by Melanie Rawn
“He already knew,” she murmured. “He came to you, knowing.”
“Josselin saved my life, did you know that? That poor little boy Collan brought me last year—his magic went Wild and he attacked me, and Josselin took up my sword—” She choked on the rest.
“Caisha—” Rising, she put her arms around her sister. Cailet tried to shrug her off; Sarra held fast. At length the thin, tense body seemed to wilt, and Sarra rocked her as if she were still a little girl—the child-Cailet Sarra had never known.
“I want to kill him,” Cailet whispered against her shoulder. “If I could only be certain, I would kill him for what he’s done.”
“I know, dearest.”
“But I can’t. Not until I’m sure. He has to do something, say something—anything—that would—but he’d know it the instant I knew, and Ward himself so that not even I could—”
“Hush.”
“He murdered them, Sasha—in their beds where they slept, in their cradles—he killed Gransha, who loved me—I never knew it until the moment he died, but he loved me—”
“I know.”
“How could you know when I didn’t?”
“It doesn’t matter. Caisha, you were right. We must let this play itself out. There’ll be proof, just as there’ll be proof of what Vellerin Dombur plans, and what Glenin’s purpose here is, and when there is and we know, when we’re certain—”
“—then we’ll become murderers, just like the Malerrisi we despise.”
“No. There will be justice, and retribution. And if they die as they deserve, I won’t waste any tears. I’m not especially civilized when it comes to my daughter, or my son, or my sister.”
Cailet shook her head, but did not leave the shelter of Sarra’s embrace. After a long time in the darkness, they turned as one and slowly made their way back through the Council Gardens, and separated in silence.
3
“WHAT I still don’t understand,” Collan said as he yanked on his boots, “is why the Council’s giving Dombur a hearing in the first place.”
Sarra twisted the long rope of her braid into a tidy knot at the nape of her neck, securing it with a mouthful of hairpins. “Appeasement,” she replied succinctly.
“Give her some of what she wants and hope that satisfies her?” He shook his head. “Stupid idea. Like a little girl who asks for candy and gets it, she’ll always be back for more.”
“I agree. We haven’t given her anything she wants, so she’s starting to get frustrated.” She paused. “At least, she ought to be frustrated. She’s not. She’s waiting for something.”
“Glenin Feiran’s move.”
“Probably.” She slid a pair of tiny silver hoops into her ears, not wishing to lose anything larger or more expensive on the hunt. “If only we could figure out what that will be.”
“Any ideas from the other Councillors?”
“Nothing substantive. Senasta Dombur keeps smirking behind her hand, or so Granon Isidir says—he sits opposite her at the far end of the table. We compare notes on who reacts how to what.”
“Convenient,” he remarked. “Maybe I should get myself elected to the Council, so I can have intimate private meetings with you, too.”
“Minstrel mine,” she laughed, plying her dimples at him, “I sincerely doubt we’d ever get around to discussing business!”
He said nothing. He sprawled across a nearby chair, elegant in fawn-colored riding leathers, one long leg hooked over the chair arm. All his dichotomies were visible in his position and expression: a pose that should have looked awkward but was instead inherently elegant; eyes that saw with piercing clarity even when they sulked; a cynical twist to lips that never lost their tender curve; lean body casually slumped yet constantly alert.
“You’re being ridiculous,” she chided softly.
“Ah, but you expect me to act jealous, and I learned long ago that it’s always wise to oblige a lady.” He rose and brought her boots over, kneeling to help her on with them. “What’s Cailet say about Dombur?”
“Let it play out. I’ve come to see the wisdom of her way of thinking—more or less,” she added wryly as his brows arched.
“So we all make nice on the happy hunt, and hope somebody doesn’t ‘accidentally’ shoot an arrow our way.”
Sarra shrugged. “I don’t intend to be anywhere near the hunt. I’ve heard about a little cottage along the way, owned by a very obliging farmer—”
Taigan’s entrance interrupted her. “Mother, there’s a woman here to see you—she says she’s the Liwellan First Daughter.”
