by Melanie Rawn
“It’s absurd,” Sarra repeated. “What difference can it make?”
She sighed quietly, wishing for Collan’s incisive bluntness; Sarra’s eyes were best opened by her husband. “Since the rising, the Council has abolished slavery, Bloods and Tiers, and a lot of the worst marriage and inheritance laws. You’ve overhauled the electoral system, changed and expanded the Assembly and Council, reorganized most of the government from the village level on up, and—”
“And not done nearly enough,” Sarra interrupted.
“On the contrary, you’ve done too much. And too fast. Everybody used to know exactly where they stood. What was expected of them—what they could expect from the world. I’m not saying that the changes aren’t good and necessary. But there’ve been so many that a lot of people are nervous. They see the old society being torn down piece by piece, and they’re not sure if what’s been put in its place will work.”
Sarra frowned down at her hands—those slim, delicate fingers that were responsible for dismantling much of Lenfell’s traditional structure. Sarra said, “They want someone to come in and tell them what to do, based on hereditary right—just like the Bloods.”
“Yes. And Vellerin Dombur knows it. Veller Ganfallin didn’t live so terribly long ago that what she did and how she lived has no relevance to today’s Lenfell. When our would-be Grand Duchess of Domburronshir has adequate documentation, she’ll let someone publish the news that she’s a direct descendant. It’s been tried before, and to rather telling effect.”
The golden head snapped up, black eyes sparkling with anger. “Anniyas was elevated to First Councillor because of that other putative Ganfallin. Her victory over him was engineered by the Malerrisi.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. Glenin has more imagination than to use the same ploy twice,” Cailet said.
“Is it the same? Consider. Let’s say Vellerin Dombur gains control of Domburronshir. If Glenin is helping her now so she can defeat her later—just the way Anniyas did—she’s a fool. The last claimant was a man, remember. He was an upstart not only because of his ambitions but also because of his sex. It’d be much harder to topple a woman in the same position.”
“Yes, but—”
Sarra glared her to silence. “It’s more logical to assume that Glenin intends to rule Domburronshir through the Domburs. Vellerin would have no qualms about using Malerrisi magic to her own ends, thinking that because they’re so far out of the public eye and political power that she is indeed using them, not the other way around. With Domburronshir as a base—economic, political, and military—and Vellerin Dombur’s craving to seize Veller Ganfallin’s kind of power, and at the absolute worst to emulate her conquests—”
Cailet’s emotions were primarily composed of horror at the prospect and disgust that she hadn’t seen it herself. But she was also filled with admiration for Sarra’s gut-jumping. She wondered suddenly what it might have been like, to hold the positions they’d been meant to in Ambrai: Sarra the Councillor, Cailet the Mage Guardian, and—and Glenin, the Lady of Ambrai.
“That’s what she’d take next,” Cailet blurted out. “It wouldn’t end in South Lenfell. She’d attack Ambraishir. She wants it, Sarra, she always has—she’s First Daughter in an unbroken line of First Daughters.”
Sarra blinked, then nodded. “What can we do?”
There was no hopelessness in the question, nor helplessness—nothing of what Cailet so often felt when confronting the future. Sarra had unlimited faith in her own ability to accomplish, to succeed; when had she ever confronted failure?
But she didn’t know about Josselin Mikleine and Jored Karellos either. Cailet had lied about not knowing the source of the shadows.
“Let it play out,” she heard herself say. It was what she was doing with the two young men. For—and she hardly dared think such a thing—for if she succeeded, and made a Mage Guardian of a Malerrisi’s son, Glenin would be broken. The Malerrisi would survive—for a time anyway—but Glenin’s arrogance and ambitions would be shattered.
“‘Let it play out’? Not damned likely!”
“Do what you have to,” Cailet said woodenly. “Political maneuvering isn’t my area of expertise.”
“No, it’s mine,” was the forthright reply. “Leave it to me, Caisha.”
She would have to. She had enough to worry about within the rose-draped walls of Mage Hall.
