by Melanie Rawn
He recalled having seen quite a few elderly Mage Guardians; these were listed below the teachers, with the notation that they were retired from active service. How did a Mage retire? he wondered. It wasn’t like a singer, compelled to forsake the stage when the voice went. Magic was lifelong. But he supposed that the thirty or so antiques living here had no families to give them house room, or for one reason or another had chosen to live at Mage Hall instead.
The thought of families gave him pause—he’d seen no children, and no one who wasn’t wearing the solid black of a Mage Guardian or the buff-colored shirt and black trousers of a Prentice. Another look at the page gave him the names of a cook (a Calorros from Tillinshir; there hadn’t been a Mageborn Calorros since they’d nearly been wiped out in The Waste War), an art teacher (a Hathwy with a Certificate from the Firrense Institute—Mikel was impressed), and about twenty other women and men without duties attached to their names whom he assumed were married to Mages. And married couples inevitably meant children—he figured they were in schoolrooms someplace around here. Would all of them be Mageborn? He doubted it. And it occurred to him that Aidan wasn’t completely alone here, remembering that Lady Sefana had expressed her worries about that to Mother years ago. Tone-deaf in a community full of accomplished musicians; Mikel shook his head, knowing he would never have been able to do it.
No sheets or blankets or Prentice’s garb arrived by the time Mikel had memorized the names and classes and general guidelines for life at Mage Hall (he was assigned bathroom clean-up every other day). Bored, he decided to go find Taigan.
It felt peculiar, not being right next door to her. They didn’t have the kind of rapport identical twins were said to have—knowing even at a thousand miles what the other was thinking and feeling, that sort of dung—but he’d always had a special awareness of her that seemed to depend on proximity. At Roseguard he took it for granted; Mage Hall was about the same size as the Residence, but right now he couldn’t sense her at all. Maybe it was all the magic in the air—magic he couldn’t yet feel as anything more than a vaguely annoying tickle somewhere deep in his head.
Still, he ought to be able to find her. He always could at home, even when she didn’t want to be found. So he wandered the corridors and courtyards and stairways, and within five minutes was thoroughly lost.
In the time it had taken to meet the Captal, be shown his room, and unpack, Mage Hall had woken and breakfasted. Now the cleaning duties of the day had begun: making beds, scrubbing bathrooms, sweeping flagstones. Mikel was amazed that there were no servants—though Aidan had said something about the new cook, a professional hired away from a minor college in Shainkroth in the never-ending (and futile, as far as Mikel could tell) attempt to put some flesh on the Captal’s skinny bones.
Mikel roamed the maze, puzzled when he saw black-clad Mages working at every imaginable task. He could understand that students would be expected to take care of their rooms and belongings—it was like that at all the residential colleges he’d heard about. But that Mage Guardians would be assigned to tend the kitchen garden, mend a saddle, repair a wobbly table, rebind a book, put up preserved fruits—
Then he realized that all these people had had trades and crafts before they’d ever come to Mage Hall, and contributed their talents as needed.
And his own talents? He stood in a courtyard shadow watching a young woman grind dried herbs into powder for medicine, and writhed inwardly. Mikel Liwellan, pampered and protected son of a Councillor, could contribute nothing more useful than music.
He really needed to talk to Taigan. She was as new and useless here as he was. He meandered around, completely disoriented. Chances were Taigan had left her room, too, and was exploring. He hoped ruefully that she was doing better than he was.
The oddest part was that nobody said anything to him. Not a word. A few people smiled or nodded, and everyone seemed friendly enough, but nobody talked to him. He wasn’t quite invisible, but near enough to set his teeth on edge.
He felt like an interloper. At least those who’d come here before him had felt their magic. His was locked away. Until it was released, he was on the same footing with Aidan Maurgen and the cook. And he didn’t like it much.
“No need to stand there like a tourist,” a woman’s voice said from inside a dimly lighted room. “Come on in.”
