by Melanie Rawn
“Yours was the responsibility for a certain item crafted in secret by a glassmaker at Domburr Castle, whose youngest son is a footman in your household. I’m sure you recall the item—round, quite warm to the touch, filled with Malerrisi magic?”
Another gasp, this time from dozens of throats.
“Malerrisi?” Elsvet manufactured a laugh. “They’re either all dead or locked up in their castle in Seinshir, afraid to come out! What insane persecution fantasy is this, Mage Captal?”
You really must work on your judgment of character, Gorsha observed thoughtfully. She made the initial mistake, yes, but now she’s defending herself rather spiritedly. Though I must say that I also thought she’d be the one to break first.
Cailet tilted her head slightly to one side, regarding the woman, seeing the truth of Gorsha’s words. Elsvet hadn’t broken, and might not—unless Cailet kicked her much harder. “Is it fantasy that this messenger sailed on a Doyannis ship? Or that even though the Port Authority records state that it was bound for Pinderon with no stops, it called in at Renig?”
“What proof—” Irien Dombur began.
Cailet ignored him, staring at Elsvet’s stricken eyes with increasing satisfaction. “None but a Doyannis Blood could order such a thing. Still, this alone does not condemn you. But there’s the note authorizing your groom to supply one of your own horses for the journey to Ryka Portside. A note this man showed to me when he told me the entire filthy tale.”
Granlia Feleson shook with impotent rage and glared at Elsvet, but she was too smart to speak what was in her eyes: You put something on paper? You fool! Now Elsvet Doyannis was scared. Yet as Cailet waited for her to damn herself, she realized that it wasn’t the Mage Captal that Elsvet feared.
And so, to finish her off, the Mage Captal murmured, “Sweet Saints, what will Glenin Feiran say when she finds out you’ve failed her?”
If Dombur had known the Malerrisi were involved, he gave a very good show of hiding it. “Are you mad? Glenin Feiran? A Malerrisi?”
“The Malerrisi,” Cailet said blandly, again running one casual hand through her hair. “The First Lord. Or have you any doubts about either her abilities or her ambitions?” With a sidelong look for Elsvet: “She doesn’t.”
“I didn’t know—” Elsvet’s voice was a shrill gush of dread. “I swear I didn’t know it would kill!”
“Shut up, you idiot!” Granlia Feleson snapped.
“It was at Shepherds Moon—she was there in my bedchamber one night and told me what she wanted, and it fit what had to be done—”
“Get your horrid magic off her!” Granlia shouted. “She’s saying what you’re telling her to say!”
Dombur seized on this in desperation. “Evidence gained by magical means is inadmissible in a court of law. You can’t prove anything—”
“I didn’t know it would kill!”
Cailet lifted a hand and all three of them were choked off in mid-cry. She could feel Gorsha’s sword almost quivering at her side, and didn’t dare touch it. Responsive to its wielder’s truest emotions, not her conscious will, the blade would have hacked through all three conspirators while singing with the savor of their blood.
To Elsvet, Cailet said, “You knew very well it would kill. You just thought it would kill me. A dead martyr is better than a living Mage Captal. I heard you say it—you and Granlia Feleson—when you sat in the gardens pretending to feel sorry for Lady Sarra Liwellan after she lost her baby.”
She fell silent, not wanting anyone to hear her voice shudder with the memory of hearing her death planned. In the quiet, she became aware of the stunned horror crowding around her. Some people were awestruck at the ruthless daring of those who would murder a Captal. But Cailet realized with a shock that the majority were furious. They did not value her because they knew Cailet herself, but they knew full well the value of a Mage Captal and her unique magic. She had more allies than she knew.
Tirri Mettyn, casting a baleful eye at the accused, placed a hand on Cailet’s arm. “Unfortunately, the part about magic is correct,” she wheezed. “Even if you didn’t use magic on them, they’ll swear uphill and down dale that you did, and none can prove them wrong. Further, the Doyannis whelp can claim that Glenin Feiran spelled her so she didn’t know what she was doing. This can go to the law courts if you insist, Captal, but I guarantee you’ll lose—if not at trial, then on appeal.”