“She is.” When Taigan’s green eyes widened, Sarra added, “I hope you remembered your manners. She’s here to look you over, you know.”
“How could I know?” Taigan complained. “Nobody ever tells me anything. And why would she want to—oh, Saints!”
“Uh-huh,” Col said, not without sympathy.
“Lady Alinar’s early—I didn’t expect her until tomorrow,” Sarra went on. “Well, that’s the end of the hunt for me.” She extended one leg so Col could remove the boot he’d just put on it. “Teggie, find me something else to wear, quick, then go tell her I’ll be with her directly.”
“I’ll play lady’s maid,” Collan offered. “Go charm Lady Alinar, pixie.”
“Oh, thanks! I love you too, Fa!” Taigan stuck out her tongue at him, grinned, and departed. A few minutes later, Sarra’s riding clothes had been exchanged for a turquoise silk dress and soft leather slippers. She added earrings and a bracelet of lapis, complimenting her visitor by wearing the Liwellan colors.
“Nice,” Collan approved—he never let her out of their bedroom until he’d evaluated her clothing. “Could use a little something in your hair, though.”
“Bring me back a talon, and I’ll have it made into a comb,” she teased.
He snorted. “I don’t need to find an eagle’s claw to win me my own true love. Though I suspect Taigan will be scouring the forest floor. I wish Mikel would find somebody, too.”
“I don’t.”
“What’s the matter, Sarra? Going all motherly?” He smiled and tapped her nose. “Maybe a bit jealous yourself at the idea you wouldn’t be the only woman in your son’s life anymore?”
“Not at all,” she replied serenely. “It’s only that I’m much too young to be a grandmother.” The wall clock sounded Half-Fifth. “You’ll be late for the hunt, and I should go rescue Taigan from the appraisal.”
“They can wait.”
And for the next few minutes, time didn’t matter in the slightest.
Someone knocked on the door—probably a servant sent by an increasingly desperate Taigan—and Sarra drew reluctantly out of her husband’s arms. “You know,” she said, bending over at the dressing table mirror to tidy her hair, “I won’t mind not being the only woman in Mishka’s life one day—just so long as I’m always the only one in yours.”
“Truly told?” He wore that whimsical, crooked little smile that had felled women from Dindenshir to The Waste, and she simply had to kiss him again.
“Never more truly.” Then, with a private promise to find that cottage very soon, she went to greet her august visitor.
4
“THE main objective, my dear,” Lady Alinar said, “is to find a man who reacts the right way when you tell him to sit down and shut up.”
Taigan blinked.
Fine-boned, with skin fine as parchment and gestures as wispy as the pale gray silk shawl around her shoulders, Lady Alinar Liwellan sipped daintily at the tea in a Rine porcelain cup before continuing her lecture. Every time she moved, Taigan nearly flinched, for the thick curls piled atop her head seemed too heavy for so delicate a neck to support. It was amazing hair, like spun silver without a trace of white; unpinned, it must fall to her hips—quite a distance, for she was a tall woman. Indeed, she seemed made entirely of silver, hair and gray eyes and the sheen
of her plain, high-collared dress. Even her voice was a melody of thin silvery wind-chimes. In her high-nosed, heart-shaped face could still be seen the great beauty she had once been, and in her sudden quirk of a smile was yet a hint of a winsome, flirtatious girl.
“Some men,” said Lady Alinar, “will do exactly as told and never think a thing about it. Avoid them at all costs. Nothing more boring than marriage to a sheep! And nothing more depressing than to become mother to meek little lambs just like him. Some men will indeed sit down and shut up, but resent you for giving the order. Avoid them, too. Any man without the spirit to speak his mind isn’t worth allowing into your home, let alone allowing to father your children. Now, some will shut up but not sit down, indicating thereby displeasure at your command, and some will sit down but not shut up, and neither kind has any manners, and your children won’t learn any either. And if he’ll neither sit down nor shut up, he’s too contentious to live with and will father noisy, disobedient, regrettable offspring.”
Confused, Taigan ventured, “But that’s the end of the options, isn’t it?”
