The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

“We can’t kill her, and we can’t take her captive. None of our Mages is powerful enough against her—maybe not even Gorsha. We’ve got to hurry, Sarra. Help us.”

  That was what a leader did. Helped people do what they had to—and kept them safe while they did it. Tarise had been wrong: Sarra would not be a Warrior in the Rising, making battle with words or swords. Nor a Healer to make things right, or a Scholar to make wise counsel. She would be what she had designed for herself to be in that chart drawn up years ago in Pinderon. She would be the one who made things happen.

  Just like Glenin.

  The Malerrisi.

  Sarra had Mage Guardians behind her, and the Rising; Glenin had Lords of Malerris and the Council. An even match—but for two things. I know who I am—and I know about Cailet.

  “Sarra—”

  “All right. I’m all right.” She pulled away from Val and glanced around—everywhere but at her sister. Tamosin Wolvar had taken his uncle downstairs. Sarra went to the landing and called down, “Elo! We need horses! Six, and right now!” She remembered something. “No, wait—Glenin said she came in a carriage, didn’t she? We’ll use it instead. Scholar Wolvar can’t sit a saddle anyway.”

  “Alin’s already up in the coachman’s seat!” Elomar shouted back.

  Alin had come back from Neele? Of course he’d come back from Neele. Neele was not where Valirion was.

  Val was ripping bedsheets to tie Glenin’s wrists, ankles, and mouth. What good he thought it would do, she had no idea. Perhaps he merely needed to do it. “Sarra, get downstairs before she wakes up!”

  She. The Malerrisi. Would I kill her if I could? Would Auvry Feiran have killed Mother and me? “If I had your ethics—”

  She went to Mai’s body.

  Behind her, Valirion exclaimed, “What are you doing?”

  “Help me. We have to leave her and Geris Mirre where they’ll be found.”

  “For a decent burning?” He yanked the last knot tight and stood up from the bed. “Sarra, we don’t have time!”

  “For that, we do—and to make her look more like me in death than she did in life!” She unfastened Mai’s small gold hoop earrings and substituted her own pearls, took the long gold chain with its identity disk from Mai’s throat and replaced it with her own.

  “But—Glenin will know!” Still, he took Geris’ disk and pocketed it for his family, and undid the single Herb Sprig sigil pin of a Prentice Healer from the dead Mage’s shirt.

  “Yes. Glenin will know.” What else of mine should Mai be wearing? Her ring, with the Liwellan Hawk—loose on Mai’s finger. The gold ring carved with the Castle Spire sigil of the Alvassys didn’t fit Sarra. She put it in her pocket with the disk. She’d send both to Piergan Rille in Domburronshir—no, she would give them to Elin and Pier Alvassy, who were part of the Rising.

  “Glenin will know,” Sarra repeated absently. “But that’s why we have to leave Mai where she’ll be found by others. The bower mistress, the Watch, neighbors—” But not the Council Guard, who would never return the body to Roseguard for proper rites. Roseguard—Glenin had said that Lady Agatine’s own flagship was there even now, stuffed with the enemy—

  “Sarra . . . anyone who knows you will know the difference.”

  “What?”

  “You’re very alike, but not identical.”

  “I don’t underst—” But then she saw in his eyes what he meant to do, and cried out.

  “Go downstairs, Sarra.”

  “No! You can’t, I won’t let you—”

  “Sarra, now!”

  And because she knew he was right, and hated him for it, she took one last look at the bodies on the floor: the Prentice Mage, dead too young; the Malerrisi who had been Sarra’s sister; the blonde girl with Sarra’s face.

  Who soon would have no face.

  From now on Glenin is dead to me. There’s only Cailet left. Only Cailet. . . .

  Flight

  1

  The only evidence of Glenin’s fury of frustration was a frown. The escape of Sarra Liwellan and the Captal, and by extension Taig Ostin—and by further extension Gorynel Desse and the whole Rising—was enough to make better women than she scream and curse and rave. Glenin did not, even in the privacy of her own mind, as she picked at knotted purple silk. In the first place, there was no better woman than she. In the second, she considered screaming a waste of breath, vulgar language indicative of a poor vocabulary, and raging a shameful demonstration of faulty self-control.

