by Melanie Rawn
“I’m not precisely certain, but Falundir told me as much as he could with that song about Shen Escovor—‘The Fourth Lord,’ I think it’s called. When the Malerrisi seized him to execute him, he was kneeling beside his hearth, burning his letters from Captal Caitirin Bekke.”
Yes, Dellian would have been conscientious about that—she’d get rid of all Sarra’s most personal records before seeing to her own safety.
“I’ve written to her mother,” Lilen added softly.
“Thank you. I’ll do the same tomorrow.”
“You can’t, my dearest. You can’t. No one must know you’re still alive.”
Sarra’s nails cut into her palms. “I’d be better dead. Dead and burned, with Collan—” And then she choked, because she didn’t even know if Glenin had given his body honorable burning.
“You forget I am twice a widow,” Lilen said stiffly. “Don’t expect to get over him. But don’t desecrate the living you did together by hating the living you have left to do.” Then, because a group of people had drifted within hearing range, she said brightly, “I’m told that delicious young man over there was born in my very own house in Longriding.”
Sarra bit back a bad-tempered reply and lifted one hand, and Joss excused himself to Riddon and came to where the ladies stood by the sink. With scant grace, Sarra said, “Lady Lilen Ostin, Josselin Mikleine.”
Joss’s smile could have lit Scraller’s Fief from cellar to roof. Bowing profoundly to the old woman, he said, “Lady, forgive the presumption, but in the last two days I’ve come to realize I had three mothers—and one of them was you.”
“No presumption at all,” Lilen told him. “You and I must talk about Sela—she was a lovely girl and I wish I’d known her better. But who is your third mother?”
He turned to Sarra. “This Lady here—who sent me to Mage Hall.”
“Mother!” said Miram, approaching with a frown. “Cai’s being stubborn again. Come talk some sense into her about supplies, won’t you? I’m not making any progress.”
Lilen sighed and excused herself, leaving Sarra and Josselin by themselves.
“I would have thought Cailet would be your third mother,” she said.
His gaze flashed to Cailet and back again. “No,” he said. “Not at all.”
Sarra felt her jaw drop, just a little, and in one of her least diplomatic speeches said, “Why, you’re in love with her!”
“That would be pretty stupid, wouldn’t it?” Joss snapped. An instant later he bit both lips between his teeth and shook his head. “Forgive me, Lady, that was unconscionably rude. I’m sorry.”
Sarra’s brows arched. “I’m not,” she said.
6
CAILET, muscles aching with unaccustomed housework—there was plenty to be done and Sarra had spared her not at all today—and head buzzing a little with wine, slipped away from the Birthingday celebrations to explore a bit. Cartloads of dirt, debris, and nestings would have to be removed and the whole place scoured before the stale smells faded, but aromas of fresh bread and spicy stew and woodsmoke banished mustiness all the way up to the third floor.
She paused on a landing, her candle flickering in a breeze through broken windows, as laughter echoed up from the kitchen. Laughter and vigorous new life was just what this decaying old corpse of a keep needed.
A light burning from inside a doorway attracted her, and investigation showed her why Mikel and Joss and vanished for so long this evening, and what they’d been up to. Soon enough everyone would have private rooms—though real beds and other furniture would take more time. Lilen had told her that she was thinking of redoing some of Ostinhold, the obvious implication being that in ordering new furnishings she could give Cailet the old and no one would be the wiser. Cailet nodded blandly, determined to pay for the cast-offs. Somehow.
She climbed further, wandered down corridors, was startled by scurrying, scuttling noises that greeted the light of her candle. From a closet on the fifth floor, a baby bat whined impatiently for its mother to come home with dinner. Sorry, little one, Cailet thought. You and everybody else currently in residence are about to be evicted.
On the sixth floor another fat candle burning in a wide dish led her to another suite, one she knew was meant for her: the fur-lined cloak was draped on the alcove-shelf bed. It was thoughtful of Mikel and Joss to arrange her comfort. The room lacked only a desk, a chair, and hooks to hang clothes on. Although there’d unquestionably be quite a bit more by the time Lilen and Sarra were through.
