by Melanie Rawn
“Sorry.” She shrugged.
“No, you’re not. But you owe us neither apology nor explanation.”
“That’s right,” she said with weary bitterness. “I’m the Captal.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “You are.”
As if her stupidity proved it. With another shrug, she asked, “Telo, would you please go around and check what I’ve done? And I’d appreciate it if you’d add a little something of your own here and there.”
“I’m sorry, Captal, I’m very little use at Warding.” She blinked; he made a little gesture of regret. “My esteemed father didn’t pass along that particular gift.”
“Oh. Well, go see if I’ve done it right, will you? I think I’ll just sit here and rest a while.”
To her utter humiliation, when he returned from his circuit of the Wards, he had to wake her from sodden sleep. It took several minutes to clear her thoughts enough to set the web of magic linking all the Wards. When Telomir tested it, he nodded.
“Gorsha couldn’t have done it any better.”
She accepted the praise without comment, but she was thinking that through her, his father had done it.
“And now?” Telomir asked.
“What? Oh. We’ll head for Ostinhold tomorrow. It’s over, here. I’ll tell you all of it later. But remind me to have somebody ride up yearly to make sure of the Wards.”
Telo cleared his throat. “In secret. The Captal has reset the Wards around the Dead White Forest. That’s all anyone needs to know. If you indicated through open survey of the Wards on a regular basis that you were unsure of your work—”
“I’m only trying to be cautious!”
“An admirable trait.” He called up a brighter Mage Globe to light them back to the line shack, while she tiredly Folded the path. “But there’s something you ought to know about being Captal. About you specifically as Captal. Leninor Garvedian was one type. Gorsha chose Lusath Adennos on purpose to be as unlike her as possible.”
“Passive instead of active. Yes, I know.”
“You must be both. Careful but confident, assertive yet understated. You must show yourself a powerful and decisive leader for the Mage Guardians, but not so strong as to threaten the Council and the people. They’ve lived without us almost twenty years. They must grow used to us again. You must show no weakness, but neither can you be too strong.”
It was nothing she hadn’t already considered. She spent a long time listening to the crunch of her boots in dry stony soil—the same sound every time, the same nagging prod of rocks into her soles. Right foot action, left foot caution; right foot self-effacement, left foot leadership—it all felt the same. Every step she took was on the same rough footing. She could stumble at any time. If she dug one heel in too deep, the other must compensate. Somehow she must keep her balance.
“I thought the idea was for Mage Guardians to live and work in the open again,” she said at last.
“Within the limitations imposed by the times. This was always so—as you know from the Bequest.”
That was just it. She didn’t know. There were no Generations of insight and wisdom. But even if there had been, would she have made better use of them than Lusath Adennos? What had Anniyas called him—“a box to hide the Bequest in”? Was that all she was? A caretaker, waiting for a Captal worthy of the title to come along?
“All right, Telo. The Wards here will be checked in secret.” What did one more secret matter, anyway? There were others far more dangerous. “But I won’t cripple the Guardians by making them mysterious. That’s why the Malerrisi are feared, and I won’t have that for us.”
“And this is what will make you the Captal we need.”
She shot him a sharp look, trying to read his eyes by the bloody glow of sunset and the silver-gold of his Mage Globe. “Maybe so. But I won’t paralyze myself wondering constantly which foot to lead with—the careful or the bold. I’d go crazy second-guessing myself. I can’t weigh everything in terms of a middle path between what Captal Garvedian and Captal Adennos would’ve done. I can’t be anyone but myself.”
. . . and Gorsha, and Alin, and Tamos Wolvar, and Captal Adennos himself—does it all balance out, Gorsha? Does it give me enough options? Would it be different if I had the full Bequest with all the Captals’ knowledge and experience?
Yes, came the reluctant answer. But I didn’t choose you at random, you know. It wasn’t because you were all I had to work with. You were born for this. Trust yourself, Caisha. What we were, what we knew, is here for your use. But the decisions are yours. I swear, dearest, the decisions will always be your own.
