The Mageborn Traitor--Exiles, Volume 2

by Melanie Rawn

  She regretted the reference as soon as it left her lips; a Senison hound had turned unexpectedly wild earlier this year, savaging Lady Sefana’s right arm to the shoulder. All the skills of a Healer Mage brought from Renig had been insufficient to prevent loss to infection of hand, then arm, and then life. Sefana had died two weeks after the attack, and Riena ruled at Maurgen Hundred now, years before she had expected it.

  Jennis saved the awkward moment by smiling. “I assure you, if Maisha were here, she’d be positively panting after this Mikleine boy! How much trouble does he cause whenever he walks into a room?”

  Aidan tugged on his father’s gold earring as he answered, “Well, not trouble, exactly—more like the silence usually reserved for a holy shrine.”

  Marra laughed. “I thought you’d gotten over being jealous.”

  “I’m not jealous. I pity the boy.”

  Jennis gave a derisive chortle. “Pity the rest of us!”

  “No, truly told,” Aidan insisted. “Can you imagine what it’d be like to be that beautiful?”

  “I’d rather imagine something that beautiful in circumstances that include any reasonably comfortable flat surface,” his aunt retorted.

  They all laughed, but that night at dinner in the refectory Cailet sneaked a few glances at Josselin, trying to see him again as Jennis had—with the shock of first encounter. Mage Hall had grown used to Josselin’s looks—more or less. Most of the languishing glances had faded and sighs ceased to gust in his direction. This doubtless had to do with the fact that he had shown favor to no one. Josselin paid not the slightest attention to his looks—behaved, in fact, as if he were just passingly attractive—and his disarming manner melted resentment. But he encouraged no one’s attentions, and in fact seemed to be genuinely shy.

  He was the target of all the usual prejudices held by less-endowed brethren inclined to envy. Anyone that gorgeous must be stupid beyond belief, and/or in sexual pursuit of every rich/powerful/beautiful woman on Lenfell, and/or sexually pursued by every woman on the planet no matter what her age, station, or condition (short of comatose), and/or incapable of loving anything but his own beauty, upon which he lavished much time and care. If he was shy, it was only a pose calculated to earn him a reputation for sweetness. If he complimented another’s clothing or hairstyle, it was only in amazement that anything could improve the appearance of lesser creatures. If he was friendly, it was only because the object of his efforts could be useful to him in some way—foil to his own looks, conduit to a woman he desired, or for reasons known only to his conniving little brain. And “little” his brain was guaranteed to be.

  On reflection, Cailet decided she agreed with Aidan: she pitied the boy. Josselin was far from stupid—not only had Collan told her of his plan for delaying marriage to Mirya Witte long enough to come of legal age with the right not to marry, but his teachers reported him quick to learn in classes. He bathed and shaved just like every other man here, but otherwise did nothing special that anyone had been able to discover. Naturally, total gorgeousness with total lack of effort was even more infuriating.

  Josselin was shy, as it happened. Recently, though, an acidic sense of humor had emerged—usually at his own expense. He was pleasant and friendly and determined not to take offense when others punished him in a thousand small social ways. The one demand he made was implied rather than specified: he wanted to be treated as just another Prentice Mage. He was willing to wait for others to get over his looks, but there was a limit to his patience.

  It had been reached three days ago. Aidan brought Josselin and Sevy Banian, a twenty-year-old Prentice, to Cailet’s office in disgrace; the two had interrupted their teacher’s lecture with a fist fight. Sevy’s bloody nose had its source in Josselin’s bruised knuckles, and a slight limp proclaimed that Sevy’d gotten in a good kick at some point. Cailet ordered them to apologize to teacher and class at the next session. Both agreed—but Josselin added quite matter-of-factly that if anyone else called him a “walking whore-cock from the cheapest fuck-house in Sheve,” he could not promise not to apply his fists to mend that person’s manners.

  Oddly, Cailet was pleased by evidence of temper—she had begun to think the youth perfect beyond belief. Even more oddly, Josselin and Sevy were showing signs of becoming friends, sitting at the same table for the last couple of meals, their issues with each other apparently resolved.