Just down the hall was a door leading to a balcony. Cailet stepped outside into the night, found a stone bench, brushed it off, blew out her candle, and sat down to watch the bleak starlit landscape below. The Ladymoon and her small companion had set, leaving the sky a dazzle of stars in the darkness. A Saint’s Spark flew from west to east in a stream of silver light, vanishing behind a ridge of mountains. Wind ruffled Cailet’s hair and after a time she was surprised to feel it drying tears on her cheeks. She hadn’t known she was crying.
How had it come back to The Waste? This harsh, unforgiving land that had nonetheless sheltered Maichen and Sarra, the place where Cailet had been born and her mother had died, where Gorynel Desse had posed as Rinnel Solingirt—the mad old man of Crackwall Canyon—and waited for Cailet to grow up.
None of the people she’d brought with her today, and few of those who would come over the next weeks, had any idea of how to live here. But if anything were true, it was this: people were infinitely adaptable. Hadn’t the ancestors of everyone now living somehow survived The Waste War, adapted to its hideous aftermath, adjusted to new social and environmental conditions, and eventually thrived?
The Mage Guardians would do no less. There would be those who could not accept this place, Cailet knew. She’d give all the help she could, but in the end it would be their choice. She would make the transition as easy as possible, but she could not smoothe everyone’s way, comfort all hurts, provide solace for everything lost. Those who could adapt, would. Those who could not—or would not—must not be allowed to hinder the rest.
And wasn’t that just what the Malerrisi proposed to do? How could she even dunk such a thing, after seeing Piera Alvassy again, hearing her scream at the invasion of strangers again, not forty hours ago?
She fought with it, as they had fought after The Waste War: survival of the many against the needs and troubles of the few. Those who could survive, would. The strong would always adapt, change, adjust—if not themselves, then the world around them. But did they not have a responsibility to help those who could not do the same?
The glow of another candle behind her frayed the star-thrown shadows, and a soft footstep made her head turn. “Sarra. I thought you’d be up here soon.”
“I can see right through you, little sister.” Seating herself on the bench, she adjusted Lady Jeymian’s shawl about her shoulders and blew the candle out. “Anyone could see how you maneuvered me into this, giving me so much to do that I wouldn’t have time to think.”
“Did I do that?”
She snorted. “Sweet innocence!”
They were quiet for a time, looking out at the stars.
“I’m ashamed of myself,” Sarra said at last. “Forgetting their Birthingday.”
“Everyone did—including them.”
“This isn’t what I had in mind.”
“No.”
“Not just tonight. This.” She swept a hand out to indicate The Waste. “It’s not what they ought to have had.”
“You keep saying that—first about me, now about them.”
“It’s different now. There’ll be prices on all our heads, you know.”
“What did our parents plan for us, Sarra? Do you ever wonder?”
“You would’ve been Captal. Your gifts are too powerful for you to have become anything else. As for me—”
“Politics.”
“Maybe. Bu
t that’s lost to me now. So—” She drew in a long breath. “Will you take me on as a Prentice, Captal?”
“Gladly.” Cailet took her sister’s hand between her own.
Sarra nodded. It was proposed and accepted; they would speak of it more fully later. For now, she asked, “What do you think Glenin planned for Jored? Although I suppose that matters less now than what he plans to do next.”
“I’m sure we’ll find out.”
“If only Taigan—”
“She’ll need soft handling,” Cailet mused. “But she won’t permit it.”
“I just wish—” Sarra bit her lip and turned her face away.
“Collan?” Cailet said softly. “I know. I wish, too. But could you see him confined to this rock, his wings clipped?”
Sarra shook her head. “No.”
“I worry that way about you, too, you know.”
“I have my children. And soon, my magic.” She paused. “And you? What do you have?”
“What I need.”
“Do you?” Sarra wore a small, secretive smile. “Sister dear, do you even know what you truly need? Would you know it if it stood in front of you?”
All at once they both sat up straighten voices were singing downstairs, audible even up here, with Mikel’s strong tenor leading.