25
IT was not quite dawn. Sarra sat alone on the single chair at the far end of the real Mage Hall, the large vaulted chamber where formal assemblies were held. She’d been to Mage Hall only twice before (Cailet usually visited them at Roseguard, or they met elsewhere when convenient to their travels), and had never been inside this room. Aidan had woken her early, waited in the corridor while she dressed, and escorted her here. Then he’d disappeared without a word, leaving her with no one to ask about the pattern of tiles in the floor.
She smiled when she saw it was an octagon. Convenient, that it forms an eight-pointed compass! Collan forgot to mention that after his visit. Very clever, little sister, even better than my eight-petaled rose on all the official Sheve documents.
Yawning, she glanced at the windows again, unsure if it was any lighter outside than it had been five minutes ago. She had spent a restless, uneasy night, her dreams filled with images of Collan, Cailet, Taigan and Mikel, Warrior Mages who conjured Globe after crimson Battle Globe, and the tall broad-shouldered Wraith that was all her mind would ever allow of Auvry Feiran. It had been a relief when Aidan knocked on her door.
Cailet had promised something interesting. Sarra hoped she’d get on with it soon. She wanted to go home. Falundir would be staying at Mage Hall for a while, so she and Taguare would borrow horses for a very long ride south to Cantratown. From there, they’d take ship to Roseguard. And maybe by then Collan would be home from Roke Castle, and she’d tell him about Glenin’s second attempt on the twins, and why they were now Prentice Mages. She’d be lucky if he didn’t take ship himself—for Malerris Castle, to dismantle Glenin joint by joint.
Wondering with genuine curiosity how other women managed to control their husbands, Sarra gave a start as the double oak doors opened and a young woman strode into the hall. In the pre-dawn dimness Sarra could see no more than that she was tall and long-limbed in her formal black regimentals, and that her hair was cut short to curl around a dark-skinned face. Of her age, her looks, or her Name, Sarra knew nothing. But the stance she took in the center of the compass octagon was not that of a student preparing for a lesson.
Cailet appeared then, in the complete ceremonial ensemble of the Mage Captal: black silk trousers and shirt and hip-length vest, silver pins at her collar, silver sash around her waist, and Gorynel Desse’s sword at her side. That sword—Sarra’s eyes narrowed below a frown as scabbard and hilt caught every scrap of light in the chamber and reflected it back in an arrogant gleam. One of the legendary Fifty, supposedly crafted by Caitiri the Fiery-Eyed, Delilah the Dancer, Jiorto Silverhelm, and Steen Swordsworn, this blade obeyed the intent of its wielder. To defend, to threaten, to chasten, or to kill—the sword knew the true purpose of the mind that commanded it—sometimes better than that mind itself knew.
No, she told herself, that wasn’t quite right. Collan and Falundir had unearthed an archaic ballad cycle that detailed the making of the Fifty Swords—designed by Jiorto Silverhelm, forged by Caitiri the Fiery-Eyed, imbued with power by Steen Swordsworn and with their peculiar instinct for the wielder’s true intent by the wily Delilah the Dancer.
The Fifty: forged in Magefire glow
For Warders’ grip in strife
For bold defense
Of innocence
For the Captal’s very life
The Silverhelm on sheets of gold
Drew the Fifty o’er and o’er
With silver pen
Again, again
With all his swording lore
&
nbsp; Forgeflame shone in Fiery Eyes
She kindled, hammered, chilled
With steady hold
To shape and fold
With all her smithing skill
But a sword is naught but lifeless steel
Until—unless—a Mageborn heart
With truth and grace
The sword embrace
With magic from the start
So Swordsworn stood by Caitiri’s side
His prowess Globed and glowing
With will to right
And all his might
With Warrior’s secret knowing
Drawn by the bright and fiery forge
The Dancer in graceful fingers
With sudden grasp
Each sword she clasped
And her fierce magic lingers
It was the heart, not the head, that ruled the sword. However the mind might protest, whatever the user might think her goals to be, the sword knew better—and acted on it. What would it be like, Sarra asked herself, to fight one’s sword as well as one’s enemy?
Without acknowledging Sarra’s presence, Cailet approached the student who stood within the octagon. “Ollia Bekke,” she said softly, her voice ringing from the plain stone arches high overhead, “would you become a Mage Guardian?”
