The Mageborn Traitor--Exiles, Volume 2

by Melanie Rawn

  2

  WHAT they learned from Jenira Doriaz and Tirez Escovor—who between them had over a century’s service as Mage Guardians—was how to lay bricks.

  The two elderly Mages marched the twins from the main buildings out to the wall—all the way to an eighty-foot gap that led into the apple orchard. Waiting for them were two piles of rust-colored, smoke-blackened, woefully uneven clinker bricks, two pails of mortar, and appropriate tools.

  “Get started,” Escovor said. He set up folding chairs for himself and the other Mage, produced a flask from one pocket of his black longvest and a book from another, and settled back to bake his seventy-nine-year-old bones in the warm noonday sun.

  “Started—?” Mikel echoed faintly.

  Jenira Doriaz nodded, placing her chair beneath a poplar whose shade would protect her fragile fair skin. She, too, had a flask and a book. “Don’t you take too long about it, neither,” she said in an accent redolent of the Dindenshir farm she hadn’t seen in sixty years. “I’m almost ended with this volume of the Adventures of St. Delilah, and I didn’t bring the next one along from the library.”

  At first the incredulous Prentices thought they were meant to close the space completely, but Jenira Doriaz explained that the Captal required a wagon gate here, so all they had to do was extend the wall about thirty feet from either end.

  “You, commence right here,” she finished, pointing to Taigan and the wall that ended beneath the poplar.

  “And you, over here,” said Tirez Escovor, indicating the section near his chair.

  With that, the two antiquated Mage Guardians settled down to sipping and reading.

  Taigan stared. “We’re Mageborns, not bricklayers!”

  Mikel sighed. “For the rest of the afternoon, we’re bricklayers. Come on.”

  He spent a few minutes inspecting two other lengths of the wall, presuming he’d find guidance. One part was made of mostly bluish bricks which despite their erratic sizes were set in a woven pattern that actually made a virtue of their irregularities. Somebody had known what she was doing—and Mikel hadn’t a hope of emulating her. The second section was more what he could expect to produce: sulfur-yellow bricks, sooty from incompetent firing, were placed any-old-how and drooled dried mortar at every seam. Envisioning the pathetic results of his own performance with the rusty bricks he was supposed to use, he shuddered. The idea of anyone’s coming here and pointing out the wall that Mikel Liwellan had built horrified him. He’d have to talk to Josselin Mikleine about planting enough roses to hide it.

  He got to work, sorting bricks and trying not to slice his fingers on the sharp extrusions of black glass. He supposed Mage Hall had a contract with the locals to buy what they couldn’t use. The Captal, he decided, was frugal. (Taigan would have said “cheap.”)

  Mikel stacked bricks at five-foot intervals so he wouldn’t have to carry them all from the main pile. Mortar ready—or as ready as his inexperience could judge—he started the first layer. A narrow trench had already been dug for the anchoring row, and Mikel assiduously wielded trowel, bricks, and level. On his knees in the dirt, summer heat beating down on his back, careful to put the same amount of mortar between each brick, he was sweating and exhausted by the time he’d placed the bottom row.

  He finished the second row, offsetting it from the first. If he was lucky, the thing would stand up when done. Then a third row, more or less even with the first. He was getting very thirsty, and he hadn’t had anything to eat since last night—usually everyone ate breakfast after the morning run, but today they’d been summoned to the Captal’s quarters and now it was long past lunch, and his stomach was growling.

  Fourth row. This was insane. Teggie was right: they were Mageborns, they should be learning how to use their magic—not be hunched down in the broiling sun slapping bricks and mortar together for extensions to the ugliest wall in all fifteen Shirs.

  Fifth row. The sun was in his eyes now, and he thought about switching sides of the wall, but he’d just have to reach over the set rows to get at more bricks, and it was too much added effort.

  Sixth row. He’d given up on the level—it took too much time. He established a routine: spread mortar, set brick, carve off excess glop, reach for another brick while spreading more mortar. It was mind-numbing, but unfortunately his body was still complaining—not just his stomach and his dry mouth, but his shoulders and hands and knees.

