by Melanie Rawn
“After you’ve seen Telo, find Lady Sarra and let her know what’s going on.”
“And when she asks where you’ll be?”
“I’ll ride back to get the Captal. She can use those Mage Globes of hers to reach a few Mages, who can get the word out to a few more. And have Telomir get Mossen and the others the hell away from the Castle.”
Despite a deficiency in basic economic theory, Savachel Maklyn was no fool; Col would never have hired him for the Minstrelsy otherwise, no matter how sweetly he sang the Bardic Canon. He looked Collan right in the eye and said, “It’s possible that you’re wrong about the banks, my Lord—and that those two hundred Malerrisi have all come to Ryka.”
“I’m not wrong,” he replied. “But I’ll admit you may be just as right. There may be too many of them here for the Mages we have now to deal with.”
“I’ll tell this to Domni Renne as well—and Lady Sarra.”
“Do that. And hurry, Sava.”
The young man gave a crisp nod, turned on his heel, strode to his horse, bent to unwrap the reins from the shrine’s tethering plinth—and straightened up very suddenly, spinning around with a startled expression on his face. The steel tip of an arrow protruded through the middle of his chest—an arrow shot with enough vicious strength go all the way through him.
Col started for him, wits thick with shock. Savachel waved him back, gasping as movement shifted the arrow within him. “No—get out of here—”
“Appropriate, don’t you think?” asked a casual voice behind him. “Killed with an arrow, symbol of his Name Saint. As it happens, he was wrong. What need have I of a hundred or even a thousand Malerrisi when I am here, and Chava, and especially my son?”
Collan whirled, damning his mind that wasn’t Mageborn and his knives that would never penetrate the Wards rising in layer upon layer around the tall, elegant form of Glenin Feiran. Sauntering from the concealing curve of the shrine’s walls, she shouldered her bow—nowhere near the drawing weight that could have produced such lethal power, undoubtedly spelled as well—and smiled.
“You may die now,” she said to Savachel. “I have no further use for you.”
But he was already dead, even before he collapsed to the cobblestones.
“With you, however,” she told Collan, “I have unfinished business. We have no albadon and no Pain Stake, but I’ve learned quite a bit since then. This time, Minstrel, you’ll sing for me. A ’verro, you will.”
10
CAILET froze where she crouched behind a berry bramble, dismally aware of the scantiness of her shelter. The stag seemed to be staring straight at her, despite every Ward she could think of. Maybe they were like horses, and refused to admit the existence of magic.
She remembered something Gorsha had told her long ago—something about sending a teasing little tickle into the brain, a technique he said he’d used in attempts to find the part that stimulated desire in beautiful ladies. She’d always suspected he’d experimented in other ways, too, looking for places that would temporarily blind or deafen or paralyze an opponent; he’d been First Sword, after all, and authorized to use his magic in war if necessary.
Could she do that now? Stun the deer somehow so they could escape before the animals charged? For Tamos Wolvar’s memories told her that was what would happen next. The stag would attack the threat perceived as the most serious, and the dominant females—having no new fawns to protect—would take on the lesser dangers, allowing their sisters to flee.
But even if she could do it without harm to the triplehorns, she had no assurance that some of their hunting party wouldn’t take it as a Saints-given opportunity to fire arrows into every single deer in the glade.
Well, if she couldn’t stun them, maybe she could reassure them. And she needn’t tweak their brains with magic to do it. There were Wards and spells she could use—
—which the Malerrisi here present could counter if they so chose. That this hunt was the opportunity given by a specific Saint—to wit, Chevasto—was as glaringly apparent to Cailet as the glisten of amber-gold poison oozing now from the tips of all those beautiful spiraling horns.
She could sense Taigan and Mikel nearby, and see Granon Isidir’s bright yellow coif. Of Glenin, Chava Allard, Jored, and Josselin, she neither saw nor felt any trace—which wasn’t unexpected. The only Mageborn in the group not Malerrisi-trained for concealment was the only Mageborn who had neither gone through the Ritual of the List nor been born an Ambrai.
Jored? Josselin? Which?