Once, she might have let it end there, taking grateful comfort in the reassurances of someone older and more experienced than she. But now she knew that what she had been called on to do, he could never have done. His knowledge had made it possible—his, and the Others—but she had been the one to do it.
As she would have to do all else in the years ahead. Her life would never be her own; there were too many duties and responsibilities to shoulder. Yet by choosing to shoulder them, by deciding what must be done or not done, and how, and why, she would live that life the way she felt she must.
And wasn’t that how it worked for everyone? Each person was born with certain gifts bequeathed by her ancestors; her life was in many ways determined by those inheritances. Whatever the world brought to bear upon her, the shaping of her life consisted in how she chose to use those gifts in response.
Cailet knew all at once that she was no different from anyone else. Not in that respect. What set her apart was the sheer abundance and power of her gifts—both inherited and bestowed. And if the world threw more at her than at other people, did she not have more with which to answer?
She knew Gorynel Desse was following the thoughts in her mind. So her answer to him was a wry one: Did it really take me almost a year to figure that out?
15
THE next morning Cailet sent another message to Kanto Solingirt, telling him to expect her and Telomir and Fiella at Ostinhold in a few days. The parts of her that were still eighteen years old chafed at the prospect of Lady Lilen’s scolding her like a child; something even younger simply cringed.
Fifteen miles out of Ostinhold they were intercepted by Miram, accompanied by Riddon Slegin. Once greetings and introductions were over, Cailet grimaced and asked, “How furious is she?”
“Not very, now that you mention it. Oh, she was to start off, of course. But then Kanto explained a few things.” Miram smiled her lovely, serene smile. “I think she’s beginning to understand that you’re the Captal now. As for being grown up—well, that may take a little longer for her to accept.”
Riddon laughed. “Not surprising, Mirri—she’s still having trouble believing that you’re grown up enough to take a husband!”
“I know,” Miram sighed. “And at nearly twenty-four!”
“What’s this?” Telo demanded. “Another wedding at Ostinhold? Why wasn’t I invited?”
“You will be, when we decide on a date that suits everyone.”
“Sarra’s the main problem,” Riddon said. “Do you think we can pry her away from Ryka Court, Captal?”
“Cailet,” she corrected. “Sarra’s at Roseguard by now. But I’m positive she wouldn’t miss your wedding for anything. Neither would I.”
Miram made a face at her. “If that was a hint, you’re about as subtle as Telomir! Of course you’re invited. How could I get married without my favorite little sister being there?”
Though Cailet could never acknowledge who her Blood sisters were, she was more than willing to keep her honorary membership in the Ostin clan. That she was considered one of them was amply demonstrated by the welcome she received at Ostinhold. Only Kanto Solingirt and his daughter Imilial held back a little, still regarding her as Mage Captal—and, truly told, their eyes popped at the way Lenna and Tevis and Terrill and Lady Lilen and a score of Ostin cousins
hugged her, teased her, and heaped affectionate abuse on her for staying away so long.
Yet as she sat down to dinner at the long, crowded table, she could not help but think of those who would never again share the warmth and laughter of an Ostinhold homecoming. Margit, Lilen’s only Mageborn daughter, killed in an “accident” nine years ago. Alin—well, perhaps he was here, in a way; perhaps he had come home. But Taig never would. Nor would First Daughter Geria, not until her mother was dead and burned.
Cailet suddenly realized that her own mother had sat at this table. In the weeks before Ambrai’s destruction and Cailet’s birth, Maichen and Sarra had found refuge here. Which chair had been her mother’s? What had she talked about over dinner? Had she laughed and joked with the rest of this boisterous family? Had anyone but Lilen known that their beautiful visitor was Lilen’s first cousin?
Well, it hadn’t been this table or these chairs in any case. Ostinhold had burned last year, thanks to Geria and the Ryka Legion, leaving only the stone walls and foundations. Perhaps that was why Cailet sensed not a thing from Alin; this wasn’t the home he’d known. Nor was it Cailet’s. Not Ostinhold, or The Waste, or even Ambrai—she’d felt twinges there last year, now that she thought about it, but nothing that meant home in any way she could feel in her soul.
