by Melanie Rawn
Taigan was in someone’s strong arms, her head lolling against a muscled shoulder. The rough wool of a cloak scratched her burned cheek and she tried to shift her head, but she couldn’t seem to move. She inhaled, coughed, tried to suck moisture into her dry mouth, tongue shriveling and lips cracking and nostrils clotted with the heat. A masculine voice spoke her name. She couldn’t reply. She couldn’t move. The heat got worse, and the smoke, and for an interminable time she couldn’t breathe. And then there was cleaner air, colder, and the shock of it to her lungs spasmed through her whole body.
She opened her eyes to more blackness, and whimpered. But it was only the night sky, and as her vision adjusted she could see the full Ladymoon and the pinpricks of brilliant stars. Craning her neck, she glimpsed the radiance of fire on billowing smoke. The light soothed her.
“Joss, don’t let her wake up,” said the man who held her, and Joss answered, “Mikel hit her so hard I don’t think she’ll wake up for a week.”
Taigan came abruptly back to herself. “Jored?”
He tightened his embrace. “You’re all right. So’s the Captal—but for a slug on the jaw, courtesy your brother.”
Oh, Sweet Saints—Mikel had hit the Captal? Then she remembered that she’d tried more or less the same thing, and subsided.
“And if you would,” he asked mildly, “I’d appreciate a little less magic in the air.”
“What?”
“You don’t weigh very much, but you’ve put up Wards that feel—” He broke off, looking into her eyes “Didn’t you know?”
She gulped, and concentrated, and the last of the protective magic faded away. Jored sighed and she felt his muscles relax. After a time, she murmured, “Jored? What did I do?”
He thought about it, then said, “Seems to me you’re one of those Mageborns who can’t think about their magic too much. You just have to do it without analyzing why or how.”
Like Mother, the way she just knew things. It made sense. But it troubled her, too—for what was Wild Magic if not unrestrained instinct?
A little while later they entered the gatehouse. Truly told, Taigan had no wish to leave the warm, strong refuge of Jored’s arms—a place prominently featured in her dreams and even more pleasing in reality. But the very shelter he offered suddenly grated on her nerves. How could she be selfishly safe while others were not? More, there was the rasp of pride to make her squirm slightly in his arms: she was Taigan Liwellan, she required no protecting and no help. So she told him to put her down, please, she was perfectly all right and there were things to be done. He set her on her feet, eyeing her warily in case she swayed. She was disgusted to find herself tempted to do just that, for the feel of his arms around her again.
Elomar Adennos, looking old enough to be Dessa’s great-grandfather, had taken charge of the Captal. She had been wrapped in her fur cloak and a cushion had been found for her head where she lay on the floor. Kneeling at her side, the Master Healer put himself between her and the firelight, and conjured a tiny Mage Globe that hovered for a moment at her feet and then traveled up her body. Silvery-green to her waist, it blackened near her chest and stayed dark all the way to the crown of her head. Elo frowned, gnawing his lip as the Globe vanished, and said something to Lusira in a low voice. She shrugged in reply and used a damp cloth to clean the soot from the Captal’s face—careful of the bruise beginning to swell on her chin.
“She’ll be all right,” Dessa whispered at Taigan’s shoulder. “If Fa was worried, the Globe would still be watching over her.”
“Oh,” Taigan said for lack of anything else.
“You could use a wash,” Dessa continued, eyeing Taigan critically.
“Wash?” she echoed incredulously. In the middle of this disaster, Dessa was concerned about whether or not Taigan’s face was clean?
“You’ll feel better, trust me,” said Gorynel Desse’s granddaughter. “Some cold water on those burns, then some salve—they’re not serious, you won’t scar, so don’t worry. Mother’s using the kitchen sink for soaking rags clean of blood, so try the spigot outside.”
