by Melanie Rawn
She went on, “Cailet’s sleeping now, thanks to the Minstrel—” Though it was obviously acid on her lips to admit it. “—and you both need sleep as much as she. But the work must be finished tomorrow.”
Collan stopped in mid-chord. “Anyone but Cailet is a waste of time, is that the way you see it?”
If that stung, she kept it to herself. “They can do nothing for Tamos Wolvar and the Captal. They have to do what they must for Cailet.”
“Is she more important than—”
“Yes!”
“Yes,” the old Mage whispered. Then, to Sarra: “Tomorrow?”
“Taig was here a little while ago. He’s gone with Riddon and Val over to the Octagon Court. They took Ilisa along to spell them Invisible—I insisted. They need her and she needs something to do.”
“Hmm. As I recall, she’s fairly accomplished,” Desse said. “She’ll Ward them well enough so the Ward won’t be felt.”
“Mages can do that?” Collan asked.
“If I gave you a list of everything Mages can do, we’d be here until St. Rilla’s Day.”
“How about a list of what they can’t?”
The First Sword ignored the sarcasm. “We know what Taig will find at the Octagon Court, of course.”
“You may, but I don’t,” Col said.
Sarra gave an impatient shrug of one shoulder. “Evidence of a fire, and of a search. They came by Ladder from Ryka Court, by way of the Spiral Stair.”
“Exactly who is ‘they’?”
“Council Guards, Lords of Malerris—does it matter?”
“Damned right it matters. They’ll expect to find us at the Academy, won’t they?”
“A thorough search of the ruins and grounds will take perhaps a day. By tomorrow night at the latest they’ll know—”
“—where we aren’t,” he finished. “But they won’t stop looking. Y’know, this just keeps getting better and better.”
“Sarra. . . .” Desse cleared his throat. “I may not be able to complete the work by tomorrow.”
“I thought you said she trusts you now to help her.”
“Yes. However, what I have in mind goes beyond your demand to give her her magic.” He rolled the cup between his hands, not meeting her gaze. “Lusath Adennos is dying. So is Tamos Wolvar.”
“I know, and I’m sorry, but what does this have to do with Cailet?”
He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “One is a Scholar whose prowess with Mage Globes is unequaled. The other is Captal.”
“Their loss will be deeply felt, I—”
And then she stopped, as if instantaneously rendered stone: lips parted, black eyes glassy, angry flush still on her cheekbones. It seemed to Collan that she knew what hadn’t yet been said, and the concept so appalled her that body and thought simply froze.
“They need not be lost,” said Gorynel Desse.
Bewildered, Col asked, “Then there is something you can do for them?”
“No.”
“Then what in the hell—”
“To rephrase,” the old man said, “what they know need not be lost.”
Elomar Adennos surged to his feet, outrage scrawled all over his lean unhandsome face. “No! You can’t! She’s seventeen years old!”
Desse shrugged. “Jonna Halvos was but twenty. Finsenn Girre was eighteen.”
Collan glanced at the girl in the bed. Seventeen? She looked twelve. “Now, wait a minute,” he began. “What are you talking about?”
“You moron!” Sarra Liwellan rounded on him with a fierceness that made him wish she’d stayed a statue. “They mean to make her Captal!”
15
Halfway to the Healers Ward, Glenin had understood her father’s wisdom in seeking its Ladder as an entry to the Mage Academy. Auvry Feiran and the Council Guard had done their work to perfection in 951: the streets of Ambrai were chaos. Stone rubble, ash, and half-burned support pillars blocked progress through side avenues, and even the widest boulevards were clogged with ruined carts and carriages. Horses would have been useless, even if horses could be brought through a Ladder, for each pile of debris must be climbed or skirted on dangerous footing. Neither would horses have tolerated the stifling odor of smoke that clung to the air despite the breeze.