That night, after Cailet had finally delivered her wedding present of two Saints’ portraits in mosaic, Lilen herself escorted her abovestairs. “I can’t give you your old room,” she said ruefully. “There’s nothing left of it. But this one is yours whenever you care to come visit.”
Looking around, Cailet saw at once that the room was meant for no one but her. Its colors were pewter-gray and grass-green—for her assumed Name—with accents of the black and turquoise that meant Ambrai. And the pattern of the handmade quilt was of tiny flameflowers—St. Caitiri’s sigil—inside interlocking octagons. She smiled, saying, “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
Lilen had watched her note the references. “Miram and I were looking through quilt-pattern books in Combel and just happened to see this one. We’ll pack it away when you’re not here, of course, and no one will come in without your invitation, so I thought the lack of subtlety would be safe enough.” Going to the double windows, she opened the green curtains to the view of nearby hills. “The outer walls are half again as thick as they were, so the window embrasures are very deep indeed! But I tried to make up for it with bigger windows to bring more light in. And Kanto designed shutters that fold in when they’re not needed, but unfold and lock in no time when a storm comes.”
“Scholar Mage, financial genius, now architect—I was thinking that all this activity was agreeing with you, but now I think it’s ten weeks of your fascinating new husband that’s made you look younger by ten years,” Cailet teased.
“Wretched child!” Lilen actually blushed.
“Did you really have to fight off Sefana for him? Or maybe Mitra Senison? Everyone knows she’s had her eye open for a fourth husband—”
“Cailet!”
“But that reminds me,” she continued with playful sternness. “He may be your husband, but he’s still my Scholar Mage, and if you don’t treat him right, I’ll—”
“If you don’t hush up this instant, so help me I’ll take you over my knee!”
Laughing, Cailet threw her arms around the only mother she’d ever known. “I’m happy that you’re happy—and if he doesn’t behave himself, I’ll spell warts onto his nose!”
Lilen hugged back. “Don’t you dare! It’s a very nice nose, and I like it just the way it is, thank you very much!”
Cailet slept well that night. Even if this wasn’t the Ostinhold of her childhood, it was still filled with people who cared for her. Ostinhold—in whatever incarnation—was filled with people, period. Cailet had never bothered to count how many had lived here while she was growing up. More had come when Scraller Pelleris, at Anniyas’s bidding, had attempted the Ostin Web’s financial ruin. Although the refugees from economic disaster had been sent away when the Ryka Legion threatened and then burned the place, many had returned. Whereas Cailet didn’t know them, they certainly knew her; she was Captal-ed at every turn. Yet here she didn’t mind. There was pride and even affection mixed in with the awe—for did they not live in the very place that had sheltered and nurtured her, and did that not make her in some ways one of their own?
She was, and in ways that could never be revealed. Sometimes when she went for solitary walks in the nearby hills and canyons, she liked to think that her grandfather, Gerrin Ostin, had hiked these same paths through tangled sage and willow washes. She wondered what he’d been like in childhood and youth, whether he’d regretted leaving The Waste behind for the wealth and glory of marriage to Allynis Ambrai and life at the Octagon Court. Of all the family tales traded around the Ostin table, that of the Ambraian marriage had never been told in Cailet’s hearing.
Sarra’s memories of Ambrai, shared with Cailet this past year, were the memories of a child who didn’t know why the grown-ups suddenly became so grim. But she’d been old enough to know that her grandparents had a certain look and a certain smile they gave only to each other. Later experience of watching Agatine and Orlin taught Sarra that such looks and smiles meant “love.” And living with Collan completed her education in that particular emotion, especially as it happened between a woman and her husband.