“Not at all.” Alinar laughed soundlessly. “You’ve forgotten the kind who will simply walk out of the room!”
“And that’s the kind of man to marry?”
“Gracious St. Gorynel, child, of course not!” Lady Alinar sipped again at her tea, silver curls gleaming as her head moved on a long, exquisite neck.
Hopelessly bewildered now, Taigan could only stare.
“Consider, my dear. What kind of man requires being told to sit down and shut up?”
Suddenly Taigan laughed. “The kind you shouldn’t marry in the first place!”
“Precisely.” Her eyes danced merrily. “Have you ever heard your mother say such a thing to your father?”
“Not in a million years.”
“So. A man with manners enough not to need correcting, who knows when to talk and when to stay quiet, but who will inform you in no uncertain terms of his opinions. That’s the kind of man you want—and few of us are lucky enough to find.”
“That’s very good advice, Lady Alinar,” Taigan said. “I’d never thought of it quite that way before.”
“Most young girls don’t, until it’s too late. May I trouble you for some more of this excellent tea, my dear? And after your mother comes, I promise you’ll be released to join this hunt that sounds so enjoyable.”
Taigan was beginning to think the hunt would not be half so enjoyable as a morning in the Lady’s company, and so it was with mixed feelings that she saw her mother enter the room. Staying long enough to hear herself declared a good, sensible girl by Lady Alinar—and to see her mother give her a sidelong glance of wry approval—she politely withdrew and went to the courtyard. Mikel held her horse, a fine smoke-gray Tillinshir hunter borrowed from the Ryka Court stables and grudgingly approved by Rillan Veliaz for her use. Brother and horse both were chafing at her lateness.
“This is the end of my obligations for the day,” Mikel warned as he boosted her up into the saddle. “If you expect me to rein in so you can keep up, forget it.”
“Try and keep up with me,” she retorted, fingering the saddle-charm tied to the pommel. Geranium leaves for protection, a sprig of cedar for strength, and two roses—one red for love, one yellow for perfection. The whole was secured with humbly anonymous white string, but the colors told her who it was from.
Mikel sighed a vastly tolerant sigh. “Guess who.”
“I can’t imagine,” she said demurely.
He gave a complex snort and vaulted easily into his saddle. “The string’s white—you could always say it’s from one of the Domburs,” he said as his parting shot, and heeled his stallion into a canter out the courtyard gates.
They’d found a horse for Vellerin Dombur to ride. A gelding half-Tillinshir and half-Clydie with hooves that could fill soup tureens, it lumbered along at a gait made remarkable for speed as well as thundering awkwardness. Her Ladyship had packed herself into riding clothes of sulfurous yellow, an orange scarf tied under her chins to secure a towering black hat. Looking at her hurt Taigan’s eyes; she could just imagine what her father would say about this ensemble. The rule in a hunt was to wear bright colors so there could be no accidents in the woods. The field was gaudy in reds, blues, and purples. Taigan herself wore a turquoise shirt and shortvest, and even the Captal had abandoned her usual black for an outfit of bright crimson. But Vellerin Dombur’s attire seemed calculated not only to alert other hunters to her presence but to terrify any animal in a ten-mile radius.
Clattering from the courtyard down to the lake, the riders had attracted cheers from passersby and the traditional calls of “Good hunting!” and “Fielto favor you!” It would have been more appropriate to hold the hunt on the Saint’s Day, but that was weeks ahead and Gery Canzallis, Director of Diversions, was a passionate equestrian who damned well wanted a hunt, out of season though it was.
“Do them all good to get out of this hothouse,” she’d told Rillan when enlisting his aid, “into the fresh air, clear their heads of politics, see the world as it is instead of how they want to see it.” So hunting they went, and as Taigan cantered up to join her father and brother, she was glad of it. She had a fine mare, a whole day ahead of galloping across the hills and through the woodlands, and the blessed prospect of leaving all troubles behind at Ryka Court.
And, just maybe, some time alone in the forest with Jored.
