by Melanie Rawn
She remembered, looking at Elomar’s haggard face, and turned her head away to weep.
He left her alone. A little while later she heard his voice, and Lusira’s, and Taigan’s. She neither knew nor cared about their words and worries, though she thought Taigan might have said, “I didn’t think Mikel hit her that hard.” What she heard was the chaos of voices in her head—not Gorynel Desse or Alin Ostin or Lusath Adennos or Tamos Wolvar, but the newly dead, their Wraithen voices a thick cloud of meaningless sound. She turned over in bed and cried until she was senseless.
When she woke again, the smell of hot coffee made her gag. It was dark, and she was indoors somewhere, lying on a hard cot. Her body felt bruised from scalp to toes, with a particular ache in her jaw. For an instant she stared into the blackness—and then fear seized her, and she gave a low cry.
“Saints and Wraiths!” exclaimed a voice from the darkness. “I told you to leave a light burning for her!”
And light there was, and Marra came in like St. Miryenne herself, to place the single candle on a nearby table. The room had definition now—small, windowless, scant of comfort, with only the bed and the table below rafters the candlelight could barely reach. Cailet huddled into the soft fur cloak enwrapping her, wishing passionately for a hearthfire, a blaze to light this mean little room bright as day.
“Cailet?” Marra sat on the edge of the cot, weary and older, one hand on the swell of her belly. “Can you talk to me, dearest?”
“Dearest”? I killed your husband—Aidan will never see your son grow up— She averted her face, biting both lips between her teeth.
“Elo,” Marra said, “do something.”
Footsteps, then silence. She felt the gentle magic of his Healer’s Globe pass over her body, and only then realized that the Ward concealing the wound Glenin had given her long ago was gone. She conjured it quickly, hoping Marra had noticed nothing beneath the cloak, knowing Elomar would keep her secret.
“She needs rest,” he said.
It was reprieve from having to talk, from having to acknowledge what had happened and what she had done.
More footsteps—but only one set. Elomar stayed.
“We’re safe for now,” he told her. “The wounded are being taken to Cantratown. The rest are with you, heading north to Peyres.”
With her, with the Captal, to ensure that she lived. That her precious, irreplaceable life was not lost. How many, just as precious, had paid for her criminal stupidity in not killing him, both of him, the instant she began to suspect what he was?
Elo waited, but when she said nothing he left her alone once more. She stared at her own candlethrown shadow on the wall, flinching at every flicker, until exhaustion overwhelmed her and she slept.
She woke for a third time the next day, and this time there was no reprieve from questions and worry and sympathy. A different room, with afternoon light streaming through the windows; a different house, low ceiling and whitewashed walls. And warm—she could feel the sun on her face, thinking how strange the heat felt. Certainly the chill inside her was such that not even sunlight or thick black fur could warm her.
“Sit up,” Elomar ordered gruffly. “Drink.”
She sat up, and drank. The tea was lukewarm and sickly sweet, with an undertaste of bitterness that nearly made her stomach rebel. But she finished the cup, avoiding his watchful eyes, and handed it back. “How many?” she asked quietly.
“Thirty-three living,” he said.
“You know what I meant.”
Slowly, reluctantly, as if every death had been his fault for not being there to heal their wounds: “Seventy-eight.”
Cailet drew a long breath. “Who?”
There was a rustle of paper, and Elomar began a wooden recitation. “Adennos, Halla—Prentice. Adennos, Hallan—Prentice. Adennos, Sirran—Healer. Allard, Elina—Mage. Allard, Kanen—Warrior. Allard, Vallis—Prentice. Bekke, Granon—”
Cailet made a sound low in her throat and grabbed the paper from him. She read down the list, neatly alphabetized, written in Marra’s hand. The names clawed at her. Rance Krestos, husband of Scholar Kella Doriaz, and the three young daughters they’d doted on. Aidan Maurgen. . . . All the men and women not Mageborn, all the children, all of them with no chance at all against murderous magic. Cailet read the names, strangling with guilt and grief, barely able to see the writing for the faces that came to her.