Glenin minded the stink. She minded even more the litter of human bones, picked clean by scavenger animals and bleached pristine white by seventeen summers of merciless sun. She did not look on them and think that perhaps this or that broken skeleton had been someone she had once known; she thought only of what Lady Allynis and Captal Garvedian had forced her father to do here. If not for those two stubborn, haughty women, she would rule now from the Octagon Court as Lady of Ambrai. During the slow progress across the city—waiting at intersections while scouts sought the easiest routes, perilously climbing over rubble, sliding between ash mountains and wobbly walls—she began for the first time to realize how much work would be required to bring Ambrai back to life. Damn Grandmother, and damn the Captal, she thought furiously as an unsuspected splinter struck right through her leather glove. It’s too bad they died before I could order them to clean up the wreckage they’re responsible for! On their knees, with their own hands!
At length she and the other Malerrisi reached the naked stone struts of the Healers Ward dome. The world-famous stained glass “Education of St. Feleris” that had once glowed above was now strewn thickly on the floor. At noon, the pieces might yet shimmer; at dusk, they were as dead as the rest of the city. But they were still dangerous to walk on and Glenin was tempted to conjure a small Globe to see by. Her father’s earlier reaction to Chava Allard’s little Warming fire caused her to keep her magic to herself.
They could not begin their search until tomorrow’s dawn. Any light might be seen, if the Mages were watching. Auvry Feiran had explained that seeking whatever Ladders might still be here and functional might be sensed by the enemy, but this couldn’t be helped. Any Ladder not known to and reserved for the exclusive use of the Lords of Malerris must be found and destroyed.
And for this, they would need fire.
The Malerrisi ate on their feet—a cold meal, for even a spell of Warming might be detected, and a hurried one, for it would be dark soon and light was forbidden as well. As they swallowed bread, sausage, cheese, and wine, Auvry Feiran gave his orders. One Lord would stay here for each Ladder found, and when fire was seen at the Academy, they would set fires here. It might be that the Healers Ward had no extant Ladders but the one to the Academy Infirmary, and even that might be dead. But just as Ladders all over Lenfell were being watched for fleeing Mages, any still here must also be taken care of.
Securing the Healers Ward might take a few hours, or it might take all day. But no one would go to the Academy until tomorrow night at the very earliest. Surprise would be all the greater for the Battle Globes blazing in darkness immediately on arrival from the Infirmary Ladder.
There were no comments and no objections. A Lord of Malerris Auvry Feiran would never be, but Commandant of the Council Guard he had been for seventeen years: his handiwork was all around them. Further, friend and student of Gorynel Desse he had been from the age of sixteen to the age of forty; no one knew the old Warrior Mage better.
The Malerrisi dispersed to a series of round antechambers in which the sick had been treated long ago. Glenin and her father stayed apart from the others, on watch, huddled in their cloaks against the cold that replaced the dying sun.
“You must be frozen,” he said softly, drawing her against his chest and wrapping his cloak to enfold her. “You don’t have to sit up with me, you know.”
“I want to.” She snuggled close, tucking her head under his chin as she had when she was a little girl. “Pity we couldn’t Fold the distance from the Octagon Court.”
“No one could have done it. Too much debris on top of the paving. Try to sleep, Glenin.”
Sh
e shut her eyes, feeling safe and protected, if not quite warm. “Father?”
“Yes, dearest?”
“Anniyas told you to bring back their heads, didn’t she?”
“She vowed to have the Captal’s and Desse’s, or mine.”
“Yours is far too handsome—and useful!—where it is.”
“My thanks for the compliment, Lady,” he replied, amused. “Most women would’ve stopped at ‘handsome’!”
“Most men would’ve settled for it. But not you. Father, may I ask a favor?”
“Anything you like, Glensha, that’s in my power to give you.”
“It’s not that much. You can have their heads. I want the Liwellan girl’s.”
“A very pretty head,” he mused. “And clever. But not useful?”
“She has no magic, and I find her annoying.”
“My darling, you may kill her or keep her for a pet, whatever you like. I’ll tell the others that she’s yours.”
“Thank you, Father,” she said, and fell contentedly asleep.