  Seventh row. The damned bricks were ten inches long and five inches wide and only three miserable inches high—which meant that allowing for the anchoring row in the ground, his ninth row would make the wall two whole impressive feet tall. The sun glared at him from the west. Another foot of bricks and it would be dinnertime; if Tirez Escovor wanted a four-foot wall to match the nearby section, Mikel would be here till Fifteenth.

  Grimly he continued. He ordered himself to ignore the late-afternoon sun stabbing his eyes, and the freckles he could feel popping out on his nose and cheeks, and the cramps in his back and thighs, and the cuts on his fingers. He told himself there must be a reason for this. He was damned if he could figure out what it was, but there must be a reason.

  If there wasn’t, he’d have the Captal for dinner.

  What did bricklaying have to do with becoming a Mage Guardian? The rhythm of the work became more and more automatic as he tried to figure out what possible purpose there might be to this imbecilic exercise, other than to extend this hideous wall. Maybe that was it—maybe Prentices did this so they could say they’d helped build Mage Hall. But that hawk didn’t fly very far with Mikel. He finished the ninth row, and the tenth, still unconvinced that there really was a reason for this.

  As a Mage Guardian, he’d have to know more than how to slather and slap and slice off gritty glop. He knew quite a few Mages, and they could do all sorts of marvelous things.

  All at once he wondered if the idea was to frustrate him so much that he’d use magic to build the wall.

  No, that couldn’t be—because he’d reached his limit of exasperation at least an hour ago, and nothing flared up in him that told him how to set bricks with a spell.

  He knew what magic felt like, though. How peculiar it had been, hearing what people had said at his birth. Remembering the light outside and the cold and the noise, and then the warmth and the incredible blaze inside—and being denied it. He had fought the Captal, he knew that now. He’d wanted his magic, even though he’d been only minutes old. And then, later, after Glenin Feiran had tried to kidnap him, the Captal had made sure his magic would stay locked up until she released it. He remembered how angry he’d been, how he’d struggled—and how foolish to do so, because she was so strong. And she’d meant him no harm. She’d given the magic back to him, just as she’d promised—the Wards were gone now, and he could touch the bright glowing core of power within him.

  He just didn’t know how to use it.

  And making this stupid damned wall wasn’t going to teach him.

  Well, at least all the Wards were gone. That was something, anyway.

  He looked at that thought, and wondered what might happen if Glenin Feiran tried for him yet again. That night at the theater opening—now, there was power to challenge even the Captal’s. And it had been only the Captal’s Wards that had kept Mikel’s brains from being scorched.

  What was there to protect him now?

  Only himself—but he didn’t know how to use his magic to guard himself. The bastion the Captal had built around him was gone, and he had nothing to take its place, and if a Malerrisi or The Malerrisi attacked him again—

  He became aware that his groping hand had closed over nothing several times now. Blinking, he looked down at the place where a small pile of bricks ought to have been.

  Then he looked at the wall. It was four feet high—and the last five rows of bricks had been set with masterly precision.

  Tirez Escovor—collaterally related to the Fourth Lord o
f Malerris who had been Captal Caitirin Bekke’s secret lover—got up from his chair. He slipped flask and book into his pockets, folded the chair, and smiled.

  “Hungry?”

  Right on cue, the deep distant bell of St. Lirance’s in Heathering rang out Twelfth. The Ladymoon, a halved circle like St. Venkelos’s sigil, shone silvery in the twilight. Mikel gaped at the elderly Mage.

  “If you’re not, I am. Come on. We’ll be just in time for dinner.”

  Mikel glanced over to the other part of the wall.

  “Oh, never mind them. They’ll be a while yet.”

  Jenira Doriaz—collaterally related to the Fifth Lord of Malerris killed in the Rising at the Octagon Court—dozed in her chair below the poplar. Taigan was still working. Her movements were stiff with weariness and muscle strain, her expression jut-jawed and resentful. Mikel realized suddenly that in all his musings while building the wall, he’d thought of himself—not of the two of them together, not as “we” or “us”—just himself as himself, as if he’d been born before her or after her but not with her.