  And in the third place, even if she had been so inclined, there was no one to hear her.

  This changed abruptly. Shouts were followed up the stairs by running footsteps. Still negotiating the last knot, Glenin wrapped herself in a spell of Invisibility just as a red-haired young man burst into the room. He stopped short and blanched, freckles standing out on his nose. A moment later he staggered forward nearly onto the Mage Guardian’s corpse as a woman wearing an amazement of black and white pushed in behind him and began to scream.

  Discovery of the bodies was closely followed by discovery of one identity disk. Huddled on the bed, hoping that in the welter of sheets and blankets no one would notice the telltale depression her body made in the mattress, Glenin gritted her teeth with the strain of repressing her rage. To reveal the truth—that Mai Alvassy lay there, not Sarra Liwellan—would mean revealing herself. This she could not do. But neither could she leave. Not until the bodies had been removed and she was alone in this putrid chamber, and could escape.

  And not until she worked loose the purple silk still binding her wrists.

  The redheaded bower lad urged the woman out onto the landing while others crowded in to begin cleaning up the mess. One young man took a long look at the bloody ruin on the floor, lurched to the marble table, and was thoroughly sick into the violet pottery basin.

  Glenin could scarcely blame him. She had seen people die, and die horribly—a few by her own magic. But this was beyond horror. She understood why it had been done. But though she believed in no Saint but Chevasto, she directed a prayer to St. Venkelos now: that the Judge would mete out the punishment the defiler of an Ambrai’s corpse deserved. Never mind that Mai had not been so Named; in her had flowed the Ambrai Blood.

  And Desse Blood, she reminded herself. Mai’s loyalties had condemned her. It was neither Glenin’s responsibility nor Glenin’s fault that she had died.

  Amid much wailing and terrified babbling, they carried out first the Mage’s corpse and then the girl’s small body, both wrapped in purple curtains. Glenin finally got the last bit of torn silk unwrapped from her wrists, rubbing her chafed skin, and shrugged away all thoughts of her cousin. It was Sarra Liwellan who demanded attention now. Glenin had underestimated her, believing the dimples and the innocent simper. It was a mistake not to be repeated.

  But if Glenin had lost, Sarra Liwellan had not entirely won, either. She would be hunted and she knew it. Where would she go?

  Most of the Mages had undoubtedly been taken back to that sewer in Neele. The Council Guard—and in some cases Lords of Malerris—stood ready at every access to every Ladder on Lenfell. From dawn this morning until every Mage Guardian was accounted for, the enemy would be sought out where they lived and worked and especially where they might attempt to escape justice. If Sarra Liwellan had guessed so much about Glenin, then Glenin believed she could intuit much about Sarra—certainly enough to know that she would shun all Ladders as more dangerous than the Wraithen Mountains.

  For herself, Glenin instantly rejected the idea of returning to Renig—or going to Malerris Castle or Ryka Court. She had no intention of facing her father, any Lord of Malerris, or Anniyas without some sort of victory in her palms. What could she salvage from this debacle? Where could she go to lay hands on Sarra Liwellan or Taig Ostin or Gorynel Desse?

  Anniyas would never have said or; Anniyas would have said and. Anniyas and her wild, unpredictable, damnable
luck.

  Glenin was not less than Anniyas. She was more. Here was her chance to prove it. The Liwellan girl had shown a remarkable facility for guessing Glenin’s plans. Now Glenin would guess hers.

  Striding to the window, careful to avoid the blood, Glenin drew the lace curtains shut. Bending to reach beneath the table where she’d kicked it, after a moment’s fumbling she retrieved a circle of white velvet three feet across. She spread this carefully on the purple carpet, fingers light and soft on its embroidery of gold bullion, freshly stitched over a pattern ancient before The Waste War.

  Swift she was, but not swift enough. The door squeaked open. The redhead entered, his gaze on the stained carpet as if his was the nauseating task of cleaning it up. Glenin could almost follow the path of his thoughts as well as the path of his eyes: from the discarded strips of sheeting to the velvet circle to the lace curtains.

  The man opened his mouth to shout a warning. She stood, let the spell drop, conjured a Globe, and exploded it in his face.