I know of a garden not far from a river,
A temple of roses, gold sun, and green shade,
Where dawn diamonds misted the grass of a morning,
And evening’s soft breeze laced a shadowy glade.
Sarra murmured, “That’s the old version of ‘The Long Sun.’”
The one about Ambrai; that one that had so enraged Anniyas. “Was Ambrai truly like that?” Cailet asked.
“For me, as a child—I suppose so. But I was only a child, Caisha.” Rising, she patted the pockets of her shortvest, feeling for her matchbox. Cailet obliged her by lighting both their candles with a flicker of magic. Sarra made a face at her. “Braggart.”
“You’re just irked because you can’t do it yet. But you’ll learn how soon enough.” She smiled. “Just think, Sasha—no more cold coffee ever again!”
“What magnificent compensation for all this,” was the tart reply, with another sweeping gesture at The Waste.
“Speaking of cold, it’s freezing up here.” Cailet stood and stretched, marking the fall of another Saint’s Spark across the sky. Scraller’s Fief was too far south, but she couldn’t help wishing that one glimmer of iridescence, just one, might drift down from the Wraithen Mountains one night . . . surely it would be accompanied by the clear, sweet notes of a lute. . . .
“It’s colder anyway,” Sarra said suddenly. “I’ve noticed that, since Collan died. It’s so much colder.” Her eyes squeezing shut against tears, she whispered, “And the music is gone.”
Cailet didn’t say that the music was still there in Collan’s son. It would be a very long time before Sarra heard it.
Circling her sister’s shoulders with one arm, Cailet murmured, “Come inside, Sasha.”
And together they went into their only sanctuary.
SELECTIVE GENEALOGY
INDEX OF SAINTS
Agvir The Silent. Patron of trees, foresters, carpenters. Sigil: single leaf.
Alilen The Seeker. Patron of birds, singers, crazy people. Sigil: feather.
Alliz The Watchful. Patron of mothers of twins. Sigil: Two cradles.
Avingery Lacemaker. Patron of lacemakers. Sigil: spools and pins.
Bleisios The Curly. Patron of wool-combers. Sigil: comb.
Caitiri The Fiery-eyed. Patron of fire, forge, ironcrafters. Sigil: flameflower.
Chevasto The Weaver. Patron of spinners, weavers, basketmakers, Malerrisi. Sigil: loom.
Colynna Silverstring. Patron of the lute. Sigil: coiled strings.
Dantian Circle-spinner. Patron of potters, spinners, wheelwrights. Sigil: wheel.
Deiket Snowhair. Patron of mountains, scholars, teachers. Sigil: book.
Delilah The Dancer. Patron of sword, soldiers, dancers, tailors, athletes. Sigils: crossed swords, crossed needles.
Elinar Longsight. Patron of fortune tellers. Sigil: owl.
Eskanto Cut-thumb. Patron of bookbinders. Sigil: scattered pages.
Falinsen Crystal-hand. Patron of glasscrafters. Sigil: bottle.
Feleris The Healer. Patron of medicine, physicians, apothecaries, perfumiers, beekeepers. Sigils: mortar and pestle; herbal wreath; beehive.
Fielto The Finder. Patron of the Chase, archers, hunters, lost items. Sigil: crossed arrows.
Flerna The Weary. Patron of accountants. Sigil: abacus.
Garony The Righteous. Patron of lawyers, prisoners. Sigil: gavel.
Gelenis First Daughter. Patron of pregnant women, childbirth, First Daughters. Sigil: carved chair.
Geridon The Stallion. Patron of fathers, horses, domestic animals. Sigil: horseshoes.
Gorynel The Compassionate. Patron of grief, widows, cripples, judges, printers. Sigil: thorn tree.
Ilsevet Waterborn. Patron of fish and fisherfolk. Sigil: crossed hooks.
Imili The Joyous. Patron of joy, newlyweds, new mothers, old lovers. Sigil: flower basket.
Jenavira Rememberer. Patron of memory. Sigil: open book.