Time seemed suspended. Cailet’s legs cramped with the strain of keeping still. The stag did not relax vigilance—indeed, he paced more rapidly around the circle of his does, snapping at the two young males who stood guard, a low gravelly whine vibrating his long throat.
They couldn’t continue here all day. But any movement from anyone hidden in the brush would bring the stag slashing and spearing with those horns. An arrow would have to pierce directly to the heart with incredible force to fell him before he could kill.
Cailet never felt it coming. All at once it was simply there—a mocking echo of whatever had terrified the pakkas back at Mage Hall, magic that now made no attempt to hide its malice. The stag roared, fury made worse by fear in an animal that feared nothing. Lowering his head, he charged.
Cailet Warded herself, cast frantic spells. Implausibly, she felt someone else’s magic wrap around her, too—Mikel? No. Taigan. Acting on instinct, just like her mother—
The stag was upon her. Magic had no meaning for him. His frenzied eyes loomed above her and then he ducked his head and stabbed, all his weight behind the amber-tipped horns. She threw herself to one side, rolling over and over in thorns.
Taigan’s magic was gone. The girl screamed Jored’s name—Cailet heard it over an oddly distant thunder of hooves. She pushed herself to her knees, bleeding from a thousand bramble scratches. The stag’s neck and withers bristled with five and then six and then seven arrows, and then an eighth that sank deep into his left side at the heart. Swaying, he slashed lethargically with his horns—eyes still angry but knowing himself mortally wounded—and crashed to the forest floor.
Granon Isidir, bow still in hand and another arrow nocked, ignored his magnificent kill and ran for Cailet. Dropping the bow, he knelt, tearing off his yellow coif to wipe desperately at her upper right arm. She looked down, bewildered; she couldn’t feel the scrape of cloth. Her sleeve was torn, a shallow furrow carved across her skin.
“Lie back,” the Councillor ordered. “Breathe slowly, stay quiet.”
Fuzzily, she knew what he meant. If her heartbeats calmed, her blood won’t flow as fast, and maybe the poison wouldn’t spread before . . . before Elomar could . . . could. . . .
Elomar was supposed to do something, she was sure. He could cure anything. But the numbness seemed to go right to her brain, and she couldn’t recall what Elo should do or why he should do it. Neither did it matter. The darkness —the shadows—closed in around her, and she knew nothing more.
11
“WHAT are the means to power?” asked the Lady who was not Alinar Liwellan. “How does one overthrow a government?”
Sarra shrugged. “I gave a lecture series on political theory at St. Caitiri’s—and though it’s been a while, I remember my notes. The long, hard way is to get like-minded revolutionaries elected, then legislate your aims into law. Another method is to buy yourself enough legislators—risky if your enemies have just as much or more money than you have.”
“The trouble with buying people is that so often they don’t stay bought. Once for sale, always for sale. A third way is military—but an army’s hard to hide.” She paused. “I’ve always thought Anniyas’s ploy was one of the cleverest.”
“Create a threat in the would-be Grand Duke of Domburronshir, defeat him as planned, and receive the title of First Councillor from a grateful world. She did roughly the same thing with the Mage Guar
dians in 951, using Lady Allynis and Captal Garvedian as her manufactured threats. Is that what Glenin is doing?”
“Possibly. If so, she’s going about it backward. The Council is the threat, she and Vellerin Dombur are the voices of reason and tradition. The real irony, of course, is that Allynis Ambrai and Leninor Garvedian were defending the oldest of traditions, that Mages do not hold public office, against Anniyas’s insistence that they should. All done for Auvry Feiran’s sake, of course. Which leads us to another path to power, Sarra. Magic.”
“Which Anniyas didn’t dare use, but which Glenin will if she gets the slightest chance.”
“My dear, she has already used it to excellent effect. The Mage Guardians are once again crippled.”
Sarra smiled bleakly. “Not for long, if I know the present Captal.”
“A remarkable and energetic young woman. I believe the methods being used now are a combination of all those we’ve mentioned.”