Cailet nodded. “I know. But what can be done?”
“I suggest resignations for Dombur and Feleson.” Then she smiled with cheerful ferocity, for she despised Elsvet’s mother, Councillor Doyannis, almost as much as she’d hated Anniyas. “As for the other one . . . do as you like with her. No one will object, not even her disgusting mother. I’ll see to it.”
“My thanks, Lady Tirri. But what I’d like and what I intend are different things.”
“Too bad,” she said with real regret.
Granon Isidir, with his customary exquisite politeness—and a positively feral gleam in his eyes—asked, “May I hope, Captal, that you have plans for the Malerrisi as well?”
“Plans,” Cailet agreed, and matched the elegant Councillor’s smile with that frightening one of her own.
The day after St. Alilen’s, Irien Dombur resigned from the Council and Granlia Feleson from the Assembly. The official reason was “family responsibilities.” Truly told, this was not far wrong; their families were now responsible for their good behavior. The First Daughters of both Names—Jaymia Feleson mortified, Eiras Dombur infuriated—soon sent letters to the Council and to Cailet avowing that their errant progeny would make no more trouble.
Elsvet Doyannis was another matter, and Cailet dealt with her personally.
On the third day of Seeker’s Moon, the Captal ordered Elsvet brought to her. From Ryka Court they went by Ladder to Bard Hall. Elin Alvassy, Mage Guardian and Lady of Ambrai, posted guards to await their arrival—though Cailet didn’t even have to set Wards on Elsvet. The woman was terrified, and so overcome at having traveled by Ladder that she was no more capable of escaping than if she’d been bound in chains. Cailet had no illusions about the true focus of Elsvet’s dread.
From Bard Hall they were escorted through the cleared streets and bustling reconstruction of Ambrai to the ruins of the Academy. Granon Bekke, the Warrior Mage assigned to secure all known Ladders, welcomed Cailet to the wreckage with as much aplomb as if vaulted halls and velvet chairs lay within.
“I’m glad to see you, Granon,” Cailet told him as they picked their way along an aisle between shoveled rubble. “But I thought you were in Tillinshir.”
“I was. The Ladder there is now Garvedian property—which is to say it’s ours. When I got back to Ambrai this afternoon, I stopped by to pay my respects to Lady Elin, and her brother Pier told me something was up, so I thought I’d come help if needed.”
“Your help is always welcome,” Cailet replied warmly, for she liked this craggy-faced man who had just won his Warrior’s sword and crimson sash when Ambrai was destroyed. Not yet forty, restored to his Mage-Right in the prime of his life, he was her idea of what a Warrior Mage ought to be: proud, strong, self-reliant, and utterly dependable.
I believe I’m jealous, said Gorynel Desse. Though I must admit, the Bekkes always did turn out highly personable Warriors.
Then you won’t object if I make him Master of my Warders.
You couldn’t have made a better choice.
Smiling at Granon, Cailet went on, “I don’t anticipate any trouble, though. For one thing, they don’t know we’re coming—and for another, Glenin wouldn’t dare.”
“Glenin—?” Elsvet flinched at her own involuntary squeal.
No one made any reply.
A little while later, having reached their destination, Granon said, “So this was great-great-great-and-so-on Aunt Caitirin’s love nest.” He ran battle-scarred fingers over the obsidian hearth, then turned
slowly to admire the frescoes of Brogdenguard on the walls.
“Haven’t you been up the Captal’s Tower before?” Cailet asked.
“There are a lot of Ladders on Lenfell,” he responded laconically.
“There are indeed,” she nodded, taking his point: that he had no time to visit those already owned by the Mage Guardians, there being so many that were as yet unsecured.
Elin Alvassy smiled a sweet, fierce smile that reminded Cailet of Sarra at her worst. “And our guest is about to go through this one.”
As Elin, Granon, and the guards looked on with grim satisfaction, Cailet turned to Elsvet, whose eyes were fairly popping out of her head. “Here, take this,” she said, handing over the foot-square wooden box she’d carried from Ryka Court. “Glenin Feiran used you to send a message to me, it’s only fair that I use you the same way. I’m sending you on a trip, Elsvet. How—and if—you return is your problem.”
