by Melanie Rawn
When she judged that she’d given Aidan and Marra enough time to plot, she started back to Mage Hall—with some reluctance, for, truly told, she’d enjoyed the peace and quiet.
The first she saw of the new Prentice was his back as he knelt beside the wall. Approaching silently, she paused ten feet from him and wondered what in the world he was doing. She took a few steps to the side, and nearly laughed: he was planting roses.
“I hope they’re hardy,” she said. “And I hope you’re prepared to water them morning and night. Roses don’t do very well here.”
The young man fell back on his heels, then on his rear end. As he scooted around in the dirt so he could see who had startled him, it was Cailet who was startled.
Saints and Wraiths!
She would have said it aloud if she’d had air enough in her lungs. The boy’s looks were literally breathtaking.
All the Saints in the Saintly Calendar and every Wraith in the Wraithen Mountains!
“I—I’m sorry, Captal,” he stammered, “these had to be planted at once—I brought them all the way from Roseguard and—is it all right to put them here? They like walls to grow on, and this wall could certainly use. . . .” He trailed off, a crimson blush staining coffee-and-cream skin.
“What you mean is it’s the ugliest wall in fifteen Shirs,” she heard herself say. Amazing; she could actually form words, and moreover ones that made sense. “What kind of roses?”
He scrambled to his feet—awkward, though she knew that this tall, long-legged boy would be supple in any other circumstances. It was her fault he was falling all over himself, she thought; he knew by her black clothes and the pins on her collar that he was in the presence of the Mage Captal, and his limbs would not obey their instinct to grace. He was older than most of the Prentices who came to her, maybe eighteen or nineteen. And belatedly she remembered the message from Roseguard. This must be Mirya Witte’s would-be boy.
But as he brushed off soil-stained trousers and tried to tuck glossy black curls more securely beneath his coif, she could not for the life of her remember his name.
“That one,” he said, pointing to a leafless stick that looked like all the other leafless sticks planted and unplanted along the wall, “is Ambrai Pride. It’s as close to turquoise as a rose gets. The one next to it is Wraith-shadow, and then Magefire, Sheve Flame, Ryka Miniature—”
Cailet began counting as he recited the names. “Thirty-six rose bushes? You must’ve come here in a hay wagon!”
“No, Captal, one of Lady Sarra’s carriages. She had a lot of things she wanted to send you. The roses are a Birthingday present from her and Lord Collan and their children.”
“I see. Thank you for bringing them along.” Not knowing what else to say, and still infuriatingly unable to recall his name, she started for the gatehouse.
“Captal?”
She turned, and once again was stunned by the young man’s beauty. She wondered if she—or anyone else at Mage Hall or on Lenfell—would ever get used to it. No wonder Mirya had been willing to sell her most lucrative enterprise in order to marry him.
“It is all right, isn’t it? The roses.”
“It’s fine.”
He smiled, to devastating effect on her respiration—a slightly crooked front tooth notwithstanding. “I’m glad. It really is an ugly wall.”
She felt herself smile back, and forced herself to start walking.
A little while later, when she was waiting for the bathtub to fill, Marra came in with an armful of clean sheets and towels. After one look at her face, the young woman grimaced.
“I see you’ve met him.”
“Him?”
“Nice try, Captal, but not quite innocent enough. Him him. Josselin Mikleine.”
Of course. That was his name. “Yes, out by the wall, improving the scenery.”
Marra laughed. “Yes, I’d say he’s extremely scenic!”
“That’s not what I meant! He’s planting roses.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Marra—!”
But she only laughed, and left the towels on the counter, and as Cailet soaked in her bath, she wondered just how much trouble this extremely scenic young man was going to be.
12
“. . . AND thus the sword is used before magic, because the sword is something people comprehend.” Cailet laid both hands on the sheathed sword across her knees, watching the new group of Prentices to see which would be brave enough—or skeptical enough—to let show doubt about what The Mage Captal Herself had just said.
