by Melanie Rawn
“Only one that I know of. I know what you’re thinking: what about Alin Ostin? Val fell in love with him, so he learned to love making love to a man. At least, that’s how he explained it to me.” Jennis dragged a stool a little nearer Cailet, and sat. “Now, me, I love making love to men. They’re good clean fun, and I want lots of children, so in a few years I’ll start picking out likely fathers and indulge myself shamelessly! But I fall in love with women—on the order of twice a year, usually. Oh, not with you,” she added. “You’re very pretty, Cai—those big eyes and all that blonde hair—and I’ve always liked you a lot. But I’ve never yet been lucky enough to fall in love with a woman I like!” She laughed again. “Point is, I’m not in the least bit offended, so don’t worry about hurting my feelings. I’m made the way I am, and you’re made the way you are, and we love whom we love, and that’s that. All right?”
“Yes.” Cailet stared down at her hands. But I’ll never love anyone. And I can’t let anyone love me. “I’m just—I don’t have those feelings for women. Or men, either.”
“If any of this is about Taig. . . .”
She shook her head again. “It’s about me.”
“You’re in shock still from all that’s happened. Damn, I should’ve realized. I’m sorry, Cailet, that was a rotten thing for me to do.”
“No, Jen, it wasn’t anything you did.” She glanced up. “It’s me. I think there’s something missing inside me.” Innocence. Clean desire. Honest joy. And to think she’d worried about being at the mercy of Alin’s attraction to men, Gorsha’s to women—what she wouldn’t give for either of them to take over that part of her life. Then she wouldn’t have to be Cailet, maimed and mutilated in spirit as well as body.
“You’ve been through some rough times,” Jennis was saying. “Let yourself heal, Cai. You’ll find someone, I know you will.”
Sarra had said much the same thing. Cailet would live in terror the rest of her life that she would find someone she could love, who would love her.
Someone she could not love, or allow to love her, for she would inevitably destroy him.
12
Miram and Biron stayed at Maurgen Hundred. Cailet and the others borrowed horses from Lady Sefana and rode to Combel. The Bower of the Mask had been closed for weeks, its mistress killed by Council Guards, all the young men scattered. Walking down the main avenue, Cailet almost hoped she’d run into Geria Ostin. A judicious spell would do First Daughter a world of good.
Mage Guardian regimentals had not been forgotten. Glances and hesitant nods were respectful, sometimes awed, often wary. Cailet accepted the first, deplored the second, and vowed to cure the third. No one should fear magic.
At an inn recommended by Sefana Maurgen, Cailet was forced to insist on paying full price for their rooms and meals. This, too, would have to change, she told herself. No favors, just because they were Mage Guardians. After dinner, the owner approached shyly and asked if it was true that the Captal would soon be schooling people in magic again. It seemed she had a little sister just past her first Wise Blood. . . .
Cailet agreed to speak to the girl the next day, and, with Elo’s help, ascertained that she was indeed Mageborn.
Young Lira Trevarin was the first. Cailet’s work had begun. There were hundreds of such children all over Lenfell. In the nearly eighteen years since Ambrai, hundreds more must have been lost. To insanity, some of them, those whose magic was particularly strong; to use of magic as magic withered for lack of education. Some Mageborns had been found during those years, of course, and trained in secret. But most had been captured and killed with the thousand Mages Anniyas had set as her goal.
Inquiries must be made. Mages must go to every corner of Lenfell. But Cailet must be first to search. People must see her as she was: a young girl, a nothing and a nobody, raised to Captal by virtue of extraordinary magic, but not a threat. Never a threat.
Which was why she went to Combel instead of Renig. Her three Warrior Mages were all for rounding up the Ryka Legion themselves. Cailet forbade it.
“It’s government business. Mage Guardians cannot and will not interfere. No matter what happens, we will not participate in the capture and punishment of anyone indicted by the new Council and Assembly. We must remain independent.”
“Sarra won’t like that very much,” Lusira remarked.
“I know.”