Elderly faces of Mages and Scholars and Healers and Warriors who, after surviving Ambrai and Anniyas’s Purge and years of being hunted, had found peaceful retirement at Mage Hall, congenial work in teaching and study: Jenira Doriaz, Aifalun Escovor and her cousin Tirez, so many others.
Mages in the prime of their lives, who taught and wrote and explored what it was to be a Mage Guardian: Maidia Keviron, Viranon Maklyn—one of the Castle Dozen discovered on Bleynbradden the first year of Cailet’s journeys in search of Mageborns—so many others.
Prentices just beginning to understand the gift of magic: Lirenza Mettyn, the two young Adennos cousins who might have become Healers, so many others.
The names went on and on. Lira Trevarin, the first Mageborn Cailet had found twenty years ago. Gavria and Kellos Wolvar, talented grandchildren of Tamos’s beloved sister. Lirenza Gorrst, Cailet’s elderly, blunt-spoken, scowling Scholar-Archivist. Worse still, First Sword Imilial Gorrst. Impossible to imagine life without Imi’s blistering humor and full-throated laugh.
So many. So many.
She refused to wipe the tears from her eyes—though by now she should have no tears left to shed. Blinking rapidly, she felt the sting of them down her cheeks, as if they were not the water and salt of her own body but distilled from acid.
“Cailet, Taigan’s been asking to see you.”
Elomar’s voice startled her. She crumpled the sheet of paper in her fist and told him, “No, I want to talk to Marra first.”
“As you wish.” He went to the door and murmured to someone standing outside. A few minutes later Marra entered, and smiled at seeing Cailet awake and sitting up and to all appearances recovering. Elomar left them alone at a glance from Cailet.
The young woman fell into her old role of taking care of the Captal. “You’ve some color back in your cheeks,” she said. “I won’t bring you anything to eat right now, but tonight, I promise you, you’re going to have a four-course meal.”
“Marra. . . .”
Paying no attention to her protest, Marra went on, “Do you know, Mikel did the oddest thing—and the smartest, too. While he was in your office, he grabbed up seven of those Globes you used to send messages. One broke on the way here, but the rest are intact. Trouble is, he didn’t take any of the little wooden stands, so we don’t know whose Globe he’s got. And he doesn’t recall exactly whose names were on the stands. But we’re hoping he got a good geographical selection, and he swears that one of them is Telomir Renne’s, so—”
“Send him to me,” Cailet said. “After you and I have talked.”
For the first time Marra’s bright aspect dimmed a little, and in her eyes was wariness. What Cailet wanted to say was unwelcome, that was clear enough; but despite Marra’s reluctance the thing had to be said.
“Marra, I—”
“No, don’t bother yourself with anything right now. You’re not recovered yet.”
The coward in her made her say, “Tell me who’s here, and what’s been going on.”
“We’re almost to Peyres—it’s been a little slower than we’d like, but the nine of us—”
“Nine?”
“You, me, Elomar, Lusira, and Dessa, plus Taigan and Mikel, and Josselin and Jored. Rennon wanted to come with us—being the only Warrior still standing—but Taigan told him he was needed to guard the wounded on the road south to Cantratown. Eighteen of them, with six to drive the wagons and tend their wounds and so on. Besides, Joss has your sword, as he pointed out to Rennon, and that’s e
qual to a score of Warrior Mages in the right hands—”
“Josselin has my sword?”
“Until you’re ready to take it up again, yes.” Marra gave her a level look. “You weren’t, you know.”
“That’s part of what I need to talk to you about. Aidan—”
She shook her head fiercely. “He was up late, making sure everyone was back from Heathering and in bed—he was outside the refectory when—” A pause. Marra again rested her hand over her belly. Then, quietly: “Gavria and Kellos Wolvar were taking care of the children while everyone was at St. Maidil’s. They were all in the refectory.”
Cailet nodded slowly. They weren’t worth keeping alive—not all of them would turn up Mageborn. But the Prentices—most of them survived. They’re young enough to be converted to the Malerrisi viewpoint, once Glenin gets hold of them.