Jeymian Gentlehand. Patron of wild animals. Sigil: open hand.
Jeyrom Bookcounter. Patron of librarians. Sigil: lion.
Jiorto Silverhelm. Patron of armorers. Sigil: helmet.
Joselet Green-eyes. Patron of gardeners. Sigil: shovel and hoe.
Kembial The Veiled. Patron of fugitives. Sigil: veil.
Kiy The Forgetful. Patron of wine, vintners, toothaches, lawyers. Sigil: spilled cup.
Lirance Cloudchaser. Patron of wind. Sigil: tower.
Lusine and Lusir The Twins. Patron of innocents, children, shepherds. Sigils: bow (Lusine); shepherd’s crook (Lusir).
Maidil The Betrayer. Patron of new lovers, fools, unfaithful husbands. Sigil: mask.
Maurget Quickfingers. Patron of jewelers, gemcutters, artists, beggars, tax collectors, politicians. Sigil: quill pen and purse.
Mikellan Startoucher. Patron of Mage Guardians. Sigil: ladder.
Miramili The Summoner. Patron of bells, weddings. Sigil: Miramili’s Bells.
Miryenne The Guardian. Patron of light, candles, magic, Mage Guardians. Sigil: lighted candle.
Mittru Bluehair. Patron of rivers. Sigil: sheaf of reeds.
Nialos The Bargainer. Patron of merchants. Sigil: Raised first finger.
Niya The Seamstress. Patron of tailors. Sigil: scissors.
Oseth Hammerer. Patron of carpenters. Sigil: nails.
Pierga Cleverhand. Patron of thieves, condemned prisoners, divorced husbands. Sigil: broken lock.
Rilla The Guide. Patron of travelers, coachmen, the blind, Mage Guardians. Sigil: white sparrow.
Shonne Dreamdealer. Patron of shrines and pilgrims. Sigil: triangle.
Sirrala The Virgin. Patron of flowers, gemstones, virgin girls. Sigil: flower crown.
Sollian The Generous. Patron of innkeepers. Sigil: ale tankard.
Steen Swordsworn. Patron of male warriors. Sigil: leather gauntlet.
Tamas The Mapmaker. Patron of sailors. Sigils: anchor and rope; sextant.
Telomar The Patient. Patron of stonemasons and miners. Sigil: hammer and chisel.
Tirreiz The Canny. Patron of merchants, money, bankers. Sigil: coins.
Tomanis The Barefoot. Patron of widows. Sigil: lily.
Velenne The Bard. Patron of music, Bards, actors, poets. Sigil: lute.
Velireon The Provider. Patron of kitchen, cooks, tinkers, farmers. Sigils: wheatsheaf; crossed spoons.
Venkelos The Judge. Patron of death and dying, the Wraithenday. Sigil: empty circle.
Viranka The Gray-eyed. Patron of rain, water. Sigil: well.
AUTHOR’S
NOTE
Humble apologies to the Wraith of Guiseppe Verdi for mangling his magnificent Rigoletto.
While I’m on the subject, a word about music. There are a hundred songs I’d love to include (in forms altered by time, space, and societal needs, as with the opera), but whereas by the time these novels take place the lyrics will be in public domain, I’m writing in the 1990s and there’s a pesky thing called “copyright” to be considered. So please assume that Collan’s repertoire includes versions of your own favorite songs, the ones you just know will be sung wherever our species may wander; it’s just that nothing pertinent to the story occurs on the occasions when he happens to sing them!
Thanks as ever go to Russell Galen and Danny Baror; Michael Whelan and Audrey Price-Whelan; Sheila Gilbert and Betsy Wollheim; Jennifer Roberson and Alis Rasmussen.
Perpetual gratitude to Nora and Joanne, my friends since Noble Avenue Elementary School (more years ago than any of us will admit). This one’s for you.
Finally, a wink to all the friends (and friends’ characters!) whose names I garbled into cities, geographical features, and “Saints”—not that any of them qualifies. John Donne notwithstanding, one of my professors at Scripps told me he likes being an island. . . .