  Shaken, he fumbled about inside his own head, wondering if the awareness of her was still there. Yes—but different now. What he’d assumed was a connection of instinct that came of sharing their mother’s womb was now clearly revealed as a function of magic. He almost used it to “touch” her—then held back. She wouldn’t welcome the intrusion, not by the look in her eyes. Still less would she like having it thrown in her face that he was finished and she was not.

  Escovor extended his flask. “Care for a nip?”

  Mikel was allowed watered wine with dinner. He hadn’t tasted anything stronger since he and Taigan stole a bottle of Fa’s brandy (and told Tarise when she found them with it—empty—that they were only honoring St. Kiy on her feast day, which of course got them nowhere with her).

  “Thanks,” he said, and took a swig.

  3

  SARRA had lied to Cailet. She wasn’t particularly needed at Ryka Court; now that the twins were at Mage Hall, she wasn’t needed at Roseguard either. Until she had hard evidence—any evidence—of Vellerin Dombur’s intentions and/or Glenin’s involvement with them, the Council wouldn’t listen to her. And for so many years she’d had so little to do with the running of Roseguard and Sheve that none of the clerks, stewards, or factors ever listened to her anyway.

  She asked Taguare if he had any pressing business, and got a cheerful “Nothing I can’t postpone. Did you want to do some traveling?” in reply. Then she asked if he’d care to go to Ambrai with her.

  He would. They did.

  Rather than ride southwest to Cantratown, they headed for the Sheve side of Tillin Lake. Tucked into forest that came right down to the water was the resort town of Peyres, whose indigenous population was exclusively composed of the Families Fenne, Ildefrons, Lille, and Sonne. The local Mage Guardians—a young Healer, a middle-aged Warrior, an elderly Scholar, and a young Mage with three daughters—were all Sonnes and lived together in two floors over a storefront. They supported themselves with the lending library run by the Scholar, the apothecary run by the Healer, and the brisk trade in souvenir pottery run by the Mage’s husband (a Golebirze from Rinesteenshir, with cousinly connections to the ceramics trade). When Sarra presented herself at their shop—an improbably harmonious collation of books and folios, pots and plates, all overhung with pungent scents from the Healer’s drying herbs—she was welcomed as warmly as if she, too, were a Sonne. Or a Mage Guardian.

  Scholar Virrena took Taguare off into some dim corner to peruse literary oddities. Her grandson Kanelto, the Healer, brewed up a tea guaranteed to restore the energy of the weariest traveler. The Mage was named Dantia, and shooed her daughters upstairs before making herself and Sarra comfortable in the soft, ancient chairs provided by the hearth for book-browsers. During tea and talk, Sarra caught a glimpse every so often of awed young faces framed in silver-blonde curls, peering down from the banister rails at their august visitor.

  As she sipped and chatted, one part of Sarra’s mind mused on how nice it might have been to live this way: husband, children, family, a small business in a small town, and nothing more pressing to worry about than whose book was overdue and where to find febrifugal herbs and whether there’d be any shipping breakage in the latest consignment of ceramics.

  Collan would have lost his mind in short order. So, truly told, would she. But it was nice to dream a little of a simpler life.

  The Warrior Mage, Avin, was off on his weekly rounds of nearby villages; his role was more that of legal resource than constable. Dantia laughed when Sarra asked about crime, saying that her uncle’s most spectacular case in the last seven years had been finding and apprehending a horse thief.

  “We have the usual petty burglaries during the season, and he keeps a sharp eye on all the tourists, but I don’t think he’s unsheathed his sword in years except to practice with it. Every so often he gets enough locals together to hold a fencing class.”

  “A Warrior, but not the warring type?”

  Dantia nodded, short golden curls bobbing. “His presence is enough. Makes good people feel safer, and bad people feel watched. Now, Lady Sarra, what can I do for you? Besides a bed for the night, that is. Most of the inns are packed full, and the ones that aren’t I’d recommend only to a Malerrisi. If the bugs didn’t get her, the food would.”

