by Melanie Rawn
She was a visitor here, no more. A guest. A stranger. She had no claim on this place, and it had none on her, not even through memories. She’d always felt sorry for Cailet, having no experience at all of growing up at the Octagon Court; now, sitting in a room completely changed and looking out at gardens completely different, she realized that the lack of memories freed Cailet. She could be what and who she was because she had nothing to live up to but her own standards and ambitions. Sarra remembered the brilliance and vivacity of this place, knowing she could never achieve what Grandmother Allynis had so effortlessly accomplished every day of her life. The hard work, Sarra could do; the easy graciousness of her home, Collan had provided just as Grandfather Gerrin had done for Grandmother. But the Generations of elegance, of prosperity, of pride that an Ambrai inhaled here with every breath—these were not to be found at Roseguard. Sarra, suddenly and passionately glad of it, felt free for the first time in her life. Allynis’s example had always been hell to live up to.
Taguare had been carrying the conversation much too long. Sarra attended to his next remark and Elin’s reply, then joined in the casual talk with the smoothness of long practice. If either noted her previous silence, neither commented on it. Sarra steered the talk around to Elin’s three daughters and then to what six years ago had been the scandal of two Shirs: the marriage of Pier Alvassy to Mircia Ostin.
Sarra, who loved gossip, asked with a grin, “Has Geria ever resigned herself?”
“On the days she recalls only that my brother is an Alvassy of Ambrai, he’s perfect. When she remembers he’s also a Mage Guardian, she schemes to divest herself of as many holdings as she can, so Mircia won’t inherit as First Daughter of the Name—and so Mircia’s children won’t inherit as Alvassy kin.”
“That must entertaining to watch,” Sarra observed with a grin. “She’s been remarkably acquisitive since the Rising, trying to rebuild what Lady Lilen diversified to the other children.”
“It must be terribly confusing for poor Geria,” Elin agreed, with a flash of the wicked humor that seemed to be an Ambrai legacy—though her elder sister Mai had shown none of it, Sarra remembered. All at once she wondered what, if anything, Glenin laughed at these days.
Elin went on, “One hand wants to fling away what the other hand grabs. Usually her husband can talk her out of the former. Mircian Karellos has an interest in seeing his namesake as First Daughter of the Ostin Name one day, after all. And it rankles Geria unbearably that Lady Lilen looks to live forever.”
“Sweet Saints, how old is she now?”
“Nearly eighty, and thriving. Mircia and Pier spend as much time with her at Ostinhold as they can—and the new baby, if it’s a girl, will be named for her.”
“How many do they have now?”
“Only three so far—but Mircia’s an Ostin!”
Sarra envied the Ostins their casual fecundity. But the Alvassys hadn’t done too badly. Elin’s three daughters—twelve-year-old Grania, nine-year-old Gorynna, and four-year-old Piera—meant the succession at Ambrai was assured. For a moment she wondered how Taigan might have taken to being Lady of Ambrai, and smiled. Taigan had enough to worry about in becoming a Mage Guardian.
Which reminded her of something. “Elin, has there been any trouble about your magic? Does anyone ever object to a Mage holding so important a position in Ambraishir?”
Elin shook her head. “I don’t use magic much anymore. And I’m not Lady of Ambrai the way Allynis was. She ran every aspect of the whole Shir, not just the city. I’m on the Civic Council, but my vote doesn’t count any more than anyone else’s.”
“So you have roughly the same status as, say, Scholar Mage Lisvet Senison does in the Kenroke Town Meeting.”
“Just about. I’m a landowner and a businesswoman, so I automatically have a seat on the Civic Council, just as Lisvet does in the Meeting. The Captal is quite adamant about no Mage Guardians serving in official positions. We don’t run for elected office, and we don’t hold government appointments. She’s never made an issue of it, but we all know her mind.”
Sarra wondered then why Cailet had tried to persuade her to become a Mage. If she did, and it was known, she would have to give up being a Councillor. Perhaps Cailet was merely anticipating—with uncanny accuracy—Sarra’s own leanings toward retirement.