The six of them—Cailet, Lusira, Elomar, Imilial, Granon, and Senn—went by ship and by Ladder and by horseback to most of Lenfell’s major cities. Cailet visited places she’d only read about and never thought she’d see: Isodir with its fantasies in wrought iron, painted Firrense, the spindle towers of Dinn, the snowy peaks of Caitiri’s Hearth above the rooftops of Neele, the Dombur Blood’s lavish residence in Domburron. She went to the small towns, too, prosperous places with pretty names like Cascade Springs, Silver Fir, Summer Haven, Rockmere, Shepherd’s Rest. But it was in the frontier villages of Kenrokeshir and Tillinshir and Sheve that she felt most at home, for they were much like their rough-and-tumble counterparts in The Waste, even to the names: Thorny Hole, Misery Mines, Rocky Flat, Broken Chimney. She was welcomed everywhere—sometimes warily, to be sure, but when it was discovered that the awesome Mage Captal was but a shyly smiling girl with no pretensions about her, even the stiffest and most suspicious warmed to her.
She found adolescent Mageborns in most places—and a round dozen of them, all Maklyns, at Wyte Lynn Castle, a circumstance no one could explain.
Once they sailed past Seinshir, and saw for themselves that Malerris Castle had indeed vanished. They also sensed the Wards, which even at a distance gave Senn a hideous headache none of Elomar’s concoctions could ease.
From First Flowers until Drygrass she traveled: a hundred and twenty-four days, never more than four in the same place. Some days were good: traveling days with the wind or salt spray in her face, when she was free to laugh at the boastful tales traded by the three Warrior Mages. Some days were tense and strained: formal days when she must be Captal every instant. Some of the nights were very bad.
Never more than four days in the same place, never more than five nights without dreams. She grew to recognize danger signals in weariness and a short temper. She became picky about wine, not because her tastes were being educated but because certain varietals better disguised the flavor of the drops she sneaked into her cup when she suspected oncoming nightmares. Elo knew nothing about the sleeping potion. She had bought it from an apothecary in Firrense. Sometimes it worked.
One morning, in the finest bedroom of Pinderon’s finest inn, Cailet’s breakfast tray included the very first edition of the new Press, compliments of the management. Curious, she applied herself to coffee, corn fritters, and the front-page editorial. This informed her that whereas Feleson broadsheets had been printed every week, by the time the paper reached even the major cities the news was old indeed. The Press intended to keep the populace informed with timely coverage delivered on the fifth day of every week. Whereas Cailet had no objections to an informed populace, she objected strenuously to the timely method of delivery. The Press, it seemed, had struck a deal with Lady Sarra Liwellan on behalf of the Captal. Mage Guardians would hereafter pop through Ladders with bound stacks of broadsheets on a regular basis.
“‘On behalf of the Captal,’” the Captal muttered, resolving to have a little chat with her sister.
Somebody already had. Page two featured intrepid reporter Amili Mirre’s “intimate, revealing” interview with the Lady herself (Cailet reflected that attempting to make Sarra reveal anything intimate wasn’t intrepid; it was idiotic). The accompanying woodcut portrait made Sarra look sixteen years old and Collan resemble a used-carriage salesman. Cailet read, snickered, choked on her coffee, and finally laughed herself entirely out of her annoyance.
MIRRE: We’ve discussed many of your ideas for reform, Lady Sarra. But our readers are also interested in you as a woman. For inst
ance, several times you’ve said that you talk things over with your husband and value his advice. Now, Lord Collan is an extremely attractive man—
LIWELLAN: Oh, he’s more than just decorative.
MIRRE: It’s rare to find a man with whom one can discuss one’s work, especially such important work as yours.
LIWELLAN: I don’t think such men are rare at all. I’ve met and worked with quite a few, in fact. Most women just don’t give men credit for having brains.
MIRRE: The roving life of a Minstrel is one of great freedom. Does Lord Collan feel constrained by marriage?
LIWELLAN: It’s true that most unmarried men have more freedom. But when a husband vows to obey, he shouldn’t be expected to disobey his own good sense and intelligence. I rely on my husband for both.