“No objections?” she asked, deigning to smile. “Not one of you will tell me that if a Mage Guardian uses magic right off, people will do as they’re supposed to without the danger of bringing out a sword? Shouldn’t magic be our first resort instead of our last?”
It was an interesting harvest this autumn of 987, most of them rather older than was usual. Shy, reticent Jioret Canzallis—distant cousin of Steen, and nothing like the handsome, volatile Warrior-in-training—was just sixteen. He’d learned he was Mageborn only four weeks ago when he left Isodir for the first time in his life to visit a newly married brother in Dindenshir. Jioret, astonished by revelation of what he was (the Iron City dampened magic unless it was very strong indeed) would eventually become comfortable with it—but from past experience of his type, Cailet knew he would be one of the quiet, unobtrusive Mage Guardians whose gifts are rarely used. She envied such Mageborns the gentleness of their power.
There was the usual addition of Adennos cousins to Mage Hall—two girls, Halla and Hallan. Fourteen years old, they’d been born three days and five thousand miles apart, and before coming to Tillinshir hadn’t even known the other existed. But the pair were so alike in their long-legged builds, long-jawed faces, and long-lasting silences (Elomar all over again, Cailet told herself with a grin) that they might as well have been twins.
If the Adennos mold had struck true, so had the Maklyn, in the form of two dark-haired, green-eyed boys from Wyte Lynn Castle. Cailet reminded herself that she really must find out one day if something in Bleynbradden’s water bred up Maklyn Mageborns. In 969 she’d discovered a round dozen of them—Alizia, Elina, Fiellan, Ketri, Lenn, Lila, Piergal, Rinna, Rolin, Truan, Venka, and Viranon—all between the ages of twelve and fifteen, none of them closer than second cousins, and with no discernible relation to the known Maklyn line of Mageborns. Of the two new ones, Trys was sixteen and Tirin was the baby of this class at just thirteen.
And then there was Josselin Mikleine. Utterly incapable of being invisible, he’d somehow managed to be unobtrusive, escaping Mage Hall as often as possible to lavish time and care on the roses Sarra had sent. Though Cailet was compelled to admire his ambition, she was convinced that nothing could improve the dreadful wall. Josselin was the oldest of the first-year Prentices, a man grown—for whichever of the Equinoxes was his Birthingday, the autumn one had passed four days ago and he was officially eighteen, and of age. One would have thought being stuck in class with five children would grate his manly pride. No such thing—not yet, anyway. Cailet wondered when it would hit him that by now he could have been Lord Josselin, husband of the Witte First Daughter, instead of sitting here under the courtyard oak listening to the Mage Captal blather on.
When no one ventured a comment, Cailet said, “So you’re just going to take my word for it, are you, that magic should be used only if all other means of persuasion fail?”
With the simplicity of his gifts and his person, Jioret Canzallis said, “You’re the Captal.”
“So I am. And if I told you that the sun will rise in the west tomorrow morning, would you also take my word for that?”
Tirin Maklyn grinned. “Everybody knows it won’t! Besides, not even the Captal has that much power.”
“What if I did?” Cailet persisted, turning to the Adennos cousins. “Halla?”
“You wouldn’t,” the girl said succinctl
y. Then, with an unexpected flash of humor, she added, “Just think how it would confuse the roosters.”
Her cousin Hallan frowned at the levity; every lesson in being a Mage Guardian was a matter of supreme seriousness to her, the more so when the teacher was the Captal. Cailet hoped the girl would follow the example of other Prentices and develop a sense of humor one of these days.
“So what you’re saying,” Jioret offered, frowning, “is that just because a Mage Guardian can use magic, it doesn’t mean she should.”
“Perhaps,” said Josselin in his low, sonorous voice, “the best solution is to avoid situations where magic or the sword must be used at all.”
“Certainly,” Cailet agreed. “A wise constable of the Watch knows how to subdue a surly street drunk with his cudgel, but chooses to put him in an armlock instead.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to knock him out cold?” Tirin asked.
“The First Rule of Magic is to harm nothing. The Second, according to Gorynel Desse, is to be subtle. The Third, according to me, is that the easiest way is usually the worst.”