Marveling at Dessa’s composure (and more relieved than she could rightly feel at the moment that her wounds were not disfiguring), Taigan nodded and started outside—only to be startled, foolishly, by the neighing of a horse. Somebody had followed her orders and rescued some transportation: two wagons, big enough for nine or ten wounded to lie down in reasonable comfort, were approaching, drawn by two horses each. Three more horses were tethered to the wagons. Taigan turned on her heel to count the injured inside—and when she finished, counted again in sheer disbelief.
Of the one hundred and six Mages, Prentices, non-Mageborns, and children in residence at the Hall, twenty-two people lay in the gatehouse, too badly injured to sit up, let alone walk. Add Lusira, Dessa, and Elomar; Mikel, Joss, Jored, herself, and several more outside—
Were they all that was left? A faraway crash of pillars and stone and timber brought tears to her eyes. Knuckling them away, she counted once more inside, then went around to the kitchen by the back door, then returned to the front of the gatehouse.
Thirty-four. And that was all.
No. Thirty-three. She’d counted Aidan, whom someone had borne from the wreckage—Mikel and Marra together, probably, for Jored had taken her and Joss had carried the Captal. Taigan scrubbed at her eyes, her cheeks, smudging soot and tears, scraping her injured face, ashamed that she’d worried about so trivial a matter as a few scars.
“—south to Cantratown, it’s the only way—”
“Through miles of populated countryside where we’ll have to explain that the Mage Guardians were attacked and the Hall destroyed?” Josselin gave a bitter snarl. “North, Jored. To the Ladder at Peyres.”
“How can we be sure of it—or of any Ladder, even the Garvedian one in Cantratown? You’d have us take the wounded over miles of unpopulated countryside—all hills—where there’ll be no help for them or us?” Jored swept an arm toward the easy road south.
“And once we’re in Cantratown? If the Garvedian Ladder is still safe, it’ll take us to Shellinkroth!”
“The one at the Affe mansion—” Jored began heatedly.
“—leads to Roke Castle, equally useless! But if we go north, the Ladder in Peyres goes to the Mage Academy, and from there we can go directly to Ryka Court!”
Taigan started toward them, incensed that the two men seemed to be deciding things not theirs to decide. Anger at them mostly served to hide—even from herself—that she was even angrier at herself for agreeing with Joss, not Jored.
Mikel beat her to it. He stood with the two older Prentices beside the rose-covered wall, both arms folded beneath his cloak—which wasn’t his, she saw with some surprise. It was the old black one, collar stitched with snagged silver thread, that the Captal used for everyday.
“Seems to me,” Mikel drawled, and for a moment he sounded so like Fa that Taigan’s heart cringed; what would she have given to have Collan Rosvenir here now? “Seems to me Joss is right, and we can’t be sure of any Ladders. If the Malerrisi were bold enough to attack Mage Hall, they won’t stop at burning any Ladder they can get near.”
“All the Ladders are guarded,” Jored said.
“So were we,” Mikel reminded him irrefutably.
“The question is which Ladder we chance.” Joss shook his head. “Peyres is the best risk. If it is safe, we’d be in Ambrai. They already destroyed it once, why bother again?”
“Because they’d know it’s the first place we’d go for safety,” Jored argued. “Lady Elin is a close ally of the Captal—”
“And my mother,” Mikel said suddenly, and Taigan shared his thought without even having to look at him: What if the attack wasn’t limited to Mage Hall? What if Mother and Fa—
“All right, that’s enough,” Taigan snapped, as much to stop her own frightening speculations as to shut the men up. She strod
e forward to confront them, wrapped in the authority of a woman, a Blooded First Daughter, a Mageborn. “Nobody’s going anywhere until the Captal wakes up and decides what’s to be done.”
“Teggie. . . .” Mikel bit his lip, then continued, “You saw what she was like back there. If she wakes up in the same state—”
“Shut up!” Taigan discovered she was trembling. “How dare you!”
“He’s right,” Jored told her gently.
“You shut up, too!” Rounding on him, she felt dizzy for a moment before recovering herself—hoping they hadn’t noticed. “She’ll be fine. Dessa said her father isn’t worried—”
“That’s good to hear,” Joss said, “but until the Captal’s back with us, somebody has to decide what to do. We can’t stay here.”