Sarra ticked them off on her fingers. “Money, Vellerin Dombur certainly has. Magic, in the person of Glenin. Friends in Council and Assembly. A manufactured threat to frighten people into believing she’s their only hope—but where’s her army?”
“Truly told, she has two. Neither can be seen drilling in secret locations with swords and spears, but both are exceedingly well-armed. One is an army of obedient little soldiers within the Dombur Web, buying and managing buildings, businesses, and farms. What they do not purchase outright, they control through trade. The other army—”
“The Malerrisi,” Sarra breathed. “Who don’t need swords or spears—not when a single person can destroy Mage Hall.”
“The ethic of the Mage Guardians, older than The Waste War, dictates the use of magic in service to Lenfell. The Malerrisi serve themselves.”
“No,” Sarra said. “They serve the pattern they wish to impose on the world. Everyone locked in place, Bloods and Tiers and Mageborns, according to the design of the Great Loom. We’ve always known this is Glenin’s aim. Now we see some of how she means to accomplish it. Vellerin Dombur is expendable—indeed, highly undesirable as an ally, for she has ambitions of her own. But I suppose Glenin used what she had. She’ll take Ambrai first, then use it as her personal power base to take the rest of Lenfell.”
“But not for philosophy’s sake,” the Lady warned. “This is the danger of Malerrisi thought. Society must have order or it does not function. There must be methods of interaction, of settling differences—agreement on what is correct and just behavior in whatever situation may arise. We term it ‘law,’ made up of custom, tradition, and innovation in response to new circumstances. But it must be an agreement among the majority. This is what we believe. The Malerrisi take upon themselves the decision of what is correct, and deem themselves the only persons capable of deciding. And at the end, it is one person who decides: the Warden of the Loom. If she is sincere in her beliefs and unselfish in her aims—no matter how wrong-minded we may think them—then at least there is the advantage of dealing with someone of integrity.”
“‘Integrity’ and ‘Malerrisi’ are mutually exclusive terms,” Sarra stated.
“Not really. There have been some . . . but I digress.” Sighing, she picked at the fringe of her shawl for a moment, while Sarra silently begged, Digress, digress! But when she resumed, it was not to speak of the past. “The point is that if the Warden of the Loom is a person of appetites rather than ideals, we get an Avira Anniyas. Or a Glenin Feiran.”
“Who is intent on righting what she perceives to be multiple wrongs.” Sarra shook her head. “Her hunger is for Ambrai, and what she sees as her rightful place.”
“And for breeding up in orderly, directed fashion every new Generation of Mageborns.”
Sarra thought of Taigan, and shuddered.
“A dictatorship of magic—a thaumatocracy, if you will. A concentration of power in the hands of those who need not threaten with swords or financial ruin to make people obey. A spell here, a Ward there, and which of those not Mageborn could resist or rebel?”
After a moment’s silence, Sarra said, “They have only to place themselves in strategic locations across Lenfell, establish their identities as workers of magic, and let it be known that there are objectives to be met in the grand design. And to think people used to be afraid of Mage Guardians! They don’t know what fear of magic is!”
“They will, if Glenin succeeds.”
“But what’s her criteria of success? Not one of Vellerin Dombur’s proposals has been agreed to by the Council.”
The Lady spread her delicate white hands, revealing again the strange embroidery on the reverse of the shawl. “And is that not the evidence she needs to frighten people? Dangerous departure from cherished traditions will wreck our world. Radical elements in control of the government. Necessity of a strong hand to correct excesses.”
“Glenin’s hand.”
“Eventually. Not just yet. Once out of the cities, the Shirs are quite conservative, you know. They’re not yet used to the abolition of Bloods and Tiers—though that happened nearly twenty-five years ago. For example, my dear, every time you propose allowing a Name in danger of extinction to be passed to a third or fourth daughter, they mutter.”
“But—”
“Yes, I know. It’s right and just. But it’s not tradition.” She poured the last of the tea into her cup. “Vellerin is fifty-two this year and has a First Daughter to succeed her. An ambitious young woman, though at the moment blunted by anger at her mother for compelling her to divorce a husband she still loves. But in time she’ll get over him, and even if she doesn’t, she knows where her future lies. Glenin may have Ambrai with Vellerin’s blessing. She’s only a temporary nuisance. She has no First Daughter. When Glenin dies, Vellerin will give Ambrai to her own daughter Linsel. Lacking in subtlety as the Domburs are, they know how to wait. They’ve sometimes taken a century and more to ruin certain families in the Shir.”