“I would,” the Prentice replied.
Bekke—ah, then she means to become a Warrior, like most of her Name. Sarra nodded to herself and sat a little forward in her chair, understanding what Cailet had meant her to see this morning. Not a lesson, but a ritual. There had been no formal recognition for Cailet of her status as Mage Captal; evidently she had decided that there was value in ceremony, even a private one between herself and a Prentice. Perhaps more value, Sarra thought, watching them face each other. It would be gratifying to stand before one’s fellow Prentices and be recognized as a Mage Guardian, but there must be an even greater satisfaction to be so recognized by the Mage Captal—privately, as equals.
“Prove yourself,” Cailet said, a simple challenge.
Ritual, yes—eventually. For now, a testing, to demonstrate that the Captal’s acceptance had been earned. Sarra felt her hands clench as Ollia Bekke, standing within the compass octagon, lifted both hands waist-high and conjured a crimson sphere, a Battle Globe. By its eerie glow, she saw Cailet arch a brow.
“You choose to defend first? Not in keeping with what I know of you. But I’ll admit it does take real courage to attack first. Very well.”
Cailet’s Mage Globe was pure white, veined in scarlet. Sarra hadn’t seen her make so much as a gesture. Her hands were still at her sides. The milky sphere—barely fist-sized, not even a quarter the circumference of Ollia Bekke’s—drifted around the perimeter of the octagon, casual, almost lazy. Ollia didn’t turn to follow it with her eyes, instead holding Cailet’s gaze with her own. The two orbs, red and white, lit the hall with bizarre radiance, and as the white suddenly shot toward the red, the light seemed to push back whatever dawn had seeped through the high windows. There was a small ringing sound, and then silent darkness.
Sarra blinked dazzled eyes, resisting the urge to knuckle them. Fragments of light spun in the gloom, then died away. Sarra’s vision adjusted, and she saw that Cailet was nodding.
“Adequate.”
Ollia Bekke stiffened visibly.
“You managed not to kill yourself in setting up a defense. Am I to understand you expect praise for that?”
Cailet was deliberately baiting the girl, reminding her who was the lowly Prentice and who the lofty Mage Captal. Sarra didn’t have the vaguest notion why—but there was power here. Dangerous power. Magic.
This time it was Cailet who conjured a Globe, and this time it was dark crimson: livid, sparking, dark with intensity, much more of a threat than Ollia Bekke’s had been. With a sigh that actually sounded bored, Cailet hooked her thumbs into her silver sash and cocked her head to one side.
“Well?”
Ollia Bekke appeared to be confused. Annoyed, her pride stinging, but also bewildered by this turn of events. Sarra knew just how she felt. What was Cailet doing?
“Leave the compass,” Cailet ordered.
Ollia’s body shifted automatically to obey.
“You don’t deserve to stand there.”
The girl went rigid and stayed where she was.
“I told you to—”
“I heard you, Captal.”
“Well, then?”
“No. With respect.”
“Why respect?”
“You’re the Captal.”
Cailet laughed. “Oh, I see. And because I’m the Captal, you respect me enough to disobey me?”
“I have a right to be here,” Ollia said stubbornly.
“According to whom?”
And Cailet’s flashing, bloody Globe heaved forward, met barely in time by Ollia’s defensive sphere—which was almost its match in color if not power. There was another detonation of energy, and this time the clang of it made Sarra wince.
When it had dispersed, Cailet shrugged. “Again, adequate. You managed not to kill me in defending yourself. But the command remains. Move away from there.”
“Again, with respect—no.” She paused, as if gathering courage to say what her pride demanded. “Only when you acknowledge that I have a right to be here. That I’m a Mage Guardian.”
Cailet took a step, then another, decreasing the distance between them to about fifteen feet. “Out. Now.”
Ollia said nothing, and stood her ground.
“Do you know,” Cailet said conversationally, “that as a Listed Mage, you’ll be sworn to give your life for mine? That your duty above all things is to keep me safe?”
“I know.”
“And?” Cailet gestured go on with her right hand.
“And?” the girl repeated, perplexity overcoming all other emotion once more.