“And I must say,” Elin went on, “I’m just as glad that Mage Charter never went through.”
Sarra blinked. “But it would have given legitimacy—”
“—to bigots,” Elin finished forcibly. “That’s something the rest of you never take into account, Sarra, if I may express it so bluntly. Mage Guardians can be ruled by no one but the Captal. Not our training, or how we find Mageborns, or their choice to be educated in magic or Warded against it, or how and when and where we serve Lenfell. The government has no more business in such matters than we have in government.”
“I don’t agree,” Sarra replied with equal frankness, “but it’s not a dead issue.”
“It must be,” insisted Elin.
Taguare, seeing that the ladies—each entirely accustomed to unquestioned rule—were about to begin arguing rather than discussing, interposed with, “I saw some activity at the old Mage Academy grounds, Lady Elin. Are the rumors true?”
“What rumors?” Sarra asked irritably.
“The Civic Council is thinking of turning it into a park,” said Elin.
Sarra half-choked on her drink. “A park?”
“What else is there to do with it? We’ve been sorting through the rubble for years, shipping whatever looks interesting to Mage Hall—not that there was much left. But the view from Captal Bekke’s Tower is spectacular. I can arrange a tour for you tomorrow, if you like.”
“Don’t the Mage Guardians still own the land?”
“I talked to Cailet a year or so ago about that. The land is held in trust with the Captal as administrator. She offered to deed it to Ambraishir, but I think we’ll end up paying her for it.”
Sarra couldn’t get over her own reaction. Whatever Elin did to the Octagon Court was all right with her—she didn’t want it, not for itself or its memories or its legacy. Why, then, should she feel such indignation that the age-old home of the Mage Guardians was about to be turned into a public garden?
Cailet’s fault—reminding her that she was Mageborn also, that she could be trained to use her magic, that she had defenses (and weapons) beyond her wits and eloquence. “I think it’s a fine idea,” she made herself say, to spite her sister and her own response. Then, because she could not deny the magic that lived within her (unused, uneducated—wasted?), she added, “But wouldn’t it be dangerous, opening up the Captal’s Tower? The Ladder in it leads straight to Malerris Castle.”
“Warded,” Elin replied. “By five different Mages, myself included. Layer on layer, as strong as we can make them. And on top of those is Cailet’s own Warding.” Her expression turned grim. “My cousin Glenin will not be paying Ambrai a visit through that Ladder.”
Elin’s cousin, the Warden of the Loom—admitted, acknowledged, and unquestionably part of the reason Elin rarely used magic. But Elin’s cousin was also Sarra’s sister. Whatever magic was at work in the Ambrai Blood could take either direction. Maybe that was why Sarra had shifted her proprietary interest from the Octagon Court to the Mage Academy. It was a way of choosing sides.
But Elin’s being Mageborn had nothing to do with her grandfather, Telo Ambrai—Lady Allynis’s brother. It came from her grandmother, Gorynna Desse, Gorynel’s sister. Sarra’s magic came from Auvry Feiran, the man who had fathered a Mage Captal and a Lady of Malerris.
And a Councillor. Was it Sarra’s part to mediate between the two?
She was still mulling it over when she went upstairs after dinner. The whole family, except for little Piera, who was deemed too young—gathered around the huge table Sarra remembered from her childhood. The chips and mars had been
repaired so skillfully that one could almost think it undamaged. Everything else was new: gleaming flatware, shining plates and glistening crystal, linen and candle holders and vases for the spectacular arrangements of flowers that were Elin’s specialty. If Sarra lowered her lashes to blur the proceedings, she could almost see Grandmother Allynis in Elin’s place.
But it was Elin who had taken Allynis’s place—and welcome to it, Sarra told herself firmly. Almost all those who had once sat at this table were dead: Allynis, her husband Gerrin Ostin, their daughter Maichen and her husband Auvry Feiran, Elinar Alvassy and her husband Piergan Rille, their daughter Tama and her husband Gerrin Desse. Only that third generation remained: Glenin and Sarra, Elin and Pier. Of the two other cousins, Mai Alvassy was long dead by Glenin’s hand—and Cailet had never known the Octagon Court as it had been.