16
“They mean to make her Captal!” Sarra cried.
Elomar spoke coldly into the short silence. “I refuse to countenance this. She’s only a child.”
“She is all we have,” Desse replied.
“With no training beyond what you gave her—and that only vague theory, not true knowledge.”
“What she receives from the Captal and Tamos Wolvar will remedy that.”
“Or drive her mad! I will not see this done to her!” Elomar finally and spectacularly lost his temper, flinging his winecup to the floor. The shatter of cheap pottery made Sarra flinch. Even the Minstrel gave a start of surprise.
Unmoved, Gorynel Desse said, “She is all we have—but she is also the best we have ever had. It is her share to become Captal. It has been so, always.”
Sarra’s knees buckled. The Minstrel caught her before she fell. Shaking him off, she made it to the bed and gripped the scarred oak post with both hands. Of all she had ever intuited about what she and Cailet and Glenin might symbolize, she had never guessed that power and circumstance and—according to Desse—fate itself would cast Cailet as Mage Captal.
But it was so obvious—wasn’t it? Glenin, born to become Lady of Malerris, adept at malign and manipulative magic. Cailet, destined to become Mage Captal, to oppose and counter and check Glenin’s power. Sisters by Blood; enemies by ancient design. And Sarra . . . what was her lot? The power that came of land and wealth and position; political influence, surely; First Councillor, perhaps?
She felt sick. She and Glenin had chosen their own paths. But Cailet—
Desse’s attention was fixed on the Healer. “I am still First Sword and the only Senior Mage left. I tell you now that this girl will be the next Captal. Mage Guardian, must I remind you of your duty?”
“Fuck his duty,” Collan Rosvenir snarled. “Why don’t you ask those two old men if they’d prefer to die sooner instead of later? But you can’t, can you? Safe enough there! Neither one lucid enough to understand! Is it their duty to commit suicide? Or yours to murder them?”
“Stay out of this,” Desse warned.
“What about the girl?” Rosvenir demanded, and Sarra swung around to stare in amazement. “Can’t ask her what she wants, either! So you’ll make the decision for her—just like a Lord of Malerris!”
“Silence!” the old man thundered.
Minstrel, I may have misjudged you. Sarra put steel into spine and speech. “Truly told,” she said to Desse, “if you do this, you are no better than they.”
Very blue eyes slanted around, narrow with speculation and then sparking with grim approval. “You tell him, Lady!”
“Do none of you understand?” Desse climbed painfully to his feet, ragged robe trembling with the tremor in his old bones. “If the Captal’s Bequest is lost, the Mage Guardians will wither and die. There will be no one to stand against the Malerrisi. No one! Cailet must become Captal—be made Captal, as it has been since the Founding.” He turned to Elomar. “You know how.”
He turned white to the lips. “I’ve never—”
“But it’s part of the Healer Mage’s training. You’re the only one who can keep us all alive long enough. I have never begged anything of anyone in my life, but I beg you now, Healer Mage. If you do not do this, all that we are will be lost forever.”
Elomar went very still for a long moment. Then his stricken gaze sought Sarra’s. “He’s right—I despise him for it, but he’s right.”
“No!” she exclaimed. “You can’t do this to her!”
“He’s right,” he repeated woodenly. “If I refuse, all that we are will—”
“You’re out of your mind!” Rosvenir shouted. “You said it yourself—she’s nothing more than a child!”
Elomar bent his head and said nothing.
“She is all we have.” Gorynel Desse let out a quavering sigh. “The Captal will understand. And Tamos—he is my old friend, and I know what he would say. His knowledge, matched to Cailet’s power—”
“That’s all you care about,” the Minstrel said in disbelief. “Power.”
The First Sword regarded him levelly. “Do you want to die? Or to live knowing that Agatine and Orlin and Verald died for nothing?”
Rosvenir’s eyes closed for an instant in pain. Then he glared at Desse and said expressionlessly, “You motherless, murdering son of a Fifth.”
