by Melanie Rawn
No!
The warning was from her own magic that did not like the taste of that other. Even as she pulled away she recognized it: her father, Auvry Feiran. Made vulnerable to her in some way by sleep, his magic stirred. It was not wholly of Malerris, not like what she now felt as Glenin’s cool, metallic sharpness. There was warmth still in her father, and the tang of a freshening breeze. She didn’t understand that, but she didn’t need to right now.
She needed what she perceived in front of her now. She opened her eyes.
An unimpressive old man with narrow, stooped shoulders and a permanent nervous squint. Another Scholar, she thought automatically, tracked down the thought’s source, and knew the man’s name.
It meant nothing to her. Perhaps the information had been in one of the spheres—Mage Globes—Tamos Wolvar had kept for himself. But the clothing was oddly familiar, and she didn’t know why that should be. She’d never seen anyone dressed all in black—shirt, longvest, trousers, and cloak—with a silver sash around his waist and two small silver pins winking from his collar.
She had no need of Scholar Wolvar’s memories to identify the man’s tense reluctance. But if he would not teach her, how would she learn?
“You must excuse her,” said Gorynel Desse’s voice—from thin air again, he had disappeared. “She’s never seen our regimentals.”
“So few have, these bleak days.” Lusath Adennos shrugged off his cloak and draped it over one arm. “And mine are rather disreputable.”
“Never that. A little ragged, perhaps, but that’s to be understood,” Desse replied gently. “You were Mage Captal in a time unworthy of you.”
Mage Captal—?
“Kind of you to say so, Gorsha.” He glanced at Cailet, then sighed. “I suppose this is necessary.”
“I’m sorry!” Cailet burst out.
“Hardly your fault, child. I’m only a bit hesitant, that’s all. I remember my own learning, and it wasn’t easy. I’ll try to go more softly with you.” He shrugged. “Then again, you’re braver than I ever was.”
“I’m not brave. I’m scared,” she confessed. “I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I know it has to happen. Does that make any sense?”
“So Gorsha didn’t tell you all of it yet? Typical. I suppose he’s right, though. He usually is.” Straightening, he held out ink-stained hands. “Well, let’s get on with it. You’re here to learn and I’m here to teach you.”
She walked forward, slipping her fingers into his palms. Deftly he changed the positioning so that her hands clasped his.
“Close your eyes, child. That’s right. Can you see your magic? No, don’t chase it down like a stray puppy, just let it flow through you, and—by Deiket’s Snowy Beard! Gorsha, why didn’t you tell me?”
“Would you have believed me?”
“N–no. No, I don’t suppose I would. Still . . . I see now that you were right.”
“I usually am.”
The Captal snorted. “More conceit than Leninor Garvedian! There now, child, it’s all right. We’ll begin now. . . .”
There was so much!
Spells and Wards and conjurations; small witcheries and magnificent sorceries; tricks of hand and eye and word and gesture—
—and the rules a Mage Guardian lived by.
So much, so much, and yet she knew there was more, that esoteric theory and practical knowledge and ancient ethic were not the whole. Something else, something that made a Captal, something—
“Great St. Miryenne, no!”
Gorynel Desse’s shout shattered her concentration. Her eyes flew open. Her hands were empty. Captal Adennos was gone. His cloak lay like broken, abandoned raven wings on the obsidian mirror, visible atop the matching blackness only because of its thick woolen opacity.
In front of Cailet, just out of reach, hovered a curious thing like a Mage Globe, but completely alien to Tamos Wolvar’s all-inclusive knowledge. The hazy sphere glowed ruby-red, webbed with a complex throbbing pattern of silver and gold and blue. There was magic in it and of it. Cailet sensed a power completely unlike her own: smaller. Quieter. Content to rest, to wait.
“No!” echoed once more from the white sky, and Cailet didn’t understand Desse’s panic. There was no danger here, no threat.
It was only a baby. . . .
21
“All clear,” Alin said. “I left Val behind to guard the door, and—”
“His time would be better spent in trimming that damned cactus of Mother’s,” Taig muttered.
