The Mageborn Traitor--Exiles, Volume 2

by Melanie Rawn

  Like her, Sarra thought. Like me. Like Cailet.

  Glenin paused to glance around the hushed chamber. “I am willing to give up my position. I am willing to give up my magic. Let someone else, someone of the Council’s choosing, lead the new Malerrisi and oversee their return to society. I will ask the Mage Captal to Ward me as so many persons have been Warded against their magic. I wish to renounce my Mageborn powers. I wish to be an Ambrai again, and live in peace in the city of my birth.”

  As Glenin concluded her speech, Vellerin Dombur drew in a long breath that threatened the seams of her white gown. “This brings us to the question of the other Ambrai here present. Lady Sarra, as a Mageborn—”

  She got no further. The successive revelations and shocks had gripped them by the throat, and before anything new could be considered the fist must loosen so they could breathe. With one loud cry the four hundred expelled their astonishment—not at Sarra’s true identity, not at Glenin’s offer of renunciation, but at the simpler and more comprehensible information that Sarra was Mageborn. A Councillor, sitting in the highest seat her Shir and her world could bestow, she was Mageborn.

  She had lied for twenty years.

  She knew it would never occur to them that she had never used magic. Had the Mage Captal been here to swear to it, they would not believe that she knew nothing of how to use magic. They saw a Mageborn who was a Councillor—a position even more powerful than Auvry Feiran had aspired to in Ambraishir—against all tradition and custom and an edict older than The Waste War.

  “This is madness!” shouted Granon Isidir, springing to his feet. “If she were Mageborn, why hasn’t she used her magic to reorganize the whole world to her liking? Better still, to rid Lenfell of vermin like you?”

  Now that their throats were freed, they could gasp at this outrageous insult—bad enough from a woman, intolerable from a man. Proof of fracturing social order, proof of growing disrespect for age-old traditions.

  “Not Mageborn?” Her honor having been defended by the reaction of her audience, Vellerin Dombur seized on his denial. “Not Mageborn? With a sire and a sister two of the most powerful Mageborns who ever lived? She is Mageborn, and I’ll prove it! She’s Warded this Hall herself tonight—have you seen a door open or a servant enter since I asked who her father was? Go on, try to leave!” she flung at Isidir. “Try!”

  Granon Isidir strode to the door opposite the head table. He reached for the gilt handle and could not touch it. He tried to take a step closer to the door and could not. He turned, and the convulsion of anguished betrayal on his face when he looked at Sarra cracked her heart open a little wider. I cared for you! his eyes cried out. I’ve mourned my whole life that Collan was yours and I was not—

  Mikel was on his feet, with nothing and no one to stop him. He circled the tables, went to the door Granon had been unable to open—and turned the gilt handle, and opened the door, and swung around to stand beneath the lintel staring at Glenin.

  “There are Wards here—but not hers,” he said, biting off the words. “My Lady Mother could no more Work a Warding than she could fly!”

  Glenin shrugged. “You’re her son. Family can pass through Wards set by family.”

  He accepted it then. Sarra saw it in his face. “Family.” Grandson of the Butcher of Ambrai, nephew of the Warden of the Loom.

  Taigan did not accept it. But she would, very soon.

  Vasha Maklyn stood, angry and disbelieving but in full control of her temper. “I’ve heard a lot of conjecture and innuendo based on things those of us not Mageborn can’t claim to understand. What I want is proof Can you offer that, Vellerin? Or you, Lady of Malerris?”

  “Have you heard her deny it?” demanded Dombur.

  “Proof?” Glenin walked slowly around the long tables, taking all attention with her. “My sister’s birth was a joyous occasion in Ambrai, a great relief that child and mother were safe. My mother hadn’t been well throughout her pregnancy, and was attended during labor by six Healer Mages. I wasn’t yet four years old, and I remember how frightened I was, that long day and longer night at the beginning of First Flowers.”

  She was now at the bottom of the horseshoe, where Mikel and Granon Isidir still stood, both of them tense with loathing. She smiled at Mikel as she neared him. He took an involuntary step back from her when she passed.

