The Mageborn Traitor--Exiles, Volume 2

by Melanie Rawn

  “Yes, Captal. I’ll be there.”

  Jored said, “You must be really close to success with the Warrior’s Globe, Joss.”

  “Close,” the young man agreed. He finished his drink and rose. “But it’s getting late. Good night.”

  The Captal’s presence constrained conversation, and the group broke up as soon as it was polite to do so. Mikel was surprised when Taigan chose to walk with him rather than with Jored. He was also slightly annoyed, hoping to improve on his progress with Lirenza. But Taigan had something to say, and when they were alone in a hallway she said it.

  “I know she can laugh, we heard her when we were children.”

  “Maybe she’s forgotten. Or maybe she can’t, among the students. Discipline and respect and all that.”

  “I don’t understand her. Do you remember when we built the tree house, and next time she was in Roseguard we had lunch there?”

  “We had a great time. So did she, I guess.”

  “Exactly,” Taigan paused in the lamplit hallway leading to her room. “So why does she treat us like she treats everybody else?”

  Mikel sighed. “Because here, we are like everybody else.”

  “You may be. I’m not. I’m a washout in almost everything, Mishka. I’m thinking of giving it up and going home.”

  “You can’t!”

  “You’re so far ahead of me! I’m still in classes with Tavis Agrenir, and she’s fourteen years old! Even she can do more than I can with magic.”

  “It just takes time. And it takes some people longer than others. Look at Akin—he’s twenty, and nowhere close to being Listed. Or Joss—he’s almost the same age, and—”

  “And the Captal is pushing him—didn’t you notice?”

  “Of course I did. But that’s not what we’re talking about, Teggie. If you want to get really depressed and feel really sorry for yourself, how about comparing your progress to Kanen Mossen’s? He’s only sixteen, and everybody says he’ll be Listed for sure this summer.”

  She scowled at him. “I’m not depressed, and I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m being realistic. I can feel the magic in me, Mishka, I just can’t do anything with it! If the Captal would just show a little understanding and sympathy—”

  He couldn’t help it; he knew he shouldn’t, but he said it anyway. “I thought you were getting plenty of that from Jored.”

  Taigan went rigid for an instant, then turned abruptly and strode toward her door.

  “Teggie—I was just teasing!”

  The door opened, then slammed shut.

  Mikel sighed. “Nice work,” he muttered to himself. He knew his sister; she wouldn’t speak to him for at least a week.

  12

  ONE of the Assembly’s first and finest achievements in the years after the Rising was reformation of the postal system. Formerly the responsibility of each Shir’s Ministry of Internal Affairs in conjunction with its Departments of Commerce, Transportation, and Revenue (whose officials franked the envelopes both coming and going), relative efficiency ranged from the abysmal to the merely appalling. But timely mail delivery was now supervised by a special committee of the Assembly, with all postal employees answerable directly to it, and woe unto any worker who was discovered dawdling with a sack of letters. Transit time had been cut in half in most instances, and one could now confidently assume that missives sent from, say, Dinn to Neele would not go by way of Roke Castle, Renig, and Havenport.

  Which was not to say that all mail was sent through the official postal service.

  When Sarra had nothing more important than gossip to convey, she used the regular mail to Mage Hall. When she had real news, she sent it by the Minstrelsy. When her message was urgent, she went to Biren Halvos at Roseguard or one of the Mages at Ryka Court, who used the special Globes given them years ago by Cailet.

  In the late winter of 989, all three types of communication reached Cailet in quick succession on the same day.

  First came the regular post. The bearer was a young woman known as a Rimrunner, for her route took her all the way around Tillin Lake—and no Rimrunner had ever completed the circuit more swiftly than she. Her two big, powerful Tillinshir grays moved like the wind, one carrying her and the other carrying the mail bags. She was so quick at it, in fact, that in the year she’d been on the job Cailet had never set eyes on her or even learned her real name. She would arrive at the gatehouse, call out while loosing the bag containing Mage Hall’s mail, and before the sentry Mage was out the door had already galloped off to her next delivery stop.