“Just once I wish you’d let me finish a sentence. It so happens that the damned cactus has been trimmed. And as there’s only one person allowed to touch it. . . .” He grinned up at Taig.
“Mother’s at the Longriding house?” He let out a whoop and thwacked Alin on the shoulder, a genial blow that nearly felled his slight brother.
Collan divided a bewildered stare between them. “Cactus?”
“You’ll find out soon enough, believe me,” Taig replied. “You take Tamsa. Telo and I will carry Sela. Can you handle all of us, little brother?”
“You and the horses you rode in on, big brother—if you’d ridden in on horses, that is, and if any Ladder was of a size for it.”
Taig smiled at Col’s skeptical raised brow. “Cocky little Blood, isn’t he?”
“I just hope you two know what you’re doing.”
“There’s nothing else we can do.” Taig sobered. “At Longriding we can send for a physician. She needs medical attention.”
“Tarise didn’t look happy about taking Sela through a Ladder. I’m no doctor, but it seems to me she shouldn’t be moved at all.”
The brothers exchanged glances, and the elder cleared his throat. “Probably not. But whatever’s going on with Cai is affecting the baby.”
“Mageborn?” Col let out a low whistle.
Alin nodded. “Cai’s like an exposed nail, ripping at any magic within reach. It’s not her fault. She can’t help it. People with training—”
“Or really good Wards,” Collan interrupted.
“—they can protect themselves. Sela’s baby can’t. The Ladder’s going to be a shock. But there’s a good chance of surviving it. If Sela stays here. . . .”
Col didn’t care for the ominous way he trailed off. Neither did he like the anguished groan that announced Sela’s arrival. Telomir Renne and Rillan Veliaz carried her in a rickety wooden chair. They and the Ostin brothers maneuvered her into the Ladder’s circle, trying to pretend they weren’t terrified by the expression on her face. Like someone was tearing her heart out, Col thought, and shivered inside.
Tamsa and her kitten were in Tarise’s arms. Col took the little girl against his chest, wincing as Velvet used needle-fine claws to scramble up on his shoulder. Strange, how she’d yowled loud enough to summon Wraiths yesterday but now was purring. The gentle rumble was pleasant in his ear, the soft vibration soothing against his neck. Col liked cats. He’d had one when he was a little boy, a big gray male with white paws and mane. Cloudy? No, Smoky, that had been the cat’s name. . . .
He nearly dropped Tamsa as he realized he’d remembered without hurt. So little of his childhood remained to him—and much of what did had headaches attached—but he could see Smoky as clearly as if the cat padded across the flagstones toward him. And there was no pain.
Velvet was purring, but Tamsa was crying. Col held her closer and smoothed her hair, knowing there was nothing he could say to assuage her fear. Saints, to be four years old and helpless . . . he remembered what that felt like. . . .
He remembered what it felt like—and there was no pain.
“Collan? Col, let’s go!”
Blindly, he responded to Taig’s voice, stepping into the circle. No one hit him over the head this time. Not that there was anything to be seen or felt or heard: there was nothing at all for the space of five heartbeats. Just as he was telli
ng himself that the sensible thing to do was get scared, and before he could reply that the sensible thing was to shut up about it, a sunlit room snapped into existence around him. A greenhouse: air heavy with moisture, glass panes curving upward to a domed ceiling. He shifted his feet and stifled a curse as something stuck him in the backside.
“Careful!” Taig warned.
“Too late. Your Lady Mother’s cactus, I presume?” He turned slowly—and cautiously—to look at the thing. It was gigantic. The spines really were the size of swords. He could’ve broken one off and used it against half an army.
“Cute, isn’t it?” said Valirion Maurgen. He stood by the door, well out of range of the Ladder.
“Adorable,” Collan growled.
“Let’s get Sela upstairs,” said Telomir Renne. “Val, Taig, you—”
He never finished the sentence. Val staggered forward, down onto his knees between tubbed fruit trees as the door slammed into his back. Alin cried out, a sound nearly lost in Sela’s scream—not of pain but of terror. For through the wooden door and across Maurgen’s sprawled body surged a dozen Council Guards.