“And will you? Look at me. Nothing much, am I? Just an arrogant woman with a few paltry tricks and a sword.” She stroked the hilt gently. “As a Warrior Mage—I assume that’s your ambition?”
Ollia nodded, and the first rays of sunlight glinted her curls in russet and copper.
“Wrong. A Mage Guardian has but one ambition: to die for me.” She shrugged once more. “As I was saying, a Warrior eventually receives a sword. But no sword in the world is like this one.”
Ollia tensed, and so did Sarra, assuming Cailet was about to attack with that sword. Instead, yet another Mage Globe appeared to the Prentice’s right, and she was so startled that she turned to face it. Barely countering it in time with an angry crimson sphere of her own, she spun once more when Cailet flung another, and another, and another at her.
“I could go on doing this all day,” Cailet said through the bursts of light and sound and magic as Ollia frantically defended herself. “But I’m getting bored.”
And then she did draw Gorynel Desse’s blade. Ollia Bekke, lacking one of her own, backed up a pace, then two, then three—then realized she had almost obeyed Cailet’s order to step out of the compass octagon. She stopped, and lifted shaking hands to Work the largest Globe yet—so darkly red as to be almost black, covered in pulsing veins like a living heart. Sarra had the wild thought that if Cailet punctured it with her sword, it would flood the floor with blood.
Cailet didn’t just pierce it; she sliced it in two. Magic rippled halfway up the blade, flickered, and died.
“Can you do no better?” Cailet asked.
There was no haughtiness in the question, yet Sarra could feel Cailet’s fierce pride in her own magic. Perhaps this was the darkness she feared, the temptation to use her power and The Bequest for the sake of her own pride. Sarra couldn’t tell. She only knew it was wrong to humiliate the young Prentice this way.
At last Ollia seemed to notice Sarra’s presence, as if her sympathy had reached out for at
tention. The girl’s eyes were a brilliant turquoise, almost the Ambrai Blood color, and there was shame in them and in the flush on her dark cheeks that someone had witnessed this scene. She had entered expecting, perhaps, to be tested somehow, and to emerge as a Mage Guardian with all rights, honor, and pride attached thereto. Instead—
Cailet reached over and thwacked the girl on the shoulder with the flat of her blade.
Ollia suddenly snarled, and whirled around, and sent a throbbing Mage Globe directly at Cailet. The sword’s easy parry was an insult. As the infuriated Prentice—twice the fighter now that mortification lashed at her—sent sphere after lightning-swathed crimson sphere at the Captal, Sarra remembered whose skill was really at work here.
Not Cailet at all. Gorynel Desse. First Sword for fifty-one of his seventy-six years.
Pale lids drooped over coal-black eyes, as if Cailet hardly cared to see her opponent at all. Every movement, every flex of muscle and stretch of sinew, even to her very bones, seemed permeated with magic. It blazed along the sword now, not rising from the Mage Globes that shattered on the blade but coruscating downward from Cailet’s hands on the hilt. Sweat pearled her brow, dampening her blonde hair, but instead of growing tired she was stronger and swifter with each clash of the sword against magic.
Yet Ollia Bekke’s power was growing, too, the Mage Globes smaller and fiercer, wasting no fragment of magic, intense and compact and outglowing the sunlight now streaming through the windows. Sarra was inundated in power, battered between the strength and purpose that seethed along her sister’s nerves and the dark fury that burst from every smashed and broken sphere. The two women, the sword, the recurring circles of bloody magic—all blurred in Sarra’s gaze, light-and-shadow, blaze-and-blackness.
And then, very suddenly, she understood, and that knowledge brought the combatants into focus again. She knew what Cailet was doing and was able to follow—even to anticipate—every move Captal and Prentice made.
Cailet had taken away Ollia Bekke’s arrogance, shamed her into anger, pushed her deliberately toward hate. Thus the girl was using magic against her Captal—the woman she would swear to protect at the cost of her own life. But Cailet had also been waiting, waiting, with a terrible and desperate patience, precisely aware of Ollia’s emotions—and the explosion that now occurred was not of a Mage Globe cracked open by a sword, but of a Mageborn mind shocked into growth.