by Melanie Rawn
But those last few dinners at the bronzewood table had been tense: nobody talking, nobody eating, the adults drinking too much, Tama Alvassy and her family refusing to join them, Glenin and Sarra hardly daring to breathe. . . .
To Glenin’s horror, the candlelight suddenly shimmered and tears rolled wet and cold down her cheeks.
“Glenin!”
Her father rose from his chair and swept her up in his arms. She cried and cried, utterly humiliated. When at last she was spent, she found herself in his lap, snuggled into the big overstuffed chair in their suite’s library. He stroked her hair with his large, strong hands, occasionally lifting the spill of dark gold to the last rays of sunlight through the windows.
“You’re going to be so lovely,” he murmured. “I saw it the minute you were born. Other babies are wrinkled and red and rather ugly, but you were perfect. I remember the very first time you looked at me. All big eyes and tiny hands—oh, you claimed me with a single look. You were always my daughter more than your mother’s. I couldn’t leave you behind. Do you understand, Glensha?”
She drew away slightly, knuckling her eyes, and nodded. “It’s just—I miss home. A little.”
“So do I.” His smile was sad. “Can you tell me what happened today?”
She did, and his handsome face settled into stern lines. The furrows across his forehead deepened as heavy brows knotted, and the generous curves of his mouth thinned. She knew that some people in Ambrai were frightened of her father; watching his face now, she knew why. But he was never angry with her.
“Glenin,” he said at length, “it’s time I told you why we had to leave. I should have explained sooner, but I thought you were too young and wouldn’t understand. I see now I was wrong.”
“I can understand, Father. I promise.”
“I know.” He settled her more comfortably on his knee. “There are two things you must remember always. You are a Lady of Blood, a First Daughter. Anyone important enough to bother about will know. The others don’t matter. Ignore them.” When Glenin nodded agreement, he went on, “The second is a thing you must never speak of. You’re Mageborn, Glensha. There’s magic in you. And this you get from me.”
“Magic—?” Her emotions swung wildly: surprise, pleasure, pride, puzzlement.
“Oh, yes. In a few years you’ll begin to feel it for yourself.”
“Wh-what’s it like?”
“Nothing like the way it was for me. A restlessness, a pressure building inside that hurt like a Saint’s curse, until. . . .” His eyes lost focus.
“Until what, Father?”
“Until a Mage Guardian found me. While I was a Prentice Mage, he taught me how to use magic, how to take what was burning inside me and do wonderful things with it. But it won’t hurt you the way it did me. We know what you are, Glensha, and when it begins for you, we’ll be ready.”
“But why can’t I tell anyone?”
Auvry Feiran’s fine eyes clouded with sadness. “Because terrible times are coming. There are those who’ll want to harm you for being Mageborn. All who use magic will be shunned and despised. It will be very difficult and dangerous, so you must never tell anyone what you inherited from me. Not from your mother,” he added fiercely. “From me.”
She clung to his hand. “They’ll hurt you, too! They’ll—”
“Shh, don’t worry. No one will harm me. Not here, not in Ryka Court where I’m Commandant of the Council Guard. Mageborns will have their uses in the times to come—and I had the luxury of choosing to what use I’d be put. But you’d be in danger if they knew about you, Glensha. I’ll tell you why if you promise that this, too, will remain a secret.”
Glenin nodded again, wide-eyed.
“Good. You know that we count the years from the establishment of the Council of Lenfell. Whatever existed before was wiped out by a war between the Mage Guardians and the Lords of Malerris.”
“That’s when The Waste happened,” Glenin said. “Wraithenbeasts appeared then, too. I learned about it in school back home—” She corrected herself quickly. “—back in Ambrai.”
He seemed not to notice the slip. “The Waste War unleashed horrible magic. Millions died. The Waste was the final battlefield, and after that battle something happened to the air and water. Sickness spread across Lenfell, as if lingering battle-magic took out its anger on everyone, even innocent children. Evil magic,” he said quietly. “Babies were born without sight, without hearing, without limbs. Some seemed healthy, even grew to adulthood—before dying of terrible sickness.” He paused. “And other children were born with Wild Magic.”
“If Mageborns did that. . . .” She shivered. “I’m not sure I want to be one.”
“It was a hideous accident, Glenin. Magic itself isn’t evil, even though some of its uses are. The Guardians and Lords tried to destroy each other, and the magic they used was too powerful for them to control.”
Glenin thought this over. “Papa? Why wasn’t magic outlawed back then, and the Mageborns killed like the Fifths?”
“I’ve often wondered the same thing. But it turned out they were needed—”
“The Wraithenbeasts,” she whispered.
“Yes. But before that, the Bloods and Tiers were established. What do they teach you in school about that?”
“After five Generations, some families were certified worthy,” she recited. “But I always thought that meant they were powerful at court, or really rich, or had lots of friends or something.”
“What it meant,” he said grimly, “was that families that showed no defects for five Generations were judged clean of taint. The cleanest—the Bloods—gained land and riches by selling their sons in marriage to the Tiers, and sometimes allowed their younger daughters to be bought the same way. The price was ruinous, but worth it to have the next Generation bear a Blood Name.”
The Tiers, he explained, had been established according to the number of defects per hundred births in that fifth, bench-mark Generation. Any family with more than four was forbidden to reproduce itself.
“But of course they did, and fostered the babies with sympathetic friends of higher Tiers. No Fifth was killed outright, but within a few Generations all were extinct, their Names forgotten. Some of them were very powerful before the Waste War and the Lost Age. But everything changed, Glenin. Everything.”
“It sounds very unfair,” Glenin ventured.
“Unfair, brutal—and desperate.” He shook his head. “It’s said they regretted their cruelty.”
“But if the evil magic had spread through the whole world. . . .”
“Yes. This must’ve seemed the kindest way. After all, they could have put the crippled children to death.” Drawing in a long breath, he finished, “In any case, that was all a very long