  But the sixth day of Ilsevet’s Moon that year was thick with snow, unheard-of just a week before the official beginning of spring. It had taken Cailet several winters to stop dreading the sight of snow; here, it was soft and clean and delightful, nothing like the searing acidlaced horror it was in The Waste. One still bundled up to go out in it, of course, but one never had to worry that exposed skin would end up scarred. Every Wraithenday she helped build Winter Wraiths with the children at Mage Hall, and secretly wished the sculptures were Malerrisi in their white cloaks, to melt away with the next sunshine.

  Broadsheets reported that this winter had been a harsh one all over North Lenfell, with a storm sweeping down from the Wraithen Mountains nearly every week. Ambrai’s streets were impassible for the first time in twenty-five years, and sleet had fallen in Roseguard twice.

  So when snow blew yet again around Mage Hall, Aidan left orders with the duty sentry to have hot coffee waiting for the Rimrunner—along with an invitation to come up to the Hall until the weather eased. For the first time in her career she hesitated in her routine, looked at the white sky, and nodded acceptance. Thus it was that Cailet received her sister’s letter from the Rimrunner’s own hand.

  “My thanks for the shelter, Captal,” the young woman said, shaking dark brown hair from darker brown eyes and unbuttoning her heavy wool jacket. “Deiket Snowhair must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of the mountain today.”

  “You’re welcome to stay if you like,” Cailet replied, setting aside a novel (she hadn’t lost her taste for adventure stories). “It looks as if this won’t stop all day.”

  “Again, thanks—but I’d better push on as soon as it slackens a little.” Reaching into a pocket, she produced a second letter. “Though I’m glad to do you a service beyond the usual. This was given me by a girl used to live up in Peyres, who’s singing with the Cantratown Choir these days—she’s young for it, just fifteen, but she’s a voice to make Sesilla Honeythroat weep for envy. Her mother’s one of your Mage Guardians.”

  “You must mean Jiora Sonne, Sevy Vasharron’s discovery,” Cailet smiled, accepting the second letter and giving no sign that she knew it had come by way of the Minstrelsy. Jiora was its newest and all-time youngest member. “When you see her again, please give her my best wishes.”

  “I’ll do that.” She glanced out the windows at the swirling white landscape, fretful as a silverback cat trapped in a den not her own. “I think it’s easing up, don’t you?”

  “If you’re determined to ride on, then at least let me Warm your coat.” The Rimrunner looked startled at being offered a spell from the Captal’s own magic; Cailet smiled.

  When the Rimrunner was Warmed and gone, Aidan brought in a steaming pot of chocolate-flavored coffee to warm Cailet. She snuggled into the big green-velvet chair in her bedroom and opened the envelope franked ROSE-GUARD first.

  Dearest Caisha—

  I hope this finds you well and not yet seriously disposed to eviscerating my children—who undoubtedly deserve it, but consider the mess it would make on the carpet. Collan and I are well, the more so for not having to restrain ourselves from similar justifiable mayhem. We both send our sympathies.

  Cailet snorted. Sympathy would do her a lot of good. She ought to give Sarra the particulars of the mischief in the stables.

  Roseguard’s quiet is not to be
found elsewhere. Vellerin Dombur has turned acquisitive, as we guessed—but in a perfectly legal manner. She’s spending a small fortune buying up parcels of Domburronshir. This came out when Elin Alvassy mentioned in a letter—quite irritably, too—that the smallhold where she and Mai and Pier took refuge as children with their grandparents was under economic siege by a woman known to be associated with Vellerin. It was originally Dombur land—from Enis, who married Aidil Alvassy, Elin’s great-grandmother—and this is what started me looking into things. It turns out Vellerin is buying up all the old Dombur holdings. Dowries of Generations ago, farms sold off in the last two centuries, properties in cities and towns, tracts of forest, whole mountaintops that are no use to anyone—she wants it all, and she’s willing to pay for it. Not directly, of course, but through those multiple accounts the Rennes were suspicious about. Many of them have been traced to her daughter and cousins and sisters.

  Especially her First Daughter, Linsel, who is currently resisting Vellerin’s efforts to get her divorced from her husband—they have only the one child, a son named Rennon, and Vellerin wants an unbroken line of First Daughters to follow her. Evidently Linsel loves the man, and as they’re both still young they have hopes of more children. But I’d like you to ask your Allard Mages about the husband—his name is Jaymer—I can’t seem to find out anything other than that he’s yet another Nameless adopted orphan. (Is it my imagination, or are we positively hip-deep in such persons? My husband, your two handsome Prentices—and you and I, now that I think about it!)