  “My sister’s Naming was attended by a hundred times as many people as attended her birth. All commented upon a certain mark on her body—a tiny, round, rose-colored birthmark.”

  She stood in front of Sarra now, looking down on her as she’d done in their childhood: the all-knowing, all-wise, all-powerful, adored elder sister, who’d vanished one day with their father never to return. But the fond smile was malicious now, the gray-green eyes alive not with affection but with triumph.

  “We shared a room as children,” Glenin said. “When you were very little, I used to dress you, like a doll—you were so lovely, Sarra, and have become more beautiful still. But the birthmark remains.”

  She jerked back from Glenin’s reaching hands. But not fast or far enough. Glenin leaned across the table, oversetting a wine glass with one elbow, and tore open the collar of the bronze velvet gown. Black buttons went flying. Glenin stood back with a sweeping gesture.

  Sarra sat absolutely still, breasts half-exposed, the birthmark clearly visible. Someone gasped. She could feel the women’s shock at what Glenin had done competing with the men’s admiration that no stricture of manners could stifle. She felt their eyes like spiders on her flesh.

  “Sarra, my sister, daughter of Maichen Ambrai and Auvry Feiran.” Glenin looked at her again, and her smile wavered for a moment. Swiftly she reached again and yanked the crystal sphere from Sarra’s neck. The chain resisted, broke, leaving a red welt at her nape.

  Three things happened then. Mikel was there, wrapping around her his sleeved blue longvest, raw linen scratching at her exposed skin. Taigan shifted her stance at Sarra’s side, and Glenin, the tiny Globe clenched in her palm, suddenly gave a blurt of pain and dropped it shattering onto the malachite floor.

  “Taigan!” Sarra cried. “No!”

  “She deserves—”

  “Not by your magic! Taigan, please!”

  The girl trembled and looked down into Sarra’s eyes. She was so beautiful in her flowered blue gown, so grown-up—but her face was the face of a bewildered child. Sarra held her gaze, silently imploring where once she would have commanded. Taigan did grow up then, suddenly and completely. The last of the little girl was gone. She shuddered and sank into her chair, utterly defeated. She believed now. She had no choice but to believe.

  There was a crimson mark in the center of Glenin’s palm—a burn not of fire but of ice. She stared at it, then at Taigan. A slow smile began on her face. She held her hand up for all to see the mark. “Magic. From a Mage Globe she’s worn for who knows how many years—used this time by her Mageborn First Daughter.” She paused, then concluded in a ringing voice, “Given her by her Mageborn sister—our sister—the Captal!”

  This was too much. Whatever had held them before, and eased its grip just enough for throats to fill with air, now strangled them. The silence deafened.

  “Why did Maichen Ambrai abandon the city of her birth long before its destruction? Because she was again pregnant and wanted no one to know—especially not the father. She left in secret—so desperate to be gone that she traveled by Ladder, endangering the child in her womb, who was certainly Mageborn, for Ladders can be perilous to the unborn. Where did she go? To Ostinhold, where she died giving birth. But that third daughter lived. And just as Sarra took the name Liwellan and was fostered by Lady Agatine Slegin, Cailet took the Name Rille and was fostered by Lady Lilen Ostin. But their true Name is Ambrai, and they are my sisters, daughters of Auvry Feiran—”

  “A Malerrisi!” Granon Isidir managed, his last try at denial. “Just as he taught you to be!”

&
nbsp; “I have never concealed who and what I am. I have never lied to the Council, the Assembly, the people of Lenfell—or to the Mage Guardians. I am Glenin Ambrai, Mageborn of Maichen Ambrai and Auvry Feiran, trained in the Malerrisi Tradition.” She pointed one long finger at Sarra. “She is Sarra Ambrai, Mageborn of the same parents. And the woman you know as Cailet Rille is Cailet Ambrai, Mageborn like her two sisters, Mage Captal for twenty years. I have not lied.”

  The last hope had faded from Taigan’s voice as she whispered, “Mother—is it true?”

  Mikel answered her. “Yes. It’s all true.”

  True. Sarra accepted it all at last. The Mage who had been her father and the Malerrisi who had become the Butcher of Ambrai were one and the same. And she knew, almost impersonally, that her failure to accept that truth in the past had cost her the future.