MIRRE: But you still control the purse strings.
LIWELLAN: Not at all. I have my inheritance from Lady Agatine Slegin, and he has his earnings from his years as a Minstrel. I see no reason why I should confiscate his money just because he’s now my husband.
MIRRE: “Confiscate” is a rather strong term.
LIWELLAN: But accurate.
MIRRE: So in terms of his financial freedom, marriage hasn’t changed a thing. That’s an unusual attitude. But I suppose it saves him from worrying that you married him for his dowry!
LIWELLAN: Quite.
Cailet decided to go easy on Sarra about using Mages as a delivery service. The article put her in a splendid humor—not only for its amusement value but because it was Sarra being scrutinized and not herself. She was still chuckling as she got dressed: she could just hear the frozen tone of her sister’s voice on that last quelling word.
What she did not hear (it would have sent her into paroxysms of laughter if she had) was what Collan said when he read the piece. He didn’t find it funny at all.
13
“‘Decorative’?”
“Well, would you rather I’d thanked her for saying you’re handsome, as if I was responsible for it and took all the credit?”
“That’s another thing. We go to these stupid dinners and you’ve got this look on your face that says, ‘Hands off, eyes down, he’s mine!’ Like I’m your property and no woman can even look at me but you!”
“If you want me to, I can sit there purring, all smug and satisfied that other women can look but can’t touch!”
“Who says they don’t?”
“What? Who dared—”
“See? There it is again—your property! As if you have to protect me! As if I haven’t spent years sidestepping hands going for my crotch—”
“Saints and Wraiths, I’m beginning to understand why some women keep their men in robes and coifs everywhere but the bedroom! Col, I don’t want to fight about this. I love the way you look, I love showing you off, I love it that other women envy me. That’s how a woman is supposed to feel about her husband. But I don’t think it’s unreasonable that I hate watching them eye-rape you!”
“If you don’t like it, don’t watch.”
“It wouldn’t bother me so much if you didn’t look back at them that way!”
“What way?”
“You know very well what way!”
“Oh, you mean the way I smile and make nice with all those old cows who run the Webs? All the women you complain about? The ones who say you’re too young, too radical, too uppity, and too damned rich?”
“Don’t do me any favors! All you’re doing is getting a reputation for a bold eye—and I can’t afford that!”
“Reflects badly on you that you can’t control your husband?”
“Yes—no! The things I want to do are radical. To get them done, I have to show that in other things I’m as traditional as the next woman. Don’t you see, I can’t have you behaving just as you did before I married you!”
“You married me for who I am. Now you want me to be somebody different?”
“No, of course not! Stop twisting my words!”
“Yes, First Daughter. I hear and obey, First Daughter. From now on I’ll be meek and modest in dress and demeanor, and make sure everyone knows that my only real value is stud service!”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I told her how much I rely on you, and—”
“Oh, right. My ‘good sense’ and ‘intelligence.’ How flattering. How kind. How fucking condescending!”
“What in hell is your problem? I gave you credit for being my adviser as well as my husband. That’s shock enough for people who think men should be rarely seen and never heard. I even told her about our financial agreement—”
“You mean the part about letting me keep my own money? You know what that sounded like? How proud you are that I was clever enough to earn it all by my silly little male self!”
“I never said—”
“Look, Sarra, I won’t stand around like a bower cockie waiting for you to decide when you need me to help make babies.”
“I didn’t marry you to keep you for a pet!”
“No? I get trotted out at social occasions, I sing, I cozy up to all those old farts—”
“Collan, it’s all part of the game! It won’t always be like this. Just until things are settled, and the new government is elected, and I’ve got what I want. It’s important enough to make a few sacrifices. Once we’re at home in Roseguard, things will be different.”
“They damned well better be, First Daughter.”
14
She lost track of time, not really caring what day it was as long as the weather stayed fine. Messages from Sarra awaited her at several locations, asking and then demanding Cailet’s presence on Ryka. Deciding to begin as she meant to continue, Cailet ignored the letters. She loved her sister devotedly, trusted her instincts implicitly, and believed her to be the best hope of making Lenfell what it ought to be—but Cailet was Mage Captal and no one, especially not the probable next First Councillor, gave her orders.