Mikel gave a start, then accepted the invitation and stepped inside the doorway. Manners asserted themselves, and he bowed to the middle-aged Mage Guardian. She was seated on a tall stool near a high table, one foot tucked casually under her, the other long leg dangling. Around her trim waist was a red sash that marked her as a Warrior Mage, and gleaming from her collar were two silver pins, Sword and Candle.
“You’re Mikel Liwellan,” she went on. “Want to know how I could tell?”
He sighed. “I look like a lost puppy?”
She laughed heartily. “Well, there is that. No, what really gave you away is that hair and that very elegant bow—both of which came from Collan Rosvenir. Sit down, Mikel. Soon you’ll be in this very room, mangling your work like these two. This is Ollia, and that’s Joss.”
Now that his eyes had adjusted, Mikel saw the students—one an attractive young woman with startling turquoise eyes, the other a devastatingly handsome young man. Neither was past twenty, and one was familiar. The impossibly beautiful face was just the same, except for a slight irregularity in the bridge of his nose—barely noticeable, but bearing mute witness to a collision with something less yielding than itself.
“Josselin Mikleine?” Mikel asked with a tentative smile.
The young man nodded, pleased to be recognized—which was ridiculous, because who could ever forget that face? Or was it the face Mikel and Taigan had both forgotten, the face of the Malerrisi who’d brought them that box?
No; couldn’t be. The Captal would never have taken him for training if he was anything other than what he appeared to be: a Mageborn who’d discovered it later than most, and was working hard to catch up.
Josselin said, “Nice to see you. Did Lady Sarra come with you? I’d like to thank her again for sending me here.”
“I’d like to know why she ever thought it would do any good!” the Warrior grumbled. “Don’t sit too close to him, Mikel, his Mage Globes have a tendency to explode.”
Josselin sighed dismally. The other student nudged him with an elbow, her whimsical smile including Mikel as she said, “We all singe our fingers—but Joss’s mistakes are truly spectacular!”
“This,” said their teacher, “from the girl who’s been working on the same Globe spell for six weeks!”
“Please, Imi, don’t remind me!” she moaned, clutching distractedly at reddish-brown curls.
“Imi”? Holy St. Delilah—that’s Imilial Gorrst—the First Sword! Mikel nearly made another bow, much deeper and more profound than the original, but caught himself in time. From all he’d heard of her, and from what she’d said when he came in, she’d only start teasing him again.
Then something else occurred to him: that neither student was the slightest bit awed by their teacher, even if she’d been a Warrior Mage for nearly forty years and First Sword for about as long as they’d been alive. He decided he liked that; nobody around Roseguard called his mother “Lady Sarra” or his father “Lord Collan” unless a guest required impressing. Mikel, until his Wards were unWorked, was a guest, but nobody was trying to impress him.
Then again, he thought as Ollia began conjuring another Mage Globe in the dimness of the workroom, he’d walked into the place pretty much overwhelmed from the start. They didn’t need to impress him.
He was about to excuse himself to go get even more lost when Ollia’s Mage Globe took on a crimson hue, minuscule bolts of silvery lightning dancing across its surface.
“I’ve got it,” she breathed. “It’s done.”
Imilial Gorrst nodded. “You hear that? She knows.” Hopping off t
he stool, she strode to the center of the room and in an eyeblink conjured a red-fire Globe of her own. “All right, let’s see what you’ve got.”
Mikel stepped back a pace, then another. Josselin stayed where he was, watching in avid fascination as the two women faced off.
“What—?” was all Mikel could whisper.
“Watch,” Josselin whispered back. “Ollie’s going to be a Warrior Mage, like almost all the Bekkes. This is her first real Battle Globe, and—well, you’ll see.”
He did.