  This time she did curse as his brains were added to the bloody mess on the rug. The sphere had been half the size this spell usually yielded. Efficient enough, but hardly instantaneous; worrisome in its feeble red-orange glow. Suddenly afraid, she stared down at the white circle. Would enough power remain to work the Ladder?

  More people were coming up the stairs. There was no time. She stepped onto the velvet. The Blanking Ward coalesced into a perfect cylinder seven feet high; a murmured word, and she and the velvet Ladder vanished.

  2

  Seven people—one of them unconscious—stuffed into a carriage meant to hold four would not make for one of Sarra’s pleasanter memories. The pace at which the horses hauled the overburdened carriage made for torture.

  After one particularly perilous corner tossed them all like marbles in a bottle, Ilisa Neffe picked herself off Captal Adennos and observed, “Val’s driving has improved. Last year that turn would’ve tilted us clean over.”

  Alin righted himself and Sarra. “Drives within an inch, compared to then,” he agreed. “And it’s only his second time with a four-horse team.”

  “Second—?” Sarra echoed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

  “Because the rest of us never had a first time with a four-horse team.”

  Elomar had Tamos Wolvar braced in a corner of the carriage. When no more wild turns occurred for some minutes, he said, “Help me get him comfortable on the floor. There should be blankets under the seat.”

  Alin, Sarra, and Ilisa wedged themselves as small as possible while the others worked. Tamosin sat with his back to the door, long legs folded to one side, his uncle’s head cradled on his knees. The Captal dragged out blankets. Elomar nodded thanks to his cousin, tucked warm wool around the Scholar, and then checked pulse, respiration, and his eyes’ reaction to the light of an inch-round Mage Globe.

  “What happened?” Ilisa asked.

  Elomar hunched on the floor at Sarra’s feet. “When the Malerrisi’s Globe shattered, so did Wolvar’s. Uncontained, her magic sought his.”

  “He knows how to defend himself,” she retorted. “No one is more accomplished with Globes.”

  “Against a Malerrisi?”

  Ilisa had to shake her head.

  “I’ve done what I can. He needs sleep, quiet, and half the pharmacopoeia.”

  For the first time the Captal spoke. “He needs another Scholar with knowledge of Mage Globes. Tamosin, if I may trade places with you—?”

  Sarra learned then a little of why it was imperative to preserve a Captal’s life and freedom. Within five minutes Tamos Wolvar’s breathing was even, his features had relaxed, and his heartbeat was steady. Elomar bowed silent homage to the Captal.

  A short time later the carriage slowed, then stopped. Alin unlatched the window covering and slithered halfway out, sitting on the frame to consult with Val. Sarra heard something about “rest the horses” and “figure out where the hell we’re going.”

  I’m working on it, she muttered silently. None of the Mages, including the Captal, had offered any suggestions. Getting them to safety was her responsibility. “Safety?” That’s a good one.

  Alin squirmed back into the seat. “Sarra—”

  She was ready for him. “Where’s the nearest Ostin property?”

  “Here in Combel.”

  “Anybody home?”

  “Probably my sister Geria.” He made a face.

  “We have to get rid of this carriage,” Ilisa said.

  “And find a place for Scholar Wolvar to recover,” the Captal added.

  “And warn Taig,” Alin finished. “But he’s in Longriding.”

  Sarra addressed herself first to Guardian Neffe. “The carriage is marked as Council property from Renig. That alone will get you through Geria Ostin’s gates. Once you’re in, how you identify yourselves is up to you. As is how you convince her of who you aren’t. Send the carriage back to Renig. You, the Wolvars, and the Captal stay here as long as you judge it safe.”

  Ilisa nodded. “Domni Ostin, your sister’s not Mageborn, is she?”

  “St. Miryenne forfend!”

  “Good.” And she smiled a predatory little smile.

  Sarra turned to Elomar. “Stay with them, or come with us? Your choice.”

  “The Captal knows more than I. Use me as you will, Sarra.”

  Use him—the way she was about to use Alin and Val to keep Taig safe. And find Cailet.

  But first take care of this lot. She asked the younger Wolvar, “Can you drive this thing?”