But the dessicated ancient who ruled the Garvedians was expected to make an appearance at Ryka Court soon; as Elomar had finally agreed to marriage, Lusira pleaded with Cailet to return there so she could wheedle permission from the old Lady. There was even a convenient Ladder at Wyte Lynn Castle.
It was inside an obscure and neglected little shrine to Eskanto, a Saint removed from the official calendar years ago. The slate floor was its punning reference to the rhyme: “Night or day, day or night/Ladder’s blackest inside white.” The Ladder led to a print shop at Ryka Court: “Mage or Lord, Lord or Mage/Ladder of the scattered page”—the sigil of Eskanto Cut-Thumb, patron of bookbinders. They arrived at the printer’s at Second—the journey carefully timed to avoid shocking the workers—and Cailet said, “You know, some of that song even makes sense if you listen to it right.”
Thus Cailet entered Ryka Court for the first time in her life. Chambers had been prepared for her—Telomir Renne’s old rooms, which had been Gorsha’s long ago. In them was a Ladder to Ambrai, one of those not included in the song.
The unconventional hour of arrival ensured there would be no fuss. But not five minutes after she’d seen the others settled in nearby chambers and was unpacking her few belongings, Sarra and Collan came in. Without knocking—not because they were rude, but because their arms were full of gifts.
“Wha—?” was all Cailet could manage.
“I thought you’d never get here!” Sarra dumped packages on the wide couch and threw her arms around Cailet. “Didn’t my messages reach you?”
“Umm, well. . . .”
Col grinned. He was resplendent in a dark turquoise robe that matched Sarra’s but for the froth of lace. “You’ll never make a diplomat, kitten. Somebody find a bottle, it’s getting thirsty in here.”
“What is all this?” Cailet stared in amazement.
“Your Birthingday, idiot,” Sarra replied.
“She forgot,” Col said. “She forgot her own Birthingd
ay.”
“Well, she has a family who remembered for her—and Lusira Garvedian to get her here in time for it!” Sarra pushed her toward the couch. “Hurry up. If you don’t start ripping ribbons soon, it’ll take all night. The turquoise are from Col and me. Orange is from the Ostins, of course, blue from the Maurgens, silver from your Mages, yellow from Riddon and Maugir and Jeymi—oh, that reminds me! Riddon and Miram are getting married! He’s been at Maurgen Hundred since Midsummer Moon—”
“Busy work, falling in love,” Col put in.
“—and they’ll marry at Harvest and move into the new cottage at Ostinhold to supervise the reconstruction.”
Cailet blinked. “Miram and Riddon?”
“News broadsheets later,” Col ordered. “Open your loot, kitten!”
Eighteenth Birthingday; eighteen presents. From Sarra and Collan, complete new silk regimentals, including a Silver Sparrow pin—Sarra being well aware that Cailet would always wear Gorsha’s black cloak and Auvry Feiran’s Candle. There was also a black-and-silver formal gown, with dainty embroidered slippers, that took her breath away. Col’s special gift to her, and his design. From her Mages were the silver Captal’s sash and a delicate necklace of silver links with a flameflower pendant, sigil of her Name Saint. She fingered the sash reverently—she was still using Miram’s gray scarf—before folding it carefully atop the regimentals.
There were three thin boxes from the Maurgens, each containing a slip of paper. One informed her that a saddle made especially for her was ready at the Hundred anytime she cared to come pick it up; the second, that a bridle went with the saddle; and the third, that she had her choice of any three-year-old Maurgen dapple-back that caught her fancy.
“She still hasn’t said anything,” Col commented to Sarra.
“In shock, I suppose,” she replied.
Cailet nodded helplessly and opened her gifts from the Ostins: a tooled black leather scabbard meant for Gorynel Desse’s sword, and onyx earrings and an onyx necklace set in silver. Sarra told her Gorsha had given them to Lady Lilen in their youth.