Collan knelt swiftly, stashing Tamsa under the cactus’s vicious arms. “Stay here. Don’t move.”
She was too frightened even to call for her mother. He tried to pry the cat loose from his shoulder but Velvet was having none of it; she dug in, hissing. Col gave up—he had no time. He could hear the lethal music of swords.
Drawing his own, he whirled and barely felt a cactus spine slice his shirt. Taig and Telomir were defending Sela, helpless in the chair, against four red uniforms. Alin was keeping another busy and frustrated by dodging his sword with the suppleness of a Wraith, using plants as cover. Val had struggled to his feet and was hacking away at another Guard. Two were already down. Good, Collan thought, enough left to entertain me for a while.
He grabbed the back of Sela’s chair with one hand and dragged her out of the way. With more room to fight now, he chose his opponent and set to work. The first he impaled on his sword; the second he impaled on the cactus. The third was deprived of his weapon when Collan deprived him of his hand. The fourth got lucky, and got inside Col’s guard. His luck ran out when one of the twin Rosvenir knives ran through his ribs straight to his heart.
A woman shrieked from somewhere beyond the door. Col spared a thought for Taig’s and Alin’s mother as he angled his blade into a Guard’s thigh deep enough to cut a chunk out of the bone. He stepped lightly out of the way as the man toppled, and gave him a little push to correct his fall—right onto a smaller but no less vicious cactus.
Collan decided he liked the denizens of Lady Lilen’s greenhouse after all.
Yet another walking corpse in a red longvest attacked him, and was dispatched with a slash to his throat. We used up the original dozen a while ago—but they just keep coming. He shook his head in disgust. Didn’t they know when they were beaten?
Val Maurgen was now defending the weaponless Alin; he looked to be doing all right. Col eyed the door and judged that it needed shutting. He lost count of his kills by the time he got through to the hallway. Taig was right behind him. A woman stood halfway up the stairs, screaming now with barely a pause for breath. A glance told Col she was too young to be mother to anyone past ten years of age. Whoever she might be, her lung capacity was impressive.
More Guards. More blood. He hoped the Ostins kept a lot of servants, and that they weren’t squeamish about cleaning up messes. Come to think of it, there ought to be somebody besides Council Guards and the screamer here. A footman wielding a fireplace iron, a groom with a pitchfork, somebody. Unless they’d all been killed.
Taig ran past to what Collan assumed was the front door. After a quick look around—nothing on the floor moved but the slowly spreading blood—Col went after him.
He looked up and down the street in disbelief. Not only was it dusk—had he been fighting that long?—but the neighborhood was completely deserted. No horses—the Guards must have come on foot, or been here so long their mounts were in the Ostin stable. No pedestrians, either. No nothing. The houses were set well apart on big parcels, but surely someone had heard the commotion.
“That’s all of them,” Taig said, panting as he approached Col. “The whole squadron of twenty-five.”
“Too bad. I was having a good time.”
Taig gave him an odd look, and after a moment said, “Yes, I imagine you were. My sister is famous for her entertainments.”
“The lady on the stairs?” he asked as they strode back up the walk.
“Geria, First Daughter of Ostin First Daughters—and ‘lady’ isn’t the word I’d use to describe her.”
Something in the grim set of Taig’s handsome face alerted Col. “You think she—your own sister?”
“I know she did. She probably wined and dined all twenty-five for three days—and slept with half of them. The patriotic sort, my sister Geria,” he added bitterly. “I should’ve guessed.”
“At least she stopped screaming,” Col observed as they entered the house.
“She’ll start again very soon, if I have any say in the matter.” He crossed the littered floor to the foot of the stairs. Geria Ostin stared down at him, mercifully mute with shock. Not at his presence, Collan thought critically, but that he was quite unaccountably alive.
“Where’s Mother? What have you done with her?” Taig demanded.
His sister shut her mouth tight.
“Geria,” Taig said with almost gentle menace, “if she’s come to any harm, I’ll kill you with my own hands. Where is she?”
When the First Daughter showed no inclination to answer, Collan said, “Probably upstairs, locked in somewhere. I’ll go find her.”
“Would you? Thanks.”