  But that evening, just as Cailet and Miram were about to withdraw from the singing that celebrated St. Agvir’s Day, a commotion delayed the private ritual for Alin. Sevy Banian’s sharp Havenport accents rose in a shout of “You fucking son of a Fifth!” and all hell broke loose near the refectory door. Cailet shoved her way through the crowd to find Steen Canzallis on the floor tiles with one hand clapped to his left eye and Josselin slumped in a chair with both hands over his nose. Sevy’s hands were behind his back—as were his arms and most of his shoulders, fixed there by the glowering Granon Bekke, Master of the Captal’s Warders.

  Cailet cast a scathing glance at the three young men and ordered them all outside. When the door was shut behind them—Granon’s glare outblazing the torches that lit the hallway—Cailet enquired as to what precisely was the meaning of this outrage.

  But she knew. Steen, two years a Mage Guardian and now in training to become a Warrior, had for most of his time at Mage Hall been voted Most Magnificent Creature on Lenfell in an informal poll of female students (and quite a few males). She need look no further than the young man’s volatile temper for the source of Josselin’s broken nose. There were no fresh marks on Josselin’s knuckles, though. Sevy had done the damage to Steen’s eye—and pride. The subsequent sullen explanations confirmed her surmise.

  “It was my fault,” Josselin said in conclusion.

  Steen curled his lip; Granon gave him a look to fry ice and said, “Shut up. You, too, Sevy. As for you—” He eyed Josselin. “Don’t play noble with me, boy. And none of you darken the Captal’s eyes again for a week, hear me? Get to your rooms and if you’re very, very lucky, I might send the Master Healer around sometime tomorrow morning. March!”

  They departed. Cailet cocked an eyebrow at Granon, startled as he began to chuckle.

  “Well, it is funny, truly told. Think of it, Captal—two of them at each other’s throats only a few days ago, and now the one defending the other against a third.”

  “I’m surprised Josselin required defending.”

  “He just didn’t move as fast as Sevy. I saw most of it. Didn’t hear whatever ugly remark prompted it, though.” He sobered, shaking his head. “Steen deliberately picked a fight—and I think Josselin was ready for it. Might even have encouraged him, just to get it over with.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Schoolyard politics,” Granon shrugged. “Or maybe I should say ‘barnyard.’ Steen has a lot invested in his looks and where they can take him. Josselin, on the other hand, has had women invest real money in that perfect face of his.”

  “Men!” she exclaimed, and he grinned.

  As it happened, the perfect face healed a little less than perfectly. In the weeks that followed, it became clear that Josselin’s nose would always take a very slight left turn at the bridge. He was remarkably cheerful about it, and Elomar reported that the boy regretted that there’d be no scar.

  Cailet shook her head in amazement. But in an odd way, she understood. Not that she knew what it must be like to be a male version of Lusira Garvedian, but as Mage Captal she had long since learned that little imperfections in someone ostensibly perfect were soothing to others. It was a principle she applied to herself—not that she was so inherently perfect that she must pretend imperfections. Far from it. But others, through some need of their own, saw her as infallible; that same need made them resent their own self-imposed perception. So she usually shrugged off her mistakes as helpful to her image. It all went back to what Telomir Renne had said years ago about the path she
must tread as Mage Captal. Powerful, but not too powerful; knowledgeable, but not omniscient; unique, but still human.

  The final irony of the whole incident was that the minuscule bump in Josselin’s nose only made his other perfections more perfect by contrast.

  “Can’t win for losin’, as my Fa used to say,” Granon remarked with a shrug when Cailet pointed this out with a smile. “By the way, I’ve talked it over with Imi and we’ve agreed that Steen Canzallis would benefit from a season or two in Ambrai.”

  “As punishment? That’s more like a reward, isn’t it?”

  “My nephew Sirron is the most blithely malicious Warrior Mage in all fifteen Shirs—apart from our beloved First Sword, that is.”

  “And you!” Cailet grinned. “Just how malicious is it to send him to train under the only Mage Guardian who damned near broiled my brains at his Listing Ritual?”