“But Glenin does have a child. A son.”
“I know,” she said, without saying how she knew, which fretted intolerably at Sarra’s curiosity. “And whether he is called Lord of Ambrai or First Lord of Malerris, he will be both. Vellerin’s ambitions will be thwarted.”
“And then,” Sarra blurted, “Linsel will challenge for Ambrai—that’s when the Malerrisi will seize total power.”
“It’s a likely extrapolation. Even if Linsel decides she can do without Ambrai, the Dombur-Malerrisi alliance will fall apart. Sides will be chosen, the Malerrisi in their towns and villages will dictate which way to weave their allegiance, and we both know who will win.” Leaning back in her chair, her sigh this time seemed to drain her of strength. But only for a minute. “Glenin, too, knows how to wait. She could not act until her son was old enough to participate in her plans.”
“That’s exactly what Cailet said.”
“It’s an advantage to have a wise Captal of Mage Guardians.”
“She doesn’t see herself as wise.”
“She is wrong.” The Lady smiled briefly. “Oh, Sarra, how very wrong she is.”
12
THE layers began to peel from his Wards. Like a great wind roaring through him, like the wind remembered from early childhood that knocked him into the ditch, leaving him there stunned while the reivers killed his family and burned down his home—
No.
There never was any wind. Nor ditch. Nor reivers nor mother nor cottage nor family nor anything else remembered from that life. It was not his life. They were not his memories. They were as the wind he couldn’t grasp or feel—
—because the wind was magic.
Sweeping over him, a tempest that blew away everything he’d been born, wiping away another life, leaving nothingness where other memories were substituted for the ones that belonged to him.
The ditch? Ah, that was where his true self was hidden while the magic blew past, sweeping all before it.
The cottage? All his life before the magic wind, burned to the ground, unrecognizable for what it had once been.
The reivers? They were the ones who had stolen his true identity and caged his memories. The imprisonment had not been of his body, but his Self.
And he’d escaped them once. He knew that now. Something about a cat, bronze fur that his mind had seen clinging to the nonexistent bars of a nonexistent cage—the smell had reminded him of his own cat, and the memory of getting out of the cage was his memory of escaping their magic. For a time. A very short time.
He saw the faces of those who were the true reivers—and suddenly he began to laugh. He recognized them all, knew them all. His mother, soft-voiced and beautiful, with her black hair and green eyes, holding a lute, wearing a silver bracelet set with a blue onyx in which a sliver of gold resembled a candleflame. His father, tall and strong and serious, with blue eyes and red hair just like his own, just like Mikel’s. His grandparents, all four of them, from four different yet equally powerful Names. These were the reivers, not wicked at all, who had taken him from what he had been. Each was almost as deeply loved as he loved Sarra Ambrai.
“Of course!” he exclaimed, the first and only words that had left his lips since a different magic had wrapped around him. “Of course!”
The layers were all swept away, down to the last Warding that had been the first to be set on his mind a lifetime ago, and he could feel himself rising from that frozen muddy ditch where he’d hidden for so long. This was who and what he truly was.
But he knew that he must not stand before this woman and let her see.
And so, laughing at her frustration and her rage, he reached for that portion of her magic that would obey her deepest impulses the way one of the Fifty Swords obeyed the deepest intentions of its wielder. And he used it, this ravaging need of hers for his death, to die.
13
CAILET came awake slowly, groggily, lying on a bed not hers in a room not hers: no birds. No hangings or carvings or decorations at all, in fact—just a small, bare, functional room painted a shade that reminded her of coffee with far too much cream. There wasn’t even a window to look out of—or, she suddenly realized, for anyone to climb through. The reason for her unconsciousness abruptly returned to her memory, and again, as long ago at Ryka Court, she knew her life was in grievous danger.