by Melanie Rawn
Well, could anyone blame them? Look what had happened to Ambrai.
The Mayor of Isodir had offered quarters in that city. But its wrought-iron banisters and balconies and gates would have made Working any magic problematic at best. The only Ladder she knew of there—one that led to Malerris Castle—was in one of the few buildings that wasn’t laced and decorated with iron.
Still, iron could be an advantage. Sarra’s instinct had been correct: the new Academy must be in Sheve or Cantrashir or Tillinshir, with the iron in Caitiri’s Hearth on Brogdenguard a bulwark between the Mage Guardians and the Malerrisi. Cailet had tested out Sarra’s theory while in Dinn last year, and was appalled at how easy it was to sense Malerris Castle, even at such a distance with Wards rendering it invisible to the eye. North of Brogdenguard, she could not feel the Castle, and therefore those within it could not feel her. She would have no idea what Glenin was up to—but neither would Glenin be able to spy on her. It was an equitable trade—but it limited her options in selecting a place for the Academy.
She supposed she could have built someplace in South Lenfell, but then she would have had to Ward the place as thoroughly as the Malerrisi had Warded their Castle. This she would not do. She would not hide or conceal her school. Too many people had suffered and died for the Mage Guardians’ right to live and work in the open again.
Surely there was a place that met her requirements. And she must find it soon. Last year’s journeys had yielded many young Mageborns ready and willing to be trained. For the present they stayed with their families, visited frequently by those able to set protective Wards if their magic became difficult to contain. But Cailet had to put them somewhere, all together, where they could learn how to set that magic free.
The one place she could not and would not bring them was The Waste. Magic was a living thing. The Waste was dead, or as close to it as made no difference. She supposed an argument could be made that such a place, where creatures must be clever and resourceful in order to survive, would be an excellent example. But she could counter with an equally valid point: that in this land eviscerated by magic, the oppression of living daily with its grim reminders would smother the most resilient Mageborn. And besides, the last thing the locals wanted was a swarm of magicians-in-training.
And besides all that, she hated the place.
Though Cailet wasn’t one for cities, The Waste was a little too desolate; a mile outside any town, wilderness took over. Something in her blood that had known Generations of rich greens and blues in Ambraishir found no comfort in the washed-out hues of this land. Even where grass grew and trees clustered around shallow creeks, the grass was bleached to straw with barely substance enough to hold the soil together, and the trees were spindly, roots exposed when exhausted earth finally gave up and collapsed into ravines carved out by torrents of acid rain. In such places, pale clay was revealed in horizontal strips of rose and lilac, peach and melon—all delicate colors of flowers and fruit that belonged in thick greenery, not in this stark and pallid landscape.
No, she would not even begin to consider The Waste as a site. But she knew the question of location had an answer. Eventually she would find a place. What she would find at the end of this journey—and what she could do about it—were wholly unknown.
“Isn’t it about time you told Kanto we’ll be late?”
Startled from her thoughts, she glanced over at Telomir. “They won’t expect us until afternoon. If I wait until then, it’ll be too late for anyone to ride out after us.”
He nodded. “They’ll know at once where we’re going and what we’re up to.” All at once he grinned. “Good thinking, Captal. Is it due to the Bequest, or your own instinctive wiles? After all, you spent your childhood sneaking your naughty way around Lady Lilen.”
Sometimes Telo was a bit like Collan: he knew when she needed to laugh, and provided as good a reason as he could find on short notice. She obligingly grinned back. “I was a very obedient little girl. I never sneaked, and I was never naughty.”
“And St. Geridon was a gelding,” he retorted, “St. Ilsevet can’t swim, and St. Velenne is tone-deaf!”
At midafternoon she constructed a Mage Globe that would trigger Kanto Solingirt’s. A select number of Guardians now possessed hand-sized Globes encased in blown glass, ready for just this purpose. Cailet needed a means of keeping in touch with them that fell far short of the absolute command of a Summoning; this was her best solution. At the beginning it had been awkward, though; wanting to inform Granon Bekke of a change in travel plans last year, she’d contacted his cousin Rennon instead. After some adjustments, the system now worked—more or less.
One problem was that the Globes were difficult to make, and Cailet alone could make them. Most of the senior Mages had them now, but soon she would have to spend several weeks creating enough for all of the rest. Another difficulty was that she alone could use them; Mages could not communicate with each other through them, only receive what messages she sent. And she could say what she wanted only by writing it down and then encasing the words in the Globe. Tamos Wolvar had taught her how to construct the kind of magical notebook all Scholars and most Healers used, but for some unknown reason words written in light did not transfer through the Globes.
Worst of all, she could never be certain when a message would be received. The other Globe could be tucked in baggage or resting on a shelf, for they were too large to carry around. Perhaps she could fine them down as small as the one given Sarra, small enough to be pocketed or worn on a chain and hidden in one’s shirt. But Sarra’s was a single, specific, protective Ward encased in glass; the Globes used for communication were much more complex.