If she could have turned any paler, she would have. “But—but my daughters—my husband—what will happen to them?”
“Lady Lilen had a husband, too,” Elin reminded her coldly.
“And Kanto Solingirt had a daughter,” Cailet added.
“A Warrior Mage daughter,” Granon Bekke said. “Domna Doyannis, sing praises to your Name Saint that the Captal doesn’t let Imilial Gorrst loose on you for five minutes.”
“Do you really think it would take her that long?” Elin asked curiously.
“You’re right, Lady. I do her an injustice.”
Cailet sincerely enjoyed the effect of this on Elsvet. Typical Blood: she’d believed all her life that her Name would protect her from any unpleasantness more dire than a hangnail. “Don’t drop that box,” Cailet warned. “It’s a very important gift for Glenin Feiran.”
“You—you’re going to k—kill her—”
“It’s a thought,” Cailet said, just to see how Elsvet would react; she was not disappointed. “But Mage Guardians don’t work that way. This contains nothing more than a message. And there’s something I want you to say to her face. It’s quite simple, you won’t have any problem remembering it.”
Elsvet gulped and nodded.
“Tell her this: ‘If you think you can succeed where Anniyas’s Wards and Anniyas’s Wraith failed, you’re welcome to try.’”
The guards looked startled; Granon looked intrigued; Elin looked perplexed.
Elsvet looked thunderstruck. “Wraith?” she croaked.
Cailet smiled sweetly. “You will remember the exact words, now, won’t you?”
Before she could begin to respond, Cailet took her arm and pulled her toward the obsidian hearth. A spell and a moment later the roar and chill spray of a waterfall battered at them. Elsvet shrieked, coughing on a faceful of water.
Cailet gave her a push out of the Ladder circle, shouting, “And do be sure to give Glenin regards from the Captal and Lady Sarra!”
“Wait—where am I?”
Pointing, Cailet yelled, “Malerris Castle!”
And then she was gone, back to the room where Caitirin Bekke had trysted in secret with Fourth Lord Shen Escovor, her Malerrisi lover.
Elin and Granon were waiting for her, as tense as the guards. Cailet collapsed the Blanking Ward and shook her head. “Don’t look so worried. There was no trouble.”
“You got back here awfully fast,” Elin ventured.
“Only because I was getting drenched by that damned waterfall.” She brushed drops off her black tunic before they could soak into the material.
“All the same,” Granon said, “I think I’ll wait here a while, Captal.”
“As you like. Elin, may I impose on your hospitality for the night?”
Acquiescence was immediate—although Elin warned her that the accommodations were still so primitive that her brother Pier was asking how long she intended to camp out in her own city. Cailet didn’t even feel strange asking for permission to stay in what should have been her city. Sarra would have; but Sarra had been born here.
All at once Cailet wondered how deeply Glenin hated Elin for being in her place. The Lady of Ambrai was an Alvassy now. Glenin’s city, Glenin’s power, Glenin’s rights and titles and privileges—
But that loathing would be as dust underfoot once Cailet’s message had been received and understood.
And as she entered the plain wood-framed house Elin was calling home these days, assuring her cousin that a bed of blankets by the hearth would do her just fine, she thought of Glenin’s rage and frustration, and smiled.
18
SHE was writing a letter to a Malerrisi sympathizer in Pinderon—a difficult, arrogant woman, but a Blooded First Daughter and excellently placed—when her aide burst into her sitting room.
“Lady—the Captal lives—”
The pen in Glenin’s fingers snapped in two and she cursed bitterly.
“—and the Doyannis woman is here—”
“Here?” was all she could say, but when she motioned with one hand, Chava Allard took it as permission to admit the visitor.
Elsvet Doyannis—sopping wet, shivering with cold—collapsed into a chair, hands twisting around each other, and looked a piteous appeal at Glenin.
She gestured Chava out. “Well?”
“She—she didn’t die,” Elsvet stammered. “Some old man did—Glenin, you didn’t tell me it would kill anyone but the Captal! You didn’t tell me!”
“Why should I?”
“But—don’t you care?”