  “Sirron will teach Steen to discipline that temper of his or he isn’t my sister’s son.” He laughed his deep, gravelly laugh. “And I deeply resent the characterization, Captal. I’m a perfect lamb at heart.”

  “Oh, yes,” she agreed sententiously. “Just as sweet and harmless as Imi Gorrst. Well, do as you think best about Steen. But if there’s any more trouble regarding Josselin, I may break Lady Sarra’s nose for sending him here. Saints and Wraiths! Why does this one boy have to be so revoltingly beautiful?”

  17

  HEATHERING’S celebration of St. Delilah’s Day was always as riotous as the Tillinshir Mages had promised back in 971. The residents of Mage Hall enthusiastically joined in commemoration of the Saint’s many patronages. Morning saw sedate contests for best needlework and finest tailoring (from winter cloaks to festive gowns to farmhands’ overalls). By Ninth, after everyone had feasted at trestle tables and imbibed tangy local wines, the celebratory games began. There were competitions with sword and stave, footraces, wrestling matches, nail driving, horseshoe making, hammer throwing, and the curious local sport of heaving a twenty-foot pine log that in less-than-expert hands imperiled everyone within shouting distance. When the sun went down, there was another meal and more wine before the dancers had their turn: clog-stepping, leaping over flashing swords, weaving intricate foot-patterns between crossed blades.

  Cailet loved St. Delilah’s in Tillinshir. It had been a relatively neglected holiday in The Waste—the week was not called “Wolfkill” for nothing, and at that time of year everyone was out collecting the herds into winter pasturage safe from the wolves and kyyos. But in this part of Tillinshir, St. Delilah’s was the last festival when one could reasonably rely on clear skies; the following week was Water Moon, and then came First Frost, and by then rain and soft sleet kept everyone indoors. Snow was a once-in-a-Generation occurrence in these parts; the votaries attributed this to a ritual, unique to them, designed to distract Deiket Snowhair. The first strong wind from the south every autumn saw scores of kites flown aloft and then let loose—kites made from layers of broadsheets, so that the bookish Saint would forget about Heathering and its neighbors to chase the precious printed word north beyond Tillin Lake, and deposit the winter’s snow on the Wraithen Mountains where it belonged.

  This St. Delilah’s, clouds billowed behind the hills and there was a taste of rain in the air, but the sky overhead stayed serenely blue. Cailet got everyone started early on the walk into town, and along the way consulted with Aidan about which of the Mages would enter which contests of strength, speed, and skill.

  “It ought to be a fair contest again in the smithing,” Aidan observed, “now that the Malerrisi is gone.”

  “Mmm,” said Cailet. “Too bad about him. I never saw a man shoe a horse in less time and with less fuss. Four hooves, eight toes, twenty-four minutes flat.”

  “He spelled the poor creatures, that’s why.”

  “Horses can’t be persuaded to a Folding. There’s no reason to think they’d take to any other kind of magic. Either they’re very clever or very stupid, no Mage has ever been able to decide which.”

  “Well, good riddance to the blacksmith,” Aidan insisted. “The thought of him so close to Mage Hall for so long—”

  Cailet smiled. “He saw what eyeryone else sees. Nothing but a college community—”

  “—with a very unusual curriculum,” the young man finished for her, making a face. “Do you really think nobody notices us? Especially after—”

  “Don’t say it,” Cailet warned, laughing now. “Every time anyone mentions that incident, we discuss nothing else for the rest of the day!”

  “‘Incident’?” Aidan echoed incredulously. “We nearly lost you, two Prentices, and the stables!”

  “Not another word!”

  He shrugged, and the topic of The Great Mage Globe Mishap was shelved. “You asked me to find out how Josselin Mikleine is settling in. Officially, just fine. Unofficially. . . .”

  “Let me guess. Most of the females and a fair number of the males are still smitten.”

  “Make that all the females,” he corrected glumly. “Not even Marra is immune, and Saints know I have more than my fair share of looks, charm, wit, talent, intelligence—”

  “And modesty!” she laughed, with Alin grinning inside her head. “Your father’s son, truly told! Don’t worry, they’ll all get used to him in a few more weeks.”