He paused to wipe his sword on a Guard’s cloak, but did not sheathe the blade. He’d mounted five steps when Geria came back to life.
“How dare you! Get out of my house at once!”
Amazing, Collan marveled. She was even better than Sarra at Blooded Arrogance.
Taig didn’t even turn on his way back to the greenhouse. Collan paused, waiting to hear what she’d say next. It was bound to be another astonishment he could add to his collection.
“I’ll ruin you, Taig!” she shouted to his retreating back. “You’ll never get a brass cutpiece from me!”
Col couldn’t help it. He began to laugh.
She rounded on him. “You motherless shit!” Descending one step, then two, she lifted a hand to slap him.
Velvet, forgotten on Collan’s shoulder, let out a furious hiss and leaped for Geria’s face. She screamed and flailed, and Col hastily jumped up to rescue the kitten. But Velvet needed no help from him. After scoring Geria brow to cheeks to chin with her claws, she landed daintily and wrapped her front legs around Geria’s ankle, adding her teeth for good measure. She had bounded up the stairs before the woman could even try to shake her off.
Collan spent a moment appreciating the cat’s handiwork before the screams got to be too much for his sensitive Minstrel’s ears. He left Geria clutching her bloodied face, shrieking.
Upstairs in the hallway, he called out, “Lady Ostin? Taig sent me to find you! Give me a yell if you can!”
Nothing. Velvet galloped up and wove herself around his boots. He picked up the kitten and resettled her on his shoulder.
“Nice work back there. But what I need right now is a hunting hound with a good nose.”
He set about opening doors. Some were unlocked; those that didn’t yield to a twist on the knob he kicked in. It was growing dark rapidly now, and no lanterns had been lit. Finally he found the right room. It contained a big canopied bed, a gorgeously carved wardrobe, various chairs and tables, and a plump, dark-eyed matron whose looks were immediately improved when he tugged the gag from her mouth.
“Thank you,” the Lady gasped. “I trust I’m not too late to flay my daughter aliv
e?”
“You’ll find the job already begun, courtesy of my little friend here,” he replied as he knelt to undo the ropes tying her ankles to the chair. Velvet hopped into her lap, turned a circle, and settled down to clean her paws.
“I hope she scarred Geria for life,” said Geria’s mother.
“Entirely probable.” He tossed the rope to one side and started on her right wrist. “Collan Rosvenir, Lady, and delighted to be of service.”
“Lilen Ostin. Damn that whelp of mine, she’s had me locked in here for three days! In my own house!”
“While she did the honors of hospitality to the Council Guard?”
“Two of them outside my door day and night. Don’t be so tentative about it, Collan, I’m not made of glass. Once I’m free, I’ll see to your cuts.”
He glanced up, surprised. But at her mention of them, the rents in his skin began to sting. So the Guards had scored him a few times; he must be getting clumsy. “My thanks, Lady, but there’s someone else who needs you more.” And he explained why they had come.
She moved as quickly as her blood-starved limbs could manage, and more quickly with every step. Geria was nowhere to be seen; probably just as well, Collan told himself. The look in her mother’s eyes boded worse than bruises.
Velvet purred once again on Col’s shoulder. As they neared the greenhouse door, she mewed frantically and bounded down—a long drop for a little cat—and raced inside. Col and Lady Lilen followed, stepping around the wooden door that hung from a single warped hinge.
Taig and Tamsa were with Sela, and Velvet was back where she belonged in the child’s arms. In the dim room, amid the wreckage of plants and pots and overturned shelving, Col didn’t see Alin or Val or Telomir.
“Mother—” Taig spun around even before she spoke. His silver-gray eyes were bleak with agony.
She caught her breath. “Alin?”
“Val.” He gathered Sela in his arms, lifting her bulk as gently as he could. She was unconscious, her head lolling.
Lady Lilen rallied at once. “Take her to the music room. You’ll never get her all the way upstairs. I’ll be there shortly. Irien’s medical kit is in his bedroom—damn, why didn’t I bring him with me from Ostinhold? Never mind. Take the child with you when you go up. There’s poppy syrup in the kit, give her a spoonful and put her to bed.”