5
“GRACIOUS St. Gorynel, you do lead a busy life, my dear Sarra! Mine is so placid at The Cloister, all this talk of politics and government and scheming quite exhausts me—though I’m glad the Liwellans have so eloquent and influential a voice.” Lady Alinar paused, pale eyes suddenly twinkling. “Even if you’re not, strictly speaking, a Liwellan.”
Sarra allowed not a flicker of reaction to show on her face as she tried to think up something to say. Alinar spared her the necessity.
“Of course, neither am I.”
This time, despite her best efforts, Sarra felt her jaw drop. Happily, her teacup did not—though it was a near thing.
“Alinar Liwellan is a cherished friend who allowed me to borrow her identity for this journey. She hasn’t been outside The Cloister in thirty years, so there’s no risk of anyone’s discovering my little imposture. I do live at The Cloister, under another Name not my own—you’ll forgive me if I don’t share it with you, my dear.”
Her smile was so warm and intimate that Sarra forgave her on the spot, no matter how loudly curiosity clamored for satisfaction.
“I’ll add that I’ve Warded this room against ears that shouldn’t hear what we say.”
Now Sarra was truly in shock. This woman was Mageborn? A Mage Guardian, living in retirement at The Cloister—
But there was more than one kind of Mageborn.
Instantly she dismissed the notion. This woman was no more a Malerrisi than Cailet was. The magic Sarra barely knew how to sense held the distinct overtones of a Mage Guardian in its application of Silence to the sitting room. Besides, the tiny glass sphere over her heart was warm, not icy cold. And she trusted it more than she trusted her magic—but not more than she trusted her own instincts, which said this woman was her friend.
“So we can speak freely, of things that haven’t been spoken of in many long years—not since Alinar confided to me the deception of the Name.” She leaned forward to put her teacup down. The action dislodged the gray silk shawl, and as she wrapped it around her again Sarra saw that the decoration was on the underside—black and gold and silver embroidery finely done but randomly patterned.
When the old woman sat back again, her aspect had altered. All the spun silver had changed to steel. “Sarra,” she said, “you are in more danger than you can be aware of.”
Sarra placed her own cup on the table, hearing the porcelain rattle. “Lady, tell me what you know.”
6
THE forest-dw
ellers in the hills above Council Lake fed peacefully in the morning stillness, concerned only with the summer bounty. Jumpmice taught their nestlings how to leap high for choice insects; rainbow beetles the size of a man’s fist scuttled along, looking for unguarded late eggs; red-dappled squirrels raced each other around and around the trees, almost forgetting in their fun that they’d come for the best new nuts and seeds. Birds spun in and out of the branches, feathers flashing in glints of bronze and green and gold. Presiding over all were triplehorn deer, grazing on lush dewy grass and flowers.
Mikel had only seen pictures of them, and cherished no great hopes of actually viewing one today—the hunt was too large and made too much noise. But Gery Canzallis knew her business, and at the forest’s edge had split the field into a dozen groups of eight or nine each to minimize their noise and fuss. Mikel rode with Taigan, their father, the Captal, Jored, Josselin, Granon Isidir—and Chava Allard and Glenin Feiran. It hadn’t just fallen out that way either; the latter pair had sorted themselves into the field near Taigan and Jored before they were halfway to the woods. Mikel, noticing it at the same time his father and the Captal did, joined them deliberately. As the groups separated at Domna Canzallis’s direction, Isidir ambled over on his big Dappleback mare with a graceful request to be included. Mikel was glad of another ally—no matter what opinion Fa held of Granon personally, all the Isidirs of Isodir were on their side.
At least they were spared Vellerin Dombur’s raptures—shared at the top of her lungs—on the glories of the day, the beauties of the forest, and the skills of her husband, who had brought along a secretary to record poetic inspiration as it occurred to him. He was engaged to give a performance at the banquet tomorrow night of the verses composed in the saddle today. Mikel, who thanks to his father and Falundir knew poetry when he heard it, had no expectation of hearing anything resembling it from Stene Dombur. He wondered as he rode into the trees what sort of pretext he could come up with for not attending the Hunt Banquet. But he was damned if he’d include Taigan in his escape. Let her think up her own excuse.