  Why hadn’t she and Cailet seen this coming? Whatever they had thought Glenin might do or say, this had never even occurred to them. Thirty-eight years of trusting to Wards set by Gorynel Desse had made them complacent. Fatally so.

  Vellerin Dombur—who had taken a little more time to recover from this new shock, for which Glenin had obviously not prepared her—spoke once more. “Who speaks to contradict these facts? Not Sarra Ambrai—she says nothing. Not her children, who have shown themselves as stunned by these revelations as the rest of us. She even lied to them! And not her devoted husband. A man married to a Mageborn Ambrai, who begot more Mageborn Ambrais—is Collan Rosvenir even aware of their true ancestry?”

  Collan, she whimpered inside. Oh, Minstrel, forgive me— What she had seen in Granon’s eyes would be a million times worse when seen in Collan’s.

  “Considering all these newly revealed facts,” Dombur went on harshly, “I think you will understand why all my conversations with the Council these last weeks are now suspect. I am wary even of remaining on Ryka while she is among you—Councillor for Sheve, Mageborn of Auvry Feiran, sister to the Lady of Malerris and the Mage Captal!”

  Vasha Maklyn thumped her fist on the table. Dishes and goblets rattled. “A birthmark and some unsubstantiated allegations! Again I demand, present your proof!”

  “And again I ask, have you heard her deny it?”

  The silence drew out, thin and taut as a string tuned to the breaking point. Sarra said nothing. There was nothing she could say.

  “And what will they do to us now that their secret is common knowledge? What other secrets are they hiding?”

  Her cousin Senasta called out, “Please, Vellerin! Don’t let this spoil everything we could accomplish! You must know that most of the Council is sincere—that we do not share the private ambitions of these Ambrais!”

  “How is anyone to know how much policy is the work of Sarra and Cailet Ambrai?”

  Vasha yelled, “And how much of yours can be traced to Glenin Feiran?”

  She was shouted down. Senasta glared at her and said to Vellerin, “Any of us would be willing to accompany you to a place of your own choosing, to continue our discussions—”

  “While the rest of you come under their spell again?” was the scornful reply.

  “Take them!” someone shouted.

  “Out of the question!” Vasha exclaimed, but her rebuke was drowned in the chorus of approval.

  “Take them all!”

  “Feiran’s get—Mageborn traitors—”

  “How do we know Mage Hall wasn’t destroyed on the Captal’s own order?”

  “The way Malerris Castle seemed to be destroyed! What trick is this?”

  “Has anyone even seen Mage Hall?”

  “Twenty years of lies—”

  “Take them!”

  Sarra’s frozen facade finally shattered. Her children’s future was lost. They should have been Mage Guardians, working in defense of all Lenfell; they should have been honored, respected, revered. Instead—

  Vellerin Dombur was allowing herself to be persuaded, her sapphire eyes half-hooded by her painted lids to hide sparkling triumph. “Very well. As a sign of good faith—”

  There was a coldness at Sarra’s side where Mikel had been. She leaned forward, fingers tangling in the green tablecloth, darkly wet where spilled wine soaked it. Her lips soundlessly formed her son’s name as he strode around the tables to the center of the Malachite Hall.

  “You?” Vellerin Dombur smiled.

  “Yes,” Mikel said quietly. “I’m not even half a Mage Guardian yet, but I am my mother’s son and the Captal’s nephew. And,” he finished proudly, “an Ambrai.”

  “Mikel!” Taigan called out. “If you go, I go too!”

  “No!” Sarra cried. “I forbid this! You’re the last—”

  “The last what?” shouted Senasta Dombur. “The last Ambrais, the last hope for domination over Ambraishir and the Council and the Assembly and the Mage Guardians—over all Lenfell! We need Sarra Ambrai and Cailet Ambrai here in order to discover their plans. Yes, take the boy, Vellerin. Lady Glenin will see to it that he behaves himself.”

  Sarra saw disappointment in Glenin’s eyes, swiftly masked. It was Taigan she wanted—and Sarra knew why.