He saw the crimson spheres approach each other: slowly, warily, with a low humming that was magic in his mind, not music in his ears. Imilial Gorrst stood casually balanced, confidence in every line of her. Ollia Bekke poised tense and trembling, and with the first lick of blood-colored lightning from her Globe a slick of sweat shone on her brow. The other Globe caught the flare, absorbed it silently, pulsed—then shot a fist-sized yellow fireball in response. Ollia caught her breath and bit both lips together as the attack struck her Globe with a sound like a ringing bell, but she and her conjuring held firm. The miniature sun blazed briefly, then disintegrated into chiming tendrils of energy that enveloped Ollia’s Battle Globe. She gasped again, sweat dripping in her eyes, and after a moment the golden sparks died.
“Conceded,” said the First Sword. “Take it back.”
Ollia held out both hands. The Globe drifted to hover between her cupped palms. She cradled the ruby glow, then slowly brought her hands together. The sphere vanished.
Imilial Gorrst did the same, a stately ritual that ended with the participants exchanging bows in the sudden gloom. “Very good, Ollia. Very good indeed. You’re ready for the Captal.”
Ollia Bekke straightened proudly. “I’ll go tell her.”
The Warrior Mage hooked her thumbs in her sash, dark eyes dancing. “She already knows, girl. She already knows.”
Ollia faltered slightly, then gulped and nodded. Mikel stared at her, then at Imilial Gorrst, then at Josselin—who was smiling as if he’d known, too. Recovering herself, Ollia left the workshop, fingers curled at her sides as if the feel of the Battle Globe lingered within her palms.
During the short silence that followed, Mikel met the First Sword’s eyes again, trying to find words enough to ask a question. Imilial Gorrst shook her head, smiling. “Someday,” she murmured.
His cheeks grew hot at the gentle reminder of how young he was. But someday in the future there would be a moment like this for him, too. He’d been born to it.
Josselin gave him a sympathetic look. “I know how you feel.”
“It was—” Mikel struggled with it. “It was beautiful—so much power—”
“And deadly,” said Imilial Gorrst. “Never forget that. A beautiful glow against the darkness and violence—but it can swallow your soul if you use it unwisely. Remember that.”
Mikel fought confusion. How could something so alive with beauty be a danger to him? How could that powerful song turn into a death-chant for a Mage Guardian’s soul? It made no sense to him. All he knew was that he wanted to create light and magic and soundless music of his own. He curled his fingers into his empty palms.
And then he remembered the Malerrisi, and the box, and the attack that had been no attack—and the blood on his hands when he took Taigan’s knife from a man’s belly. That beautiful Rosvenir knife, shining and powerful and deadly.
The First Sword was nodding slowly, as if she knew every thought in his head. “Go on, go find your sister. You’ll have a lot of talking to do.” Then she turned to Josselin. “Meantime, you can explain to me why you can see what Ollie did, understand it, even feel it—and be completely incapable of duplicating her achievement.”
Mikel tactfully departed as the First Sword renewed her affectionate abuse of Josselin’s training, talents, and tenacity. He walked through the corridors in a daze, even more profoundly lost now and not caring a bit as his fists clenched around emptiness, and he swore that one day he would feel the magic glisten and sing between his hands.
23
TAIGAN’S room in the women’s wing was spare and plain. The window faced north—always the most undesirable for lighting and warmth, which irked her mightily. The view was of a few dull trees across summer-dun hills and, beyond, the pointed green tip of St. Lirance’s copper-clad belltower in the otherwise invisible town of Heathering. Marra Gorrst watched her like a hawk, obviously expecting disparaging remarks—especially when the shared-bathroom arrangement was described. Taigan simply nodded. She wasn’t here on holiday, after all. She was here to become a Mage Guardian. And the sooner her Wards were unWorked and the process began, the happier she’d be.
When Marra left her alone to unpack (a task occupying three whole minutes), she took time only to change into a fresh shirt and brush the dust off her boots before leaving her tiny chamber to explore. Unlike Mikel, she didn’t get lost. But she didn’t learn anything interesting either—not until the early afternoon.