  “Very conscientious of you to mention it, Sarra,” Cailet murmured, “in case somebody happened to open this letter. But not very subtle of you, inquiring after my two handsome Prentices. What has Taigan been writing to you about Jored, I wonder?”

  Ask your Allards if they can place Jaymer in the Family. The only Allard I know is the Timarrin in Ambrai who designs clothes—which reminds me. Taigan sent Domna Timarrin a letter asking her to make up two sets of Mage Guardian regimentals for her, one black velvet and one black silk, if you please! Anticipating the day a trifle, I’d say, if your hints about her progress—or lack of it—are any indication. But she is her father’s daughter!

  My love to you as always, dearest Caisha.

  Sarra

  Cailet paused for a swallow of coffee, and as she set the letter aside on the lampstand her eye was caught by the little bronze statue of St. Miryenne, gift from long-dead Councillor Flera Firennos. The Saint wore a gown of many delicate pleats, and in one hand held an unlighted candle. It was Cailet’s occasional conceit to set a diminutive Mage Globe atop that candle to read by. Though today there was more than enough light from lamps lit early by Aidan against the stormy gloom outside, Cailet indulged herself and spent a few moments watching the Saint’s mysterious smile by a tiny silver-white glow. Miryenne was a patron of Mage Guardians, and Cailet always felt a subtle release of tension when she gazed at the serene bronze face. How malicious it had been of Anniyas to spell this lovely work of art with a shock only Mageborns would feel; Cailet touched a fingertip to the Saint’s outstretched hand, sensing only the gentle warmth of her own magic.

  Smiling, she opened Sarra’s second letter. It was almost as long, and while just as gossipy to casual inspection, was very much to an indignant point.

  Cailet—

  Vellerin Dombur’s husband turns out to have an even stronger tie to Veller Ganfallin than she. The Census archives produced a direct line to Ganfallin’s youngest son, who was only a baby when his mother died and somehow escaped the carnage at their fortress in the Endless Mountains—so you were right about one of the children having survived, more’s the pity. The connection appears genuine, and the documents are not forgeries.

  His Exalted Lordship Stene Dombur is at Ryka Court these days, declaiming his frightful poetry to large audiences eager to find favor with Vellerin. He gives his recitals wearing white on white—the Dombur colors, but also very convenient in other ways. With this ensemble he wears a large, vulgar gold pendant (you should hear Collan on the subject of his taste!) in the shape of a banner hung from a crossbar on a pole, just like the pictures in the history books of the battle flags carried by Ganfallin’s armies, only with the Dombur Ice Ax emblazoned on it. The impudence of the man!

  Linsel is divorcing Jaymer Allard—resentfully, at her mother’s direct command—to marry one of Stene’s nephews (Chevaz, a name that will find favor in certain quarters). Though the elimination of the Fifths was supposed to have rid Lenfell of all possibility of such things, Rillan says (and I bow to his expertise as a breeder of horses) that the union of bloodlines so closely related for at least three Generations and probably more will result in exactly the kind of First Granddaughter Vellerin Dombur deserves: a drooling, lop-eared, knock-kneed, spindleshanked, wall-eyed, broken-winded, slack-jawed, gabbling moron.

  Cailet was whooping with laughter by the end of this tirade. For nineteen years, ever since that Birthingday dinner Telomir Renne had thrown for Collan at Wyte Lynn Castle, Sarra had ranked Vellerin Dombur lower in the scheme of things than the average rabid rodent.

  You must be sure to tell her, chuckled Gorsha’s voice, not to be so shy, and tell you what she really thinks!

  As droll as her sister’s letters were, they contained several points of more than passing interest. Cailet considered them on her way out of her quarters—and was interrupted in her considerations by Aidan, who demanded to know where she thought she was going with nothing but a shirt and shortvest on her shoulders. He produced a fur-lined black woolen cloak from the sitting-room closet and bundled it around her, ignoring her mild reminder that she was a Mage, she could spell herself Warm.