  “As you wish.” Vellerin gestured, and two tall, muscular young men with the sapphire Dombur eyes left their places at table to approach Mikel.

  He lifted one hand. “No. I’ve given my word. I won’t be led away like a criminal.”

  “The word of an Ambrai!” came a derisive shout.

  “Yes,” Mikel replied, but his arrogance was nothing of Ambrai and all of Collan Rosvenir.

  “He’s yours, Vellerin—and welcome to him,” said Councillor Dombur.

  The would-be Grand Duchess nodded to four hundred astonished faces in the Malachite Hall and nudged her equally startled husband in the ribs. He followed her to the door near which Granon Isidir still stood. There she turned her head, looking over her shoulder at Sarra.

  Sarra looked up at Glenin. Who gave a tiny shrug and a tinier smile, joined the Domburs and Mikel, and walked through the open door. Family. Vellerin prodded her husband forward, and warily he took a step, then confidently joined Glenin on the other side of the threshold.

  “Thank you,” Vellerin said with sweet sarcasm to Sarra, “for canceling your Wards.”

  And they were gone.

  “Sarra Ambrai,” intoned Senasta Dombur, “you and your First Daughter will proceed under guard to your chambers, and wait there at the Council’s pleasure until we decide what to do with you.”

  Agony resolved itself into simple hatred. Sarra rose to her feet, pulling Mikel’s longvest around her, and glared at her fellow Councillor. When she spoke at last, all the carefully learned casualness of Roseguard vanished in long, liquid vowels and clipped consonants. The haughty, unmistakable accent of Ambrai. The accent of her childhood.

  “And what do you propose to do with us?” Her voice rang through the Hall like a temple bell on a winter night. “Imprisonment? Execution? Do you really think you could pronounce either on a Mageborn Ambrai—and enforce it?”

  “Take her away!”

  Granon Isidir came forward. “I will act as escort,” he said, and there was that in his tone that dared anyone to object. No one dared.

  As he took her and Taigan out of the Malachite Hall, Sarra tried not to see the grief and broken faith in his eyes. She was so horribly afraid she would soon see the same in Collan’s.

  17

  “SO. You didn’t know your ancestry,” said his aunt. “I trust you’re suitably impressed.”

  Mikel shrugged. They’d taken him to Vellerin Dombur’s huge suite, put him in an antechamber between bedrooms, and left him alone with Glenin. Both of them had Warded themselves six ways to the Wraithenwood.

  “You spoke bravely enough back in the Malachite Hall. What’s happened to your voice? It’s considered civilized to make conversation.”

  “Conversation is correct in polite company.”

 
“So much for the elegant manners of an Ambrai.”

  “‘Manners’? After what you did to my mother, in front of all those people—?”

  “I assume you mean the birthmark. Histrionic, I agree, but I had three excellent reasons.”

  “First and foremost, to humiliate my mother.”

  “Of course.” She shrugged. “Besides, there’s no surer way of infuriating middle-aged women than seeing someone your mother’s age with such pretty breasts. And no better way of catching men’s attention than by showing them those breasts.”

  “My father will kill you for it,” Mikel observed quietly.

  “He would if he could, I’m sure. You know, Mikel, I think we’ll have an interesting time of it while I decided whether to kill you or keep you alive to breed more Mageborns.”

  Mikel smiled. “Why do you think I offered myself?”

  “Before your sister could?” Glenin laughed. “Do you sincerely believe I won’t end up with her as well? But you present the greater challenge. Drug you, and you’re incapable. Keep your head clear, and you’ll resist. I might be able to spell you into it, but—”

  “—but family can walk through each other’s Wards, so I could probably counter your other magic as well. Yes, I’d say I’m definitely a problem,” he finished with more complacence than he felt.

  “Ah, but your sister. . . .” Glenin smiled. “Restrained by drugs or magic or rope around her wrists and ankles, all she has to do is lie there.”

  Taigan. Raped.

  He resolved then and there to kill Glenin himself.

  Vellerin Dombur invaded the tiny room, red-cheeked and huffing. “Ambrais! All of them! Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t necessary for you to know,” Glenin responded.