She joined her brother and the rest of the community for lunch in the refectory. Neither her mother nor the Mage Captal attended, which surprised her not at all. They were old friends, and probably had a lot of talking to do—mainly about Taigan and Mikel. The twelve long trestle tables were packed with Mage Guardians and Prentices, chattering and laughing and teasing and discussing the morning’s lessons and chores. But for the age of some of the senior Mages, it was like any other refectory at any other college on Lenfell (with the exception of St. Senasto’s, where aspiring votaries were educated in almost total silence). There were even patron Saints painted on the walls—direct copies of the ones on the walls of Firrense, Taigan noted, and done very well, too. Miryenne with her lighted candle and Rilla with her white sparrow were obvious. She recognized Mikellan, of course, source of her brother’s name: a blond young man climbing a ladder. Delilah was there, too—she who had been a Mage Guardian in life—and Caitiri at her forge, plainly in tribute to the Captal. But Gorynel? Oh, of course; a reference to the famous First Sword. That explained Elinar Longsight and Lusine as well, for the last two Captals, Leninor Garvedian and Lusath Adennos. Deiket was for the Scholar Mages, she supposed, just as Delilah was for the Warriors and Fielto for the Healers—and Steen Swordsworn must be for the Captal’s Warders.
The Mage Guardians certainly laid claim to a lot of Saintly protection, she told herself as she sat beside Mikel and waited for the food to be served. A young man came to their table with huge platters of bread, cheese, and sliced beef; another with pitchers of water and lemonade; yet another with a bowl of sliced raw vegetables. Simple fare, simply served. Taigan wondered if the evening tradition of candles and flowers held here, and decided it couldn’t. There were too many people, too many tables, and too much chance of hot food going cold.
A young woman with reddish-brown hair introduced herself to Taigan; Mikel had evidently met Ollia Bekke already, and plied her with questions about how one became a Warrior Mage. Taigan listened with half an ear, wondering if her brother really intended that specialization or whether he just found the girl pretty. Probably the latter; he wasn’t the soldierly type. That led her to consider the ins and outs of personal attachments at Mage Hall. All these people living in a small community for years at a time—there had to be flirtations and love affairs and marriages. And babies; she saw several women in various stages of pregnancy.
Taigan was interested in children and marriage—most girls her age were, especially those as eligible as she. While making polite Smalltalk with the others at the table, she considered again her musings of the past four days on the road. She would reach her majority next year and become a Mage Guardian thereafter (though just how soon thereafter was unclear), and she’d realized long before the long walk from Roseguard that her husband would have to come from the ranks of Mage Guardians.
She’d analyzed it all quite coolly. Not many families could rival hers in wealth, which narrowed her choice from the start
. She had no intention of marrying a man who must needs be utterly subservient to her because he must utterly depend on her for his needs. Her father had his own money, spent as he liked; she had seen and liked the difference that made in her parents’ marriage compared to those of her friends’ parents. Mili Berekard’s father, for instance, had brought the usual huge Krestos dowry from his family’s paper mills, but hadn’t a cutpiece to spend without permission. He hopped to whenever Mili’s mother cleared her throat.
As for eligible Mageborns—that list was even shorter. But neither did she want a man who couldn’t share magic with her. Finding someone rich, independent, and Mageborn would be difficult, but she also knew that two Mageborns had a better chance of producing Mageborn children—and whatever this thing was that had been Warded up inside her, however it expressed itself, she wanted her offspring to have it as well. It was like inherited wealth: if one had it, one had a duty to pass it along.
As for where love came into it—well, she’d grown up observing several passionate marriages in detail, and saw no reason why she shouldn’t find the same emotional and physical satisfaction. Her parents; Tarise and Rillan; Riena and Jeymi; Miram and Riddon; Lindren and Biron—oh yes, she’d seen it many times. She wanted the same thing for herself, and sooner or later she’d find a rich, handsome, intelligent, charming, well-mannered, kind, loving, witty, accomplished young Mageborn man to provide it. Granted, her list of desirable attributes was somewhat lengthy, but if she had exacting standards it was hardly her fault. All the husbands she knew were most of those things.