Through Sarra, Cailet knew her grandparents had loved each other deeply. But there was so much more she wanted to know about them. How did they meet? Did Allynis come to Ostinhold to woo and win Gerrin? Did she dine at the very table their daughter would sit at years later? Did they take long walks atop the cliffs? Ride over to Maurgen Hundred and pretend to get lost so they’d have to spend the night in a line shack—as Miram and Riddon often did? Cailet couldn’t quite feature her grandmother, the most elegant and comfort-loving of women to judge by all she’d heard, bedding down in blankets on a stone floor—even with the man she loved. But, truly told, Cailet simply didn’t know.
She had known nothing about her ancestors while growing up. Being an orphaned fosterling had left her free to be herself. Now she knew from whom she had come: the richest, proudest, and most powerful Name on Lenfell. Until now she hadn’t thought about that very much, too overwhelmed by becoming Captal and what she owed to the Mage Guardians to consider in depth what she might owe to her forebears. What would Allynis Ambrai think of her? Would she be pleased, gratified, appalled, infuriated, triumphant that her granddaughter was Mage Captal? Or would she be mortified that it was owed to magic inherited not from the Ambrais but from Auvry Feiran, whom she despised?
These were things Cailet had thought about before, of course. But now she had time to ponder them and explore their resonances in her mind and heart. She had time now, and the safety of Ostinhold in which to think about all this and more. To imagine, to dream, to plot out possibilities and plan likely pathways to her goals.
There was one absolute: she must build a new school for Mage Guardians, and both learn there and teach there until Sarra’s children came to her. But prowling like a silverback cat caged in the cellar was another absolute. Glenin would make some sort of move, but when? Her son would have to grow up first; Cailet surmised she had at least fifteen years, but not more than twenty, to prepare. But for what?
For every eventuality, of course; for the possible and the probable. All while serving Lenfell as best she knew, without seeming either too weak or too powerful, and simultaneously adhering to both Guardian ethic and her personal integrity.
Simple. Easy as getting drunk on St. Kiy’s.
16
MIDWEEK of Spring Moon, Lady Sefana rode over from Maurgen Hundred with her daughters Riena and Jennis, her son Biron, and her only grandchild, Aidan. Val’s son by Rina Firennos was nearly six years old and lacked only Val’s rakish gold earring to be his father’s very image. (Collan, who had somehow ended up with the earring, had promised it to th
e boy on his eighteenth Birthingday.) The influence of two powerful Councillors—Sarra Liwellan and Flera Firennos, who cordially detested Aidan’s mother—and a tidy sum of money had not only changed the boy’s residence but his Name as well. A Maurgen he looked, a Maurgen he was, and a Maurgen he would remain all his days.
He proved it by fearlessly marching up to her in the courtyard and saying with devastating directness: “You’re the Captal. My papa died to keep you safe.”
“Yes, he did,” she managed beyond the ache of Alin’s memories inside her.
“He wasn’t a Mage Guardian.”
“No, but he should have been. He was a very good man, and very brave, and he saved my life. And he was my friend.”
“I’d rather be a Mage Guardian,” Aidan said, and Cailet almost asked if he thought the two were mutually exclusive.
In the next instant, though, she had an insight into an unanticipated quandary. No Maurgen had ever been Mageborn. Perhaps there was magic on the Firennos side—but even if so, it wouldn’t manifest for years. There was no way to tell. But his determined little face was suddenly representative of hundreds of other children. Those who set their hearts on magic at so very young an age risked terrible disappointment. Cailet remembered her own dreams—not of magic, for she’d never dared, but of adventure and excitement anywhere but The Waste—and hoped that somewhere in the Firennos line there had been magic enough for Aidan to inherit.
But right now she had to say something. All she could come up with was, “Can we start out as friends first?”
Aidan thought it over, and nodded. “Mama said I shouldn’t even talk to Mageborn people, but I like Scholar Kanto and Warrior Imilial. That’s what I want to be is a Warrior Mage. My papa was almost one, wasn’t he?”
“As close as you can get without being Listed. Do you know what the List is?”
“All the Mages who ever lived,” he answered promptly. “Was Alin on it?”
“No,” she said softly. “But he should have been.”