Gorsha said, There was planning in this, long nights of thought about where to place the Globes. I believe you’re right about the Prentices—they’re not “yours” yet, and still malleable. Most of the elderly are dead, those who remember the Academy in the old days. I’d guess that if there have been any attacks elsewhere, the dead will be the older Mages and the Warriors.
The ones who remember, and the ones who know how to fight, Cailet agreed. What am I going to do, Gorsha? How do I salvage anything out of this?
But he did not answer, and Marra was saying in a low, expressionless voice, “Aidan was about to have a cup of coffee with Gavria and Kellos when the windows exploded. There was fire everywhere, and the rafters collapsing—Gavria died instantly. Kellos tried to help Aidan get the children out, but the smoke was too much and most of the children were dead where they lay. They got a few out, but then the corridor was filled with fire as well. Aidan had—he had a splinter of glass in his chest, right near his heart. He got Kellos and two children out, and thought they were safe in the Oak Court—the tree hadn’t begun to burn yet—and then came up to me. He lived long enough to tell me what happened—and then he died in my arms.”
“But—the sword—”
“What? Oh—he took it from the wall, and had some idea of finding you and defending you with it—he wasn’t thinking clearly by then, he thought there were attackers outside. But there weren’t, were there? This was done by someone at Mage Hall. A traitor.”
Again Cailet nodded, while trying to sort out her dream from the reality Marra reported. “And—Josselin? Jored?”
“They worked like slaves to feed us and keep us safe on the road—I don’t think either has slept more than a few hours in the last two days.”
“No, no, I meant were they there when Aidan had the sword?”
“I don’t remember. What does it matter?”
“It’s just—” She sighed. “I’m not very clear on what happened that night.” But she must have sensed Aidan’s hand on the sword when she got to her chambers—and the sword had remembered his desire to defend her, as his father had done. And he died, just as Val had died, to keep her safe.
But if Aidan’s mark had been on the sword, then so must Jored’s and Josselin’s be as well, or she would not have had that dream—
Is that what it meant, Gorsha? Were they fighting over who would take the sword before I came in? Or was it just Josselin at first, and Jored later? Do you remember?
My memories are yours from the time of your Making as Captal. But consider this. In your dream, each of them knew things they could not possibly know—about Sela Trayos’s child, for instance. Or that you don’t possess the entirety of the Bequest. Don’t make more of the dream than it was, Caisha.
She said aloud, “I thought—I thought I’d killed Aidan. By not being able to defend him against the magic. I did kill him, you know. I killed all of them. I never saw this coming, and I should have. I should’ve put up Wards and—”
“How could you have known?” Marra took her hand, speaking urgently. “Cailet, it’s not your fault.”
She pressed Marra’s cold fingers between both her own. “I’m so sorry. Marra, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I—”
“It was done by the traitor—and I hope whoever it was is dead of the magic used to kill my husband.” Marra hesitated. “Cailet, I can’t think who it might’ve been. Who could do this to us, at Glenin Feiran’s orders?”
“I don’t know.” But she did. As confusing and surreal as her dream had been, her instincts were right. Josselin or Jored. And the sword was the power and authority of the Captal that one of them wanted to take from her.
Josselin now had the sword. To keep it, or to protect it while she mended?
“We’ll find out who it was,” Marra said. “And once we do, Imi will—” She broke off, recalling that her cousin was dead.
“I’d like to see Taigan now, please. And Mikel afterward, with the Globes.”
“Only after you’ve had something to eat.” Marra stood, paused, and said softly, “It wasn’t your fault, Cailet. You must believe that.”
Taigan came in shortly thereafter. With Marra’s description of what had occurred, Cailet’s own memory was a little more reliable—she still wasn’t sure about who’d been where and when, but she was positive that in her greed she’d sought to steal Taigan’s magic. So she only let the girl say how good it was to see her awake before apologizing.
“Sorry?” Taigan blinked startled green eyes. “What for?”