And of the next generation? Elin had three children, Pier was father to another three. Most of them would probably turn up Mageborn. Sarra’s twins were at Mage Hall now learning their craft. And then there was Glenin’s son, eldest of them all, with the Feiran gift and the magic inherited from Avira Anniyas.
Sarra stood on the balcony of her room, gazing out across the night-blackened river at Bard Hall. It had resumed its function in a small way, but the real pivot of Bardic activity these days was Roseguard—ostensibly because it was Falundir’s residence, secretly because Collan directed his Minstrelsy from there.
In the old days, there had been two hubs of power on Lenfell: Ryka Court and Ambrai. One the center of government, one of magic, scholarship, and healing. The first still existed in its intended function; no matter what Elin accomplished, the second would never resume its eminence. Power now resided in two other places. If, Sarra mused, Cailet and Glenin were the living symbols of Mage Hall and Malerris Castle, then was she the embodiment of Ryka Court? Was she stronger for their opposition to each other? Or was she—and all Lenfell—fated to be crushed between them?
Glenin was using Vellerin Dombur as her political tool. Sarra knew that as surely as she knew she was an Ambrai. But was Cailet using Sarra the same way? No. Cailet stayed aloof from government—
—because she had Sarra to handle it for her.
Was that what Glenin was after? A balance of herself and the Domburs against Cailet and Sarra?
The balance of Ryka Court and Ambrai had ever been a precarious one. No central government—and the Malerrisi wanted nothing if not to become the central government—could easily tolerate the brilliance and independence of a state ruled by a clever, intelligent Name. Thus had Anniyas attempted to insinuate Auvry Feiran into Ambrai’s power structure by forcing him down Allynis’s throat as Chancellor. Grandmother hadn’t known about the Malerrisi part of it, but she’d been as determined as her dear friend Captal Leninor Garvedian that no Mage would ever hold high political office.
Anniyas must have known that, Sarra told herself. Feiran would have told her it was hopeless. But that concerned Sarra less than why he had cast his lot with Anniyas to begin with. Had he wanted to be Chancellor so much that he would betray the Mage Guardians? Or had there been other reasons?
If there were, Sarra didn’t know them. Neither did Cailet. Perhaps Glenin did.
Feiran’s daughters had achieved every kind of power he’d ever dreamed of. Glenin had the Malerrisi, Cailet had the Mages—and Sarra had politics. Was that how it had been planned? Did it all come down to just the three of them? Arrogant folly to believe so—and yet. . . .
Long ago Sarra had told Cailet that if Ambrai had not fallen, Glenin would have eventually become Lady of Ambrai, with Sarra and Cailet free to choose what they’d do with their lives. Sarra tried to imagine what she would have done if politics had been closed to her—for of course the sister of Ambrai’s ruler could never have been allowed onto the Council. She couldn’t think of any task she would have excelled at as she did at the work she had done for the last twenty years. Nor could she imagine Cailet as anything other than Captal. And that would almost assuredly have been forbidden. One Ambrai sitting in the Octagon Court, another on the Council, and a third at the Mage Academy? Unthinkable.
And where would that have left Sarra?
Where did her life leave her now? Her elder sister ruled the Mallerisi, her younger sister ruled the Mage Guardians—and Sarra was in the middle.
No. She was with Cailet in all things, especially magic.
But she’d spent the first four years of her life with Glenin. Admiring her, infuriated by her, playing and quarreling and sitting every night at the great octagonal table while their family discussed art and science and gossip and the events of the day. She had loved Glenin. The child in her still did, still looked up to her big sister, still wanted to make them a family the way their family used to be.