  “Granon and the other Warders went to a lot of trouble to have this made for your Birthingday last year. The least you could do is wear it every so often.”

  She conceded to the tyrant who ran her life and wrapped herself in the cloak, pulling the hood around her head. It truly was a lovely thing, she had to admit—velvet-soft wool, black fur downy as a cloud, and so wonderfully warm that she felt none of the cold even when she ventured out into the snowstorm for a walk—even if the silvery tips of the fur tickled her nose.

  Josselin’s roses had long since been pruned and mulched for protection against the winter, but she saw his tall form slogging through four-foot drifts around the wall, a hoe over one shoulder and the other hand holding an assortment of gardening tools. One of her two handsome, Nameless, orphaned Prentices. She shook her head and switched directions so she wouldn’t have to meet up with him.

  Sighing for her ineptitude at purely human things, she trudged through the snow toward the orchard. Taigan’s section of the wall was a singular mess; Mikel’s, on the other side of the new gate, was almost as bad for half its height. But she could tell precisely where his magic had awakened, and where it had merged with his consciousness, and where it had begun to thrive as it should. Cailet conceded in private that Mikel had always been her favorite of the twins, but perhaps only because his was the sweeter temper, the more genial disposition. He was, simply, easier to love. Cailet was no less fond of Taigan, but there had always been an edge to the girl’s personality—whetted to a cutting blade by her frustrations here. That Taigan herself was the one most often hurt by it grieved Cailet. Sarra was just as headstrong and stubborn, and nobody but Collan had ever been able to tell Sarra anything. Whoever he might be, Jored was no Collan. That was what frightened Cailet—that, and who he might truly be.

  She rested her ungloved hands on Taigan’s wall, staring at the bare fruit trees without seeing them. After a time she realized the snowfall had stopped, and from very far away heard the muffled ringing of St. Lirance’s in Heathering. Eighth already? She turned, squinting against the icy wind, and retraced her steps through the snow to Mage Hall.

  The refectory was steamy and fragrant, almost stiflingly so after the outdoor chill. Soup thick with sausage and noodles was being devour
ed by hungry Prentices and Mages, who’d spent the morning shoveling snow and climbing roofs to clear possibly dangerous drifts. Mage Hall had not been built for such weather. Aidan stood at the serving counter, calling off names and handing out letters. Cailet stood in line—she insisted always on standing in line just like everyone else—for a bowl of soup and a hunk of bread and a mug of scalding tea, and found a seat with Granon and Rennon Bekke. The latter’s given name reminded her of Sarra’s words about young Rennon Dombur, and she mentioned to her Warders that she’d like to talk with Esken Allard—this afternoon if he was available.

  Granon blinked. “Captal, Esken’s been in Firrense since last Neversun, visiting his mother.”

  She felt herself blush—a reaction fortunately rendered invisible by the cold-red already suffusing her cheeks. “Oh,” she said inadequately. Esken was the only Allard currently assigned to Mage Hall; she’d have to find out if anyone here had a father or uncle or whatever by that Name, or was in some other way allied to the Family, or—

  Stop babbling, even to yourself, Gorsha ordered severely. And don’t beat yourself over the head either. You can’t be expected to remember where every single one of your Mages is at all times. As if you don’t have enough to concern you.

  Maybe you don’t expect it, but I do. They’re my Mages, Gorsha.

  Rennon Bekke was obviously itching to know why she wanted to talk to Esken Allard, but a glance from Granon kept him silent. Cailet drew breath to explain, but at that moment she noticed two curious things happen at the refectory door—or perhaps it was only one thing in two versions.

  Aidan and Marra were on their way out. He still had a handful of undelivered letters, which he nearly dropped as she swayed slightly against him. She was looking a little greensick; she was in the first weeks of her first pregnancy. But what snagged Cailet’s notice was the entrance, within three steps of each other, of Josselin Mikleine and Jored Karellos. Aidan shoved the letters at the former so both hands could be free for Marra. Josselin stopped in his tracks with a frown and asked a worried question—probably about Marra’s health. Jored, looking past Joss to scan the tables, bumped into the other Prentice. The letters scattered onto the floor. Both young men knelt to scoop them up while Marra hurried from the refectory, clinging to her husband’s arm.