Well, one day she’d figure it out. For now, she sat on a rock while Telomir watered the horses, scribbled a few lines on a scrap of paper, and spelled a Globe into being around it. Then, calling up Kanto’s magical “signature” in her mind, she closed her eyes and thought in Ostinhold’s general direction. When she opened her eyes, the blue-white sphere had vanished and the paper had become a wafting of ashes in the breeze. Message successfully sent.
Telomir led the horses back to where she sat. “All done?”
“I told him we’re going sightseeing.”
He snorted. “You’re lucky he can’t send a reply.”
“I’m luckier that Lilen can’t. She’d scorch my ears even at this distance.” Getting to her feet, she slapped dust from her trousers and finished, “Come on. I want to make the line shack before dark.”
13
ALL ranchers in the northern reaches of The Waste contributed to the maintenance and supply of line shacks: stone huts, spaced roughly a day’s ride apart, that had saved many a life. Stocked with water jugs, food, blankets, cookpots, and coal for small iron braziers, every spring and autumn the major owners took turns assigning ranch hands to ride the line shacks, packhorses laden with fresh foodstuffs to replenish whatever had been used up or spoiled, and to clear out any local opportunists of a furry nature.
But this winter and spring, animals and humans stayed close to home for fear of Wraithenbeasts. Lady Sefana told Cailet it was costing everyone a small fortune in feed to keep the herds and flocks in fenced fields, and an unvaried diet wasn’t as good for them as the wild fodder they usually ate every summer. Cailet saw another problem as she rode north: without galazhi and sheep and goats to crop it, vegetation was sprouting unchecked. Summer heat would fry the overgrown grasslands and brushfires would be inevitable.
More immediately for her own comfort, without riders coming through to replace supplies in the line shacks, the water was brackish, the blankets moth-eaten, and the dried food had become positively desiccated. Quite a comedown, she thought with a smile, after the luxuries of Ryka Court.
Curiously, she felt almost at peace despite the unappetizing food and musty blankets. Ambraian by Blood, Waster by birth and upbringing, she couldn’t pretend that she loved this land (truly to
ld, she often hated it) but at least the deaths waiting here for the unwary were deaths she understood.
The fifth night out, they stayed in a line shack below a gigantic cliff. Sunset limned ragged rocks in gilded flames before the sky turned swiftly, deeply black. Cailet heard Telomir gasp at the suddenness of it, and smiled.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
“I think I’ve worked indoors much too long. I’d forgotten there were so many stars.” He didn’t take his eyes from the gorgeous display. “Like the lights going out in an opera house at the end of the third act, and then the curtain falls—black velvet, embroidered in stars.”
“Mmm. Collan’s having an influence on you—you’re getting positively poetic.”
“I was hoping I could influence you into coming inside for some dinner. It’s cold.”
Cailet shrugged. “In a little while. Cold doesn’t bother me that much.”
“I suppose you soaked up so much sun in childhood that it heats you from the inside out.” He tugged his own woolen jacket closer around his chest.
“Nothing so elaborate, just a Warming spell for my feet. Go on, I’ll be there in a while.”
Alone, Cailet hunkered down on her heels, staring at the sky. She had never been this far north in her life, but others had. This time it was Alin’s memories that advised her to wait for something wonderful.
Ten minutes later, it happened. Sheets of light advanced across the sky, shimmering curtains made of rainbows.
Wraiths.
It took several minutes and a few dark specks in her eyes before she remembered to breathe. She had seen something like this once before, when Anniyas died at the Octagon Court. There might have been hundreds of Wraiths then; no way to tell. But using that night as a measure, there were millions here.
General belief held that at death every person became a Wraith. After judgment by St. Venkelos, the soul or spirit or life-energy—or whatever one was comfortable calling the essence of a human being—assumed this strange and glorious form she saw in the sky now. Only those who had been despicable in life were condemned to the Dead White Forest. Warded in by other Wraiths, prevented from gliding through the night sky in this fantastic flourish of light.
That was the religious explanation, anyway. But if all persons became Wraiths, why did so much of Gorynel Desse, Alin Ostin, Tamos Wolvar, and Lusath Adennos linger within Cailet? Had they not become Wraiths? Or were their souls here with the others in shining splendor while their knowledge resided in her?
She could believe this of Alin (whose spirit would never part from Val’s), of Scholar Tamos, and of Captal Adennos—but not of Gorsha. He was too real and vital within her—and too vocal, usually at the most inconvenient times. She could sense not only what he had known but what he had been—and Saints knew he spoke to her as clearly and idiosyncratically as when he’d been alive. That very word idiosyncratically was his; she winced slightly, remembering that after her Making, Taig had beseeched her to talk like herself again.
She watched the many-colored curtains undulate across the star-strewn blackness, washing the horizon in light, and wondered as countless thousands had wondered before her what the Wraiths really were. Wondered if Taig was among this group—for surely there were others, hundreds and perhaps thousands of shimmering rainbows floating above the Wraithen Mountains . . . night after night . . . for all time. . . .
She shook herself. It was not the spirits of the dead who concerned her now, but the monstrosities created by the combatants of The Waste War.