  “Only if he puts an end to it by choosing somebody to sleep with.”

  Cailet looked at him sidelong. “He reciprocates no one’s attentions?”

  “He’s friendly enough, but makes no friends, if you know what I mean.” Aidan shrugged once more. “It’s the ones who aren’t attracted to him that concern me. Several promising flirtations between other couples have dried up and blown away since he arrived, and a few of our younger men are smoldering a bit.”

  “I’m sure Josselin knows how to deal with it. He’s had that face all his life, after all. Let’s see what he does.”

  “That’s just it!” Aidan exclaimed. “He doesn’t have to do anything!”

  “Whereas,” she teased, “you lesser creatures must willfully exercise your looks, charm, wit, talent, and intelligence! Thanks be to all the Saints that I wasn’t born a man!”

  Cailet didn’t mingle much with the Prentices except on holidays such as this. At Heathering, in the midst of general revelry and in the spirit of fun, she could escape the role of Mage Captal—and her own shyness. Yet she could not become overly familiar with any Prentices or even the Mage Guardians. That difficult walk balancing on a rocky path again. In the world outside Mage Hall, she trod cautiously between too much involvement and too little. In the world she had created for herself and her Mages, one step was authority, the other fellowship; one the Captal’s power and the other Cailet’s personal needs.

  And what did she need? Someone to talk to sometimes—someone who wasn’t Gorynel Desse, someone whose face she could see. Aidan and Marra helped fill most of that function; letters and visits to and from Sarra and Collan were her solace. But not even to her sister could she—or would she—confide her deepest doubts and musings and worries. These she kept to herself, hidden even from Gorsha.

  What she lacked, and knew she lacked, was someone to share the everyday things with. Banal it might be, but she wanted someone at her side when she walked up to the lake of an evening, chattering about nothing or staying companionably silent. Someone who was there when she came in from the last class of the day, who’d listen and share all the little joys and annoyances and triumphs and problems of day-to-day living.

  Aidan and Marra had that. So did the other couples among the Mages at the Hall. But Cailet didn’t want what Sarra and Collan had—nothing that intense, that passionate, that contentious. What Cailet wanted was something quieter, simpler, easier . . .

  . . . something she could never have.

  She caught sight of Tirez Escovor, a wily old Mage who delighted in teaching overawed Prentices, showing a group how to perfect the
ir Folding technique. They were all laughing as one of their number Folded himself right into the roadside ditch. Cailet smiled, wishing she could join the fun. Truly told, she envied her own students. They were learning their craft and their magic gradually, in orderly fashion, with time to enjoy the nuances. Skills were mastered, new skills followed, with wise teachers present to answer questions and provide guidance. The Prentices earned their knowledge—unlike Cailet, who only possessed it because it had been given to her. Because they’d worked hard for it, they had a confidence that she lacked.

  And so she prized days like this one, when she didn’t have to be Captal. A good time at a village Saint’s Day was something she understood. And Heathering put on a wonderful St. Delilah’s. Cailet enjoyed every moment of it, right up to the time the young man appeared.

  If he wasn’t as beautiful as Josselin Mikleine, it was a near thing. If he wasn’t quite as tall, or quite as powerfully made, few noticed. Certainly Cailet did not, for the very first thing she noticed about him was his magic.

  Raw, untrained, yet neither Wild nor Warded, it sang from him like shrine bells at dawn. Copper bells, she thought distractedly, watching him in the sword dance; bells she could turn to gold. He was perhaps seventeen, gray-eyed, black-haired, darkly bronzed, and he moved on the torchlit dancing ground with the sudden supple grace of a silverback cat.

  He won the competition, of course. And when Cailet had Aidan bring him to her afterward—gripping his prize of a single gold eagle in one hand and his discarded black coif in the other—he looked her straight in the eyes and said, “I didn’t win by my magic, Captal.”

  “I know. What I’m wondering is how you escaped Mageborn notice.”

  He gave a shrug of lean, muscular shoulders, shifting a too-short, tattered cloak around his body. “It’s just something I do. Anyone without a Name learns how, in order to survive.”