“We’re vulnerable,” Jored agreed. “And we can’t go into Heathering, it would put all those people at risk.”
Mikel frowned at mention of the townsfolk. “Teggie, why haven’t they come to help? Remember the brushfire near Wentrin Smallhold last Drygass? St. Lirance’s rang the alarm, and everybody went to put out the fire before it could spread. But there’s nobody here now—not a sign of a torch on the road to light their way, not a sound from St. Lirance’s—where are they?”
No one answered him, because each knew that the only possible answer was magic. Everyone within ten miles of Heathering at been at the St. Maidil’s celebrations tonight; it wasn’t beyond a Malerrisi to spend the evening Working on every single one of them. A Ward against even looking in the direction of Mage Hall. . . .
“There’ll be no help,” Joss said softly. “And we can’t put them in danger by asking. So we have to leave. North, for the Ladder at Peyres, to the old Academy.”
“If we go south,” Jored argued, “we’ll at least be in range of a ship to take us wherever the Captal wants to go.”
Taigan exchanged a glance with her brother, who shrugged his good shoulder. He nodded agreement with what was in her eyes, and she said, “We could go both places.”
The two young men stared at her.
“We could send the wounded south. The rest of us could head for Peyres, and then Ambrai and Ryka Court. That’s where the Captal needs to be.” Where she needed to be. Where her mother and father were. At nearly eighteen, it might have mortified her to need them so much; but what was the shame in needing her mother’s power and wisdom and her father’s sense and strength? The Captal did. Taigan knew that without thinking about it. And as instinct reasserted itself, she gave a decisive nod.
“That’s what we’ll do, failing any truly brilliant suggestions.” Turning to Mikel, finding renewed confidence in his resemblance to Fa—and sudden poignancy in how much older he looked—she went on, “Let Elomar know he’s going south in the wagons with anyone who can’t walk. Joss, you round up the able-bodied and find out who’s got the best Folding spell. We’ll have to take turns. It’s a long way to Tillin Lake.”
“Would a Ward of concealment help any?” Josselin asked. “I don’t like the idea that everybody along the way will see us and—”
“—and ask what happened, and find out,” Taigan finished, nodding again. “I agree. Get a list of those who can Fold and Ward, then—and if anybody has any other recommendations, I’ll be glad to hear them. Mikel, what are you looking at me like that for?”
“I’m not going with the wounded, Teggie,” he said flatly.
The notion of being separated from her twin made her jaw drop slightly; it was all the answer he needed. With a small, crooked grin, he went inside the gatehouse. Josselin followed, and Taigan nearly called him back before she saw that his hands were undoing the swordbelt from around his waist. As indignant as she’d been when she’d first seen him with it—it belonged to the Captal, no one else ought to touch it—she experienced a qualm at the thought of it within the Captal’s reach. A sword responsive to emotion, acting in obedience to the deepest intent of its wielder—in the hands of that madwoman of an hour ago?
“I’ll start getting the wagons ready,” Jored said, and she gave a start. She’d forgotten his presence. “We’ll need to leave before sunrise.”
“Yes, of course. Dessa can drive a team, can’t she? I know Lusira can, I’ve seen her, so she probably taught her daughter.” She was babbling and couldn’t seem to stop. “Take what you need from the gatehouse—food, blankets and so on—water jugs, something to cook in—”
“I know how to travel,” he interrupted, smiling. “Don’t worry, Taisha, it’ll be all right.”
Dumbfounded by his use of the diminutive—an endearment no one ever used—she saw his face change as his fingers lifted and hovered beside the mark on her right cheek.
“You’re hurt.”
She shook her head mutely.
“You should have the Master Healer take care of these.”
She held her breath as his hand moved to her hair, lightly stroking the singed and tumbled mass of it.
“Promise me you’ll get those burns seen to, Taisha.”
