Rine porcelain plates, all arranged atop snowy linens embroidered with a pattern of St. Gorynel’s Thorn Tree on the tablecloths and the Desse Blood’s Scroll on the napkins.
Cailet, my darling, when it’s discovered who’s responsible for this travesty, will you please do me the favor of casting on them a little spell I know? Nothing taxing, just the occasional disfiguring genital warts and a suppurating sore or two. . . .
That’s disgusting. Where’s your sense of humor? She sat in the chair Telo held out for her and unfurled a crimson linen napkin across her lap.