But the little girl had not seen what the young woman had seen. Had not witnessed the results of Glenin’s torture on the man deeply—if at first reluctantly—adored. Had not felt her heart turn to lead within her breast as she was told of Glenin’s attacks on her children. Had not heard her beloved little sister confess terror of Glenin’s lurking darkness.
The chime of a clock in the room behind her made her flinch. It had gone First, and she’d been standing here since Half-Fourteenth. Either she was slow of thought tonight or her usual gut-jumping quickness had gone to sleep. It didn’t often take her this long to come to a conclusion about anything.
Her instincts might be slumbering, but her mind and body were wide awake. She moved to the far end of the balcony, shivering a little in the night breeze, but from here she couldn’t make out the ruins of the Academy. She’d been there this morning, taken through the Ladder from the opera house at Peyres to the “snowy Ladder”—a belowstairs ice room that had served the main Academy kitchens. A few Mages lived in a few rooms near the old infirmary, but she hadn’t visited them. She and Taguare hadn’t explored at all.
Thousands had passed through the Academy as students of magic; now thousands would descend there for evening strolls and holiday picnics. What it had been, it would never be again.
But all at once, even though she could see nothing of the Academy with her eyes, it rose before her, a vision limned in moonthrown shadows—not as it had been in her childhood, but years before. The trees were different, the flowers, the paint on the lintel of the door to Captal Caitirin Bekke’s Tower.
Two men emerged from the doorway, soberly dressed in dark clothes and coifs. One was tall, a black-skinned man in his prime; the other was taller still, though only a youth. She heard them as clearly as if she stood beside them.
“I’m sorry. You understand.”
“Yes.”
“It’s simply too dangerous.”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Your magic is so strong—in a way, it’s a compliment that the Captal can’t have you living here.”
“It’s no compliment. She’s scared of me. They all are.”
“You can hardly blame them. Your magic came hard to you, I know. Learning to use it and control it will be no easier. But I promise I’ll do all I can.”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to live here anyway.” The young man turned to the older. “The only promise I need from you is that you’ll teach me. That I won’t be completely alone.”
“You have my word. You know you do.”
“And—and that if my magic really does turn Wild, you’ll kill me.”
“Auvry—”
“Swear it. Please. On the way here I came close to killing you without even knowing it—if I ever show signs, promise you’ll—”
“It won’t come to that.”
“But if it should—”
“I’ll swear no such thing, because it won’t happen. You’re strong, you’re intelligent, you’re more than capable of learning—”
“Gorsha—are you scared of me?”
She never heard the answer. The same v
oice, older but just as sad, spoke behind her.
“Sarra, are you?”
She whirled. He stood there, a tall, dignified Wraith in black Mage Guardian regimentals, gray-green eyes regretful and compassionate and loving.
“No,” she whispered, meaning No, I am not seeing you and No, I am not afraid of you. Both, she knew, were lies. He was here, and she was afraid.
“Sarra,” he said again.
“No!”
He was the darkness, he was the shadow Cailet feared. Him, inside Cailet’s very blood and bones.
Inside Sarra’s blood and bones and terrified mind.
“Daughter—”
“NO!”
She stumbled backward, colliding with the scrolled iron balcony rail, bruising her hands as she groped for support. She could not look away from those sorrowing gray-green eyes.
Gray, like Josselin Mikleine’s. Green, like her own Taigan’s.
“Sarra—” he said for the third time, and she sobbed aloud as a fingernail snagged and split to the quick on the balcony rail. “I felt that you were thinking of me—please, listen—”
So he could make of her what he’d made of Glenin?
There was another door to the balcony, leading into the bedchamber. Locked. She struggled with the handle, then used her elbow to break the glass pane. She heard him catch his breath behind her—he’d come out into the night, he was following her, he’d hunt her down like an animal and she’d be forced to see him, be with him, listen to his lies—
Her fingers fumbled with the inside door latch. Unlocked it. Opened the door. She ran through the lamplit bedroom, disoriented, gasping. She saw her wild reflection in a tall mirror and cried out. He stood behind her in the mirror, massively tall and utterly black against the blackness of the night outside.