“Why should I?” Glenin repeated impatiently. “Except that the wrong person is dead. How exactly did you bungle it?”
“I?”
“You, or that shit-witted Granlia Feleson. I suppose it doesn’t matter how or who—though it would have been nice to succeed on the first try.”
“Glenin, you don’t dare try again!”
She rose from her desk, consciously using her height as she’d seen her father do. “You are giving me advice?”
“No—I just—the Captal said that you—she sent something for you—a box—they took it away from me when they brought me to the castle—”
Glenin ignored the rest of her babble. “Chava!”
An instant later the young man presented himself at attention in the doorway. “Lady?”
“It seems Lady Elsvet brought me a little present from the Captal. Bring it here.”
“It’s not yet been fully investi—”
“Bring it!”
Hazel eyes went wide. “Yes, Lady.”
Seating herself again, Glenin surveyed her childhood companion. “What other news? And do try to be coherent, Elsvet.”
Loathing had not yet become stronger than fear; it would, once Elsvet warmed up and calmed down. Therefore, no blanket, no fire in the hearth, and no mulled wine.
“Glenin—it was horrible, you can’t imagine. Irien Dombur and Granlia had to resign in disgrace—my mother is hanging onto her Council seat, but there’s certain to be a recall election later this year.”
“Dombur?” How could she have been so stupid? Dombur had been a secret, if halfhearted at times, member of the Rising. “Why did you use Dombur?”
“He came to us! After he watched the Captal unWork Anniyas’s Wards he agreed that she’s too dangerous to—”
Chava entered, gingerly carrying Cailet’s doubtlessly unsisterly gift in both hands.
“She said it wouldn’t kill you,” Elsvet offered.
“How comforting.” Taking the wooden box from Chava, she unlatched the brass fastening and raised the lid. “Of course,” she murmured, knowing by the shape beneath thick black velvet that a Mage Globe lay within. Removing it, aware of the others’ trepidation, she playfully tossed it in the air several times, catching it in one hand.
“Glenin—” came one half-strangled voice; “Lady,” said the other; she threw them both a smile that faded when she caught sight o
f what was within the crystal sphere.
Four kinds of flowers were magically suspended within the Globe, a pretty arrangement unless one understood the symbolism. A sprig of yellow rue; a cutting of blue rosemary; a stem bearing three black-and-turquoise flameflowers; one purple thistle. Disdain she understood instantly; the combination of Remembrance and a symbol of St. Caitiri and the Mage Guardians in Ambrai’s colors—three flameflowers, no less—was as absurd as it was insulting. But the thistle angered her, for it meant Cailet had somehow learned Glenin had a son.
For this alone, she flung the crystal onto the flagstones between carpets, for the fleeting satisfaction of watching it shatter.
But Cailet had wrought her spells shrewdly and well. And though the escaping magic could not affect Elsvet, Chava staggered and Glenin gasped, and from the nursery the baby whimpered. She heard her youngest sister’s voice—pitched to her ears alone, with the particular tingle and taste of a magic learned from the Code of Malerris. The Mage Captal, with a copy of the Code—? She clenched her fists in fury as her son began to cry.
I knew you’d break it, Glenin. You’ll try to break everything you can from now on. But you will never break the Mage Guardians, and you will never break me. Do what you must in your castle, but know that I am out in the world, waiting for you and for your son.
“What is it? Why do you look that way, Glenin?”
“Shut up!” she snarled. “Chava, have this swept up and thrown into the sea!” Stalking into the next room, she bent over the cradle to soothe her fretful son.
“Glenin, what was in the—” Elsvet had followed her, and now stopped at sight of the baby in her arms. “Oh!”
“Get out.” She walked the Cloister rug, stroking the child’s downy black hair.
“He’s beautiful!” Elsvet exclaimed—sincerely, Glenin was certain, for everyone had the same reaction to her child.
Turning her head, Glenin repeated slowly and distinctly, “Get. Out.”
Elsvet actually looked hurt, and Glenin spared an instant to be amazed. Were they still ten years old, attending classes together with all the other little Blooded Daughters? Had Elsvet thought that the childhood association would produce lasting fondness in Glenin?