  “If Val Maurgen can do it, how hard can it be?”

  Alin gave a snort of derision. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “Climb up on the box,” Sarra said, “and have him teach you.” As Tamosin wriggled out through the window, she finally looked again at Alin. “It’s the four of us, then. We need horses to get to Longriding—fast ones, if we’re to arrive before . . . the Malerrisi.” She couldn’t bring herself to pronounce her sister’s name. “Along the way we’ll have to find out what happened to make the Council outlaw all Mage Guardians.”

  “Mageborns,” Elomar corrected. “She said ‘Mageborns.’”

  “Lords of Malerris, too? So it begins,” Alin murmured.

  “‘Begins’?” the Captal echoed, then shook his head. “No. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

  “A wise decision, Cousin,” Elomar told him.

  Sarra was so made that she could never wish not to know. But she might have made an exception in this case. With all remaining Mage Guardians imprisoned or dead and a few Malerrisi thrown in for appearances’ sake, magic would “vanish” from Lenfell. Then the Wraithenbeasts would come. And the Malerrisi would demand—and receive—the whole world and the chains to bind it in return for penning the monsters up again.

  She felt her ragged nails dig into her palms and reopen the cuts made by flying glass. “They’ve begun it,” she said curtly. “But we’re going to finish it. Our way.”

  3

  The Golden Bean (“Combel’s Finest Coffee Bar! The Last Word in Elegance!”) offered a choice of twenty-six different brews (“Imported from the Best Brogdenguard Plantations!”) accompanied by pitchers of cream (“Sweet! Fresh! Wholesome!”) and little bowls of condiments (“Rock Sugar! Cinnamon Sticks! Chocolate Drops! Raspberry Sugar! Crystallized Violets! Try All Eight!”).

  Sarra’s notions of elegance did not include the dim and dismal low-ceilinged room she and Elomar now sat in. The black liquid presented to them could have doubled as paint remover. The mugs were dented, the cream curdled, the condiments ossified. Elomar chipped away at a pile of purple lumps that would not have been out of place in the Plum Room and eventually spooned a few into his mug. Sarra gulped her scalding coffee (“Almond Surprise!”) black, and mercifully tasted not a drop of it.

  Ilisa Neffe had easily gained entrance to the Ostin residen
ce for herself, her husband, Tamos Wolvar, and the Captal—by what spells cast on whom, Sarra neither knew nor cared. She had watched it happen from the shelter of a nearby corner, and felt only relief that here were four fewer people to worry about.

  Alin and Val were off somewhere acquiring horses—how and from whom she similarly neither knew nor cared. She had more important worries, and they were written out before her on the broadsheet that covered what little of the table the mugs and bowls did not. Combel might be in the middle of nowhere as far as the rest of Lenfell knew or cared, but news came to Combel just the same.

  The headlines of the Feleson Press broadsheet might have been written by the same superior mind that had composed the coffee bar’s menu.

  KILLINGS IN KENROKESHIR!

  MURDEROUS MAGIC RUNS WILD!

  COUNCIL DECREE: MAGEBORNS OUTLAWED!

  ANNIYAS OUTRAGED!

  EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT OF FATAL DAY!

  Sarra read it over and over again, huddled around two separate agonies: one of knowledge, the other of ignorance.

  Knowledge was bad enough. Expert at gleaning kernels of truth amid sensationalist broadsheet chaff, Sarra knew what had occurred in Kenrokeshir.

  During First Moon, in a minor town called Jenaton, a Warrior Mage Guardian—unsuspected as such by her neighbors—issued public challenge to a Lord of Malerris hitherto just as anonymous. Right there in the middle of Market Circle, before a hundred horror-stricken bystanders, they fought it out with Battle Globes. A spire toppled from St. Telomir’s Shrine, killing the votary; several horses dropped dead in their tracks and several more ran wild, trampling to death five persons; fires broke out in shops and stalls, killing many more. These scenes were illustrated with woodcuts on the inside page. Sarra had no reason to doubt any of it.

  What she did question was the manner in which the Malerrisi was reported to have died. Feleson Press said that the Warrior Mage’s final blast incinerated him from the inside out—and a score of petrified onlookers as well.