That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard, muttered a voice in her head.
You say that every time I give this lecture. Hush up and let me finish, will you please?
Yes, Captal. I hear and obey, Captal. By Geridon’s Golden Stones, that boy is exquisite!
We all know that, Gorsha.
And are we going to do something about it?
This startled her so much that she shifted in her chair. I’m twice his age!
So? A mere technicality. That boy would sire beautiful children—he reminds me of somebody, I can’t think who—and his get would be Mageborn as well—
Gorsha, shut up!
Distracted by the interior conversation, she’d missed whatever it was Hallan Adennos had just said. But the girl was looking upward, where someone had just flung open the gates at the top of the steps. Rather than descend to the courtyard, a thin, dark boy of about six raced around the balcony overhead, yelling at the top of his lungs. Several adults pushed through the gates behind him, shouting.
A moment later Granon Bekke shoved past them and pounded after the boy. Cailet stood, her sword in her hand—still sheathed—and told the Prentices to go indoors at once. They scattered at her command, but hid within the breezeway to see what would happen next.
The boy smashed upstairs windows with bare fists, howling with rage but not with pain. Poking his head between broken glass, careless of shards that scraped his face and scalp, he screamed frustration before moving on to the next window.
“Captal!” bellowed Granon as he caught up with the boy and grabbed his collar.
“Cailet!” roared another voice, just as familiar but stupefyingly out of place at Mage Hall.
Collan? What’s he doing here?
“Toman!” shrieked a woman from the top of the stairs. “Toman, please! Somebody help my grandson!”
“Captal! Get out of here!” Granon yelled.
The boy’s magic has gone Wild. Don’t question me, Cailet, I know the scent of it! Do as Granon says and get to safety!
But she stood there, fingers wrapped around the hilt of her sword that had once been Gorsha’s, watching in frozen horror as Granon lost his grip on Toman and the boy flung himself over the balcony railing. Collan was racing down the stairs toward her, sweating as if he’d already run at least a mile.
Damn it, Cailet, move! He knows you’re the Captal, he saw Granon call down to you—
Toman fell twenty feet to the paving stones, landing in a heap that should have meant stunned unconsciousness if not broken bones. But he was on his feet at once—a lanky, wild-eyed child, laughing hysterically as he rushed directly at Cailet.
Josselin Mikleine snagged part of a sleeve that ripped with the force of the boy’s charge. As the young man grappled with the frenzied child, dirty fingernails clawed that oh-so-perfect face and left trails of blood. Toman squirmed free and came for Cailet again, dark eyes red-rimmed and completely insane.
A Mage Globe appeared in the air ten feet in front of Cailet. It swelled, Warrior crimson, and shattered as Toman crashed into it, his Wild Magic breaking through Granon’s. The boy faltered for one or two steps, then gathered himself for the final lunge at Cailet.
Collan got in his way, pounding across the flagstones to intercept him. “Cailet! Get the hell out of here!” he shouted, making a grab for Toman. The child eluded him with insane speed, a blur of skinny limbs and tangled dark hair and torn clothes that evidenced more than one try to restrain him. Col lost his balance, crashed into a flowering trellis, and staggered backward before it fell on him.
All at once she felt the sword wrenched from her hand. She saw it wielded in bloodied fingers—the blade still sheathed, swung as inelegantly as a tree branch, its flat striking Toman’s shoulders and back. Over and over the sword slammed down onto the boy, and at last his body’s injuries were too much for his mind’s Wild Magic to counter. He went down in a tangle of scrawny legs and blood.
Josselin stood over him, not even breathing hard. He turned to look at Cailet, and for several moments said nothing. Then, gravely handing back her sword: “First resort. And for me, until you teach me, the only one.”
13
THAT evening, an hour after Cailet and Collan had dined in private, Granon came to Cailet’s chambers to make his report.
“Elomar sedated him until you can Ward him,” he said wearily. “Had to give him enough to send an ox into a stupor, truly told.”