She nodded, and watched him stride purposefully away to do her bidding about the supplies. And as oblivious as she had been to him a few minutes earlier, for the next hour she was so aware of him that he was like a second heartbeat—not quite keeping time with her own, leaping and fluttering every so often, taking some of her breath.
16
IN deference to a good night’s sleep for its hard-working citizens, Heathering’s clocktower was silent from Fourteenth to Fifth. By the time St. Lirance’s rang the new morning, Mage Hall had burned to the ground. All its inhabitants not dead and burned to ashes within were miles away from Heathering, so distant that they never heard the five bright peals that greeted the sun. When, a day later, the Rimrunner rode up to the gatehouse to deliver the mail, a barren silence enwrapped her, carrying a Warded warning: GO NO FARTHER. Being a sensible young woman, and possessing no magic with which to counteract the spell, she galloped north to Heathering. Only then did the townsfolk learn that the Mage Guardians had vanished, no one knew where or why.
THE CHASE
1
He stood before her, both of him, eyes Wraithengray, terrible in his beauty, tossing the sword back and forth. It circled endlessly, point-over-hilt, flying between his two selves, glistening with blood and glittering with fire, a moving whirling Mage Globe of crimson and steel and gold.
With it, she could kill him. Both of him.
“Give it to me!” she screamed. “It’s mine!”
Both of him laughed and one of him said, “It was never yours, any more than the sum of The Bequest is yours.”
And the other of him said, “You stole it all, like the ghoul Anniyas became as a Wraith—you even tried to steal an unborn Mageborn’s magic—just as you stole this sword. It was never for you, never.”
And the other of him said, “The one time you should have used it, you were too much the coward. So I still live—”
And the other of him said, “—and the sword is in my hand now, where it belongs.”
Whimpering, her soul writhing, she saw Aidan come between him—Aidan, whose very first words to her had been, “You’re the Captal. My papa died to keep you safe.” But the child was now a man, and reached for the sword as it revolved in the air, and his quick hand—accustomed like his father Val’s to swordskill—grasped its hilt. He cried out with the pain of magic. She tried to protect him from it, tried to move, to create a Mage Globe around him or the sword or both, but the Wards and Workings trapping her were too strong. Flames leaped up Aidan’s arms, haloed his dark head in a blaze of light, burst from his eyes as he flung the sword straight upward, away from him—too late; he collapsed, the light around him dying as he died. A long, strong arm lashed out, dark fingers catching the sword’s shining hilt. Once more it spun from one to the other of him, and he was laughing, both of him, and the world grew dark, dark, with only the sword a glistening, glittering, re
volving circle of crimson and silver and gold in the blackness.
A sudden brilliant light came between him: magic. Clean, strong magic that did not yet know its own strength—such power, she needed it to replace her own that was feeble and frightened within her—there for the taking in her need, and this time she must do it, she must have that additional magic or be lost—
But this magic felt familiar, a variation echoing her own, and she knew that it was Taigan before her, not the raw untrained power of that unborn Mageborn child. She recoiled from her need, horrified. This was Sarra’s First Daughter, the girl in the vision Anniyas had invoked years ago, the bright young magic that challenged her when she’d grown arrogant and complacent—No—! Not Taigan—this was the other child, the true First Daughter, the one Cailet had killed within Sarra’s womb—
There were two of Taigan, slender and blonde and powerful. And two of him, tall and gray-eyed and beautiful. One of her went to his side, took his hand, laughed with him. The other Taigan, the other of him—they began to fade, and the sword hung suspended in midair, arcing in a circle of crimson with the gold hilt at its center.
He grabbed for it once more. She joined him, blonde hair shining like golden flame, green eyes fired from without and within. But the other two crossed the empty air between and there were eight hands grasping that sword by the blade, adding to its crimson shimmer of blood and fire, struggling for possession of its magic. And all the shadows merged into a deeper blackness, and the laughter became Glenin’s—
“Cailet!”
Sobbing, she flailed against the hands that tried to restrain her.
“Cailet, stop!”
Her eyes opened, and with the end of the blackness came dazzling light, bright as the fires that had consumed Mage Hall.