“What I tried to do to you.” Hitching herself up in bed, with a lumpy pillow to support her back, she bit her lips together before continuing, “It’s—something in me that craves power, when I can’t rely on my own. I wanted yours, and nearly took it. I’m sorry, Taigan.”
A frown, and a brief silence; then: “You weren’t in your right mind, if you’ll forgive my saying so, Captal. Mage Hall betrayed, so many dying—”
“That’s no excuse.”
“Maybe, but it’s an understandable reason.”
There was a calm in Taigan’s eyes that had never been there before—Cailet saw that command had settled on her, and confidence in it, and consciousness of the tightness of her decisions. She trusted herself; perhaps she didn’t fully trust her magic yet, but she believed in her ability to lead others. So like Sarra, this self-assurance—and so like Collan. So unlike the doubts and the shadows that plagued Cailet.
“It’s happened before,” Cailet murmured. “Once, when I was about your age . . . I tried to steal—”
“But you didn’t mean to.”
“In some ways I did. Stop looking at me as if I’m trying to guide you through a lesson,” she added irritably. “I’m only telling you this because of what you did. You fought, Taigan—and I’m proud of you for fighting me. Your magic is yours, and no one can ever take it away or use it against your will, against what you know to be right. You refused to give in.”
Taigan said softly, “I think it was because I knew what you’d do with it. So did Josselin. He still has your sword, by the way—and I don’t think he wants it much. But he won’t give it up to anyone but you.”
Cailet nodded. “Let him keep it for now. I’ve no use for it.” Not when I can still barely think straight. St. Delilah only knows what I’d do with it if I had it to hand.
“Marra says you want to see Mikel. About the Globes.”
“Yes. I’m impressed that he thought of them.”
“I’m disgusted that I didn’t think of them myself. We saw Biren Halvos get a message at Roseguard once—I guess it stuck in Mikel’s head.” She frowned, picking at a snagged thumbnail. “I hope you aren’t angry that I sent the others south. I don’t know if I did right—”
“Yes, you did,” Cailet interrupted. “You did exactly right, and you know it. You are your mother’s daughter, after all.”
The girl let out her breath in a long sigh, then smiled ruefully. “Yes, but Mother was a lot older than I am when she started giving orders.”
“As I recall, s
he was just your age when she started ordering your father around. Not that it ever did much good.”
“Oh, you mean in Pinderon? What did happen? They never told us the whole story.”
“Well. . . .” Cailet ran a hand through her hair, wondering where to begin. She was saved from the recitation by Elomar, who entered carrying a bowl and a mug.
“Out,” he said to Taigan, softening it with a smile and an “if you please.”
Looking disappointed, Taigan rose. “I’ll send Mikel to you in a little while.”
“No, you won’t,” Elo corrected. “She’ll be asleep.”
“There are Mages I must contact,” Cailet began.
“Later.”
“Now.”
They glared at each other; the Master Healer eventually gave in to the Captal, saying with poor grace, “If you finish this.”
She sniffed at the soup, then the tea. “There’d better not be anything funny in it, Elo.”
“Would I dare?” he asked as Lusira came in with a plate of bread and cheese.
“Yes,” Cailet and Lusira said at the same time.
Taigan smiled and left the room. Lusira took her place in the chair, her husband standing nearby with arms folded, both of them with every evident intention of watching each sip and spoonful down Cailet’s throat. She made a face at them and started eating.
“Felera went south,” he said. Cailet nodded. Felera was an Adennos, a Healer with nearly ten years’ experience. “And they’ve Rennon for protection.” He paused, a tiny smile playing over his lips as Cailet’s brows arched. “Taigan’s doing.”
Lusira elaborated. “He said his place as Warder was with you. She said the rest of us could defend you very nicely. He said Ketri Maklyn’s arm would heal fast—which it will, don’t worry—and anyway she could take on the Ryka Legion one-handed. She said if he didn’t trust us to protect you, then maybe he’d trust your sword in the hands of a man he himself had helped train, so get in the damned wagon. He took one look at Joss, turned a rather interesting shade of red, and got in the damned wagon.”