  “You’re very gracious. I accept the offer for myself and Domni Taguare.” And she’d leave a little something behind to compensate the Sonnes for their hospitality. They’d refuse direct payment, but not gifts for the daughters. Reminding herself to look through her saddlebags for something appropriate, she continued, “I was hoping that one of you Mages might take us through the Ladder tomorrow.”

  “No trouble at all. The opera house will be empty until the crew comes to set up around Eleventh.” She smiled at Sarra’s bewilderment. “That’s where the Ladder is. And it’s a lively place, for all that we’re so far from anywhere. Off-season it’s strictly local talent, but while the city-folk are here, we hire in some of the best voices on Lenfell. Sevy Vasharron himself comes every year for a week.” Dantia tried to conceal pride, and failed. “This Allflower he told me my eldest has a real career ahead of her, and to come see him in another year or so.”

  “I’ll expect to see her at the opera one day,” Sarra said. “If she’s not Mageborn, that is.”

  “Thirteen, and no sign of it,” Dantia said with a sigh, and after some quick calculations Sarra decided that Dantia must’ve had her first child when barely out of childhood herself; she couldn’t be much more than thirty now. “I’m hoping music will make up for magic.”

  “I’m sure it will,” Sarra replied. “Music is a magic unto itself—I’ve had Bard Falundir’s example of it before me all these years, so I can attest to it.”

  The Mage winked slyly. “And that husband of yours has his own kind of magic as well, yes? We hear about him, even up here.”

  Sarra dimpled because it was expected of her, then asked, “But why is the Ladder in the opera house?”

  Dantia grinned all over her round, snub-nosed face and quoted, “‘Under over, over under/Ladder rungs are made of thunder.’ It’s located in the special effects stall.”

  “Where they create the appropriate noise for the scene on the moors in Lusina Delammeror,” Sarra supplied, smiling back. Alin Ostin would have appreciated that one.

  “I hear you figured out quite a few of those rhymes yourself.”

  “One or two. And not really my doing. So, Guardian Dantia, is there anything you’d like to bring to the attention of a Councillor?”

  “Not a blessed thing, St. Miramili be praised. We lead a quiet life here, Lady Sarra. There’s no trouble.”

  Sarra sighed happily and held out her cup for more tea. “Do you know what a relief it is to hear someone say that?”

  That evening she took a solitary walk by the lake. The co
llection of inns—some grandiose, some modest, all with wonderful views—sprawled along the shore a mile from town, and she could just make out families and couples strolling or swimming or seated on the narrow beach sipping cool drinks. Sarra again wondered what it would be like to bring her husband and children here for a holiday—away from legislative aides and Web factors and all manner of petitioners. Nothing to do but eat, drink, sleep, read, paddle in the water, and make love with Col-Ian. It sounded just about perfect.

  Sarra found a convenient rock to sit on, and slipped off shoes and stockings to dangle her feet in the water. It wasn’t too late for a calmer life. She could retire from the Council at the next election. Her first term, from 969 to 975, she had gotten quite a bit done. Her second term, a full one of eight years according to the new laws, had been highly satisfying. She had run unopposed in 983—though that had been only a year after Glenin had tried to kidnap the twins, and she’d thought seriously about retiring then. But whatever position she held, she and her children were a threat to the Malerrisi, so she concluded that she might as well be where she could do some good. She was up for reelection in 992 for the eight-year term that would take Lenfell to the next Census in the year 1000. Did she want to stick it out that long?

  Ah, but who did she want to see in her place?

  And who could do the work as well as she?

  And who but a Councillor had enough power to change things?

  Well, she’d deal with Vellerin Dombur (and possibly Glenin), then decide. If she waited until the Fortieth Census to retire, she’d be—Saints, fifty-four? And Collan in his sixties? She laughed a little at that, and kick-splashed the lake water with both feet. Truly told, Col was showing some gray hairs in that head of coppery curls, but he would never be old.

  All at once she felt a shimmering in her mind, a strange unheard call—and a chill at her breastbone. Confused, it took her a minute to realize the tiny Globe Cailet had given her was the source of the cold. She drew it out of her shirt and looked at it: milky-white still, but with a subtle crimson pattern of sparks deep in its heart.