And in any case, the show was over for the night. She was on her way inside when distant hoofbeats and a warning whicker from her hobbled mare turned her around. A polite but purposeful dart of magic struck the walls Gorsha had long ago taught her to build. Her brows arched. A Mage Guardian, way out here?
Telomir emerged from the line shack. “Somebody’s coming.”
Cailet nodded. He seemed to be waiting for her to tell him who it was. As Captal, she should have known. At her Making, the identity of every single living Mage should have been given as part of the Bequest. She knew enough to know that, but not how to put a name to the approaching magic. Had she not been so impatient, Captal Adennos could have given her this knowledge—and so much else—before he died.
Telomir answered his own question a moment later. “Geridon’s Golden Stones, I don’t believe it! What’s Fiella doing here?”
Fiella Mikleine it proved to be. Tall, lean, vigorous—and dark like all her Name that had produced Generations of formidable Mages—she galloped up on a Tillinshir gelding and jumped from the saddle as spry as if she’d just risen from a good night’s sleep. She had a high-boned, handsome face, was as muscular in her magic as Imilial Gorrst, and Cailet had never been able to decide if her total lack of anything resembling an imagination was a liability or an asset.
“Good to see you again, Captal! How’re you keeping yourself, Telo? I hear you’re going hunting.”
“After a fashion,” Cailet replied. “We’re just about to have dinner. Join us?”
“Delighted. As I recall, Telo’s a middling good cook.”
The meal consisted of dry bread, hard cheese, and a stew of dried galazhi meat softened in wine and thickened with lentils. If there was a slight taste of magic from the spells Telomir used to speed up the cooking, Cailet didn’t notice. When coffee had been brewed potent enough for Fiella (“The color of my face, Telo, not yours!”), she said what she’d come to say.
“I’ve been seeking undiscovered Mageborns, Captal, and we Mikleines seem to breed a lot of ’em, so I’ve been visiting every cousin in the Census records.” She grinned suddenly, an expression that made her look fourteen instead of nearly forty. “Rilla’s Feathers, it’s good to travel! Since Ambrai, those of us who moved around did so because we had to, usually at a dead run, and those of us who stayed in one place didn’t dare leave it. Anyway, I’m riding along when up ahead about five miles I see a white mist. And my magic starts screaming at me. I follow this misty stuff, and where it had passed were dead things—a gutted kyyo, a stag, one of those big four-horned rams. All of ’em untouched, as if the scavengers didn’t dare come near.”
“I told her what you told me at Ostinhold,” Telomir put in. “But you didn’t tell me about the mist.”
“I saw it just last week—there’s a Mikleine smallhold this side of the mountains from Maidil’s Mirror. Anyway, I ride faster to catch up with this haze—not a mist, seen close to, more like very fine white silk with a few rents in it. I’m riding along, concentrating on it, when I realize where I am.”
“Fairly close to the Dead White Forest, I’d say,” Telo remarked.
Fiella looked annoyed at being anticipated. “Heading smack for it, along a river with no fish, no plants, not even a shred of Mittru’s Hair mossing the rocks. No trees, either, and fields so barren I started to worry about my horse’s dinner.”
Cailet nodded. “Like all the life and color had been drained out of it.”
“You’ve been there?”
“No, but I’m told it’s like that for fifty miles in all directions from the Dead White Forest.”
Telomir said, “Personally, I’m surprised you’re still alive, Fiella. Not everybody’s smart enough not to drink the water.”
She arched a thick brow at him and asked, “Have you ever known me to be a total fool? The mist turned on me then, and I tried to outrun it. Couldn’t, of course.” She took a long swig of coffee and ran one hand back through a mass of tangled black curls. “Spent my poor horse. I dismounted to walk him a bit, and the mist stopped about ten feet from me. I tried a little magic—nothing fancy, just a probe like the one I sent here tonight, Captal. Nothing. I know a bit about Mage Globes, though I’m not very good at them, and tried one. That got through it—or into it, I’m not sure which. And that was the last I saw of the thing.”
“What happened to you, Fiella?” Telo asked
.
She looked puzzled. “Nothing.”
“It didn’t hurt to lose the Mage Globe? You didn’t feel anything at all?”
“Was I supposed to?”
“Not even around the dead animals?” he persisted. “Some kind of dread or fear?”
The Mage snorted. “I saw Ambrai burn. I lost my husband and most of my family and friends there—and damned near lost my son with his being born too soon because of what I’d seen. I lived like a mole in a hole for fifteen years in the muggiest village in Dindenshir, and begged St. Miryenne every night to restore the Mages to their proper place before Granon got old enough to come into his magic. Truly told, Captal, I don’t scare anymore, and the only thing I dread is not being to hand if you’re ever in danger.”
Ah, there it was—the age-old stricture on all Mage Guardians that whatever else might happen, whoever else was imperiled, The Captal Must Survive. Whole cities could perish, entire Shirs be slaughtered, but The Captal Must Survive. Every time she thought about it, Cailet shivered.
“The cloud kept you away from the Dead White Forest,” Telo mused. “But it didn’t threaten you. That fits. No people have been attacked.”