The old Mage nodded. The Minstrel snatched up his lute and strode out, slamming the door behind him.
“You are, you know,” Sarra said. “A murderer.”
“And no better than a Lord of Malerris. Yes, I know that, too.” He sank back down into his chair. “If it affords you any comfort, I don’t doubt that my Wraith will spend all eternity in agony because of it. Captal Adennos knew what would happen when it came his time to die. Tamos would not begrudge his lifetime of knowledge living past his death. Of these things I am certain. But that changes nothing. I am about to become a murderer.”
“Of my own will, I am your accomplice,” Elomar said quietly.
Sarra murmured, “And I.”
Desse glanced over at her. “You have nothing to do with this.”
She gripped the wood tightly. A splinter dug into one palm. “I want Cailet to have such power. She must become Mage Captal.”
For her sisters, when they met—as they must—must meet as equals.
17
Collan snapped the case shut on his lute, muttering under his breath. Council Guards or Lords of Malerris or a gathering of misplaced Wraiths could be roaming Ambrai, he didn’t care. He was getting out of here. Now. Tonight. He would not be party to killing a couple of harmless old men and making some innocent girl into High and Mighty Captal—probably kill her in the process, too, and that damned old Mage with her.
And then all of them would be dead for nothing.
He’d take Jeymi with him. Riddon and Maugir, too. And maybe her Blooded Liwellan Ladyship—she’d turned out to be all right, more or less. Hell, they could all come with him if they wanted.
But . . . Sela wasn’t going anywhere except to a birthing chair. And there was poor little Tamsa. . . .
He gave up stuffing clothes back into his journeypack. Who was he trying to fool? They all left together or nobody left at all. He was trapped. Everyone was. That was what getting mixed up with Mages and the Rising did. Got you trapped. Probably got you killed, one way or another.
He glanced up as the candle flame flickered. All the rooms they inhabited were interior, with no windows to show the searchers precisely where to look. No mistakes of careless fire here. But the lack of a view made Col feel caged.
The gentle draft of the opening door had caused the flame to dance. Sarra Liwellan stood there. She didn’t look trapped. She looked shackled by invisible chains.
“They’re going to do it, aren’t they?”
Col asked.
She nodded.
He thought about accusing her of allowing them to do it, then thought better of it. What real power did she have? Desse could simply spell her to sleep or something. What a world.
“Have you eaten?” he asked instead. When black eyes widened beneath delicately drawn brows, implying that she couldn’t even think about food at a time like this, he added, “If you’re going to watch over her, you’ll need your strength. That means dinner and a nap. Come on.”
“You’re not used to being around people like me, are you?” The tiny smile hovering around her lips did not mock him.
“I’m a Minstrel. I’m around you Bloods all the time.”
She took two steps to his one to keep up with him down the hall. “You really don’t order women about, you know. You make polite suggestions.”
“Oh, I can do that, too.” He sketched a bow as he walked. “Lady, might it be of use to your health and comfort to partake of a little nourishment?”
“A bit overdone, but not bad.”
“Takes too long. I wanted to know if you’d had dinner, so that’s what I asked. Ceremony’s for show. It’s not practical.” His stomach, always practical, rumbled eagerly at the delicious scent wafting down the hall. Someone had gone fishing again today.
“Sometimes ceremony—manners, some people call it—is all that keeps us from each other’s throats.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But if I’d minded my manners the first time we met, I’d probably be dead now.” He saw the memory flare in her sudden upward glance, and grinned. “If I let you kick me in the ass again, will we be even?”
“Not even close!” But a corner of her mouth quivered. “Did you ever get tracked down on the attempted rape charge?”
Anger stirred even at this late date. “I spent the rest of that year dodging any Council Guards I saw.”
“Good.” She gave him both dimples—on purpose, he saw in her gleeful eyes.
Deciding that sticky-sweet deserved sticky-sweeter, he smiled his most charming smile and asked, “Did you ever stop wishing I’d taken you with me?”