Cailet nodded, remembering how Josselin—five times the boy’s size and ten times as strong—had been forced to hack at him. “Injuries?”
“Bruises, sprains, cuts from the glass—nothing that won’t heal. His grandmother’s with him.” Granon shook his head. “I’ve heard about Wild Magic, but I’ve never seen it before. My apologies, Captal. I should have—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Collan told him, making a long arm to pour Granon a large mug of cinnamon-flavored coffee, then laced it with brandy. “Sit down, Master Bekke, and we’ll tell you the whole story.”
Granon accepted the mug with thanks and lowered himself into a chair opposite Cailet, his craggy face drawn into grim lines. He blamed himself, she saw—which, as Collan had said, was absurd. Not even Gorsha had guessed what was truly wrong with the child until Collan told Cailet about the drownings five years ago.
As Col went over Toman’s history for the second time that evening, Cailet conducted an interior conversation with the most vocal of her Others.
All right, Gorsha, let’s hear it.
You’re working from theory, not fact, he argued.
I’m working from stories that go back five hundred years or more, she retorted. This is incredibly rare, but it has happened before. Effortlessly she recited the information, taken from what she’d received of the Bequest. If her mental voice took on some of his pedantic vocabulary, there was no one but Gorsha to remark it.
The most reliably reported case occurred in 598, during the Kenroke Fever Epidemic. A child survived all her family—who all died within a day of each other. Seven of them. Twenty years later, after a life lived almost entirely alone, with everyone thinking her strange because of what she’d witnessed at the age of three, a Healer Mage came to the village for the first time. The young woman fascinated her, and after a week or two she found out pretty much what Toman’s grandmother and cousin did. There was nothing to be done, however. The girl wasn’t Mageborn. She lived to be ninety, all the while with seven other people inside her mind.
And you think that because Toman is Mageborn, you can help him?
I think it’s likely.
We don’t risk a Captal’s life and sanity on a likelihood.
What else can I do? she cried. Ward him to total insensibility? Kill him?
“—so I brought him here, hoping the Captal could help,” Collan finish
ed.
Cailet sighed quietly. “Merciful St. Miryenne, I hope I can.”
“Any idea what set him off?” Granon poured himself another coffee, this time without brandy, and stirred sugar into the cup. After one sip he grimaced and reached for the cream. “Saints, Marra brews it strong! What would’ve triggered such a display from the child, Captal?”
“Proximity of magic.” This she had learned from Gorsha in a stern lecture this afternoon. “I take it his village is isolated, and a Guardian visits only once or twice a year?”
“If that.” He paused, then bit his lip before saying, “What I did with the Battle Globe—it only made things worse, didn’t it?”
“Probably not. You saw him.” She nodded thanks as he refilled her cup. “It wasn’t your fault, Gransha.”
He shrugged this away. “I’m surprised the rest of us weren’t writhing on the ground, with that much magic gone crazy.”
“Its direction was me. It happens that way sometimes—focusing on the strongest magic in the vicinity to the exclusion of everything else.” Something else she’d learned from Gorsha. “I’m just glad it was a boy and not a girl.”
Collan snorted. “Do you think a little thing like that would’ve stopped Joss Mikleine? It could’ve been a girl, a grown woman, or his own mother, and he would’ve done the same.”
“I agree,” Granon said. “If he turns out to have a talent for the Warrior side of things, I’d be pleased to have him as a Captal’s Warder. He’s got the right instincts.”
“The Captal must survive.” Josselin hasn’t been here thirty days, and he’s already shown himself a Mage Guardian.
Yes, said Gorsha. And a powerful one.
Mmm. But how much did your sword have to do with it?
“We could use a few more Mages who know what to do with a sword besides not trip over it,” Granon was saying, and for an instant Cailet was lost between two conversations about weaponry. “Most of the Scholars don’t even wear one, nor the Healers either. Those sent out as itinerants know how to defend themselves—Rennon and I make sure of it!—but there’re few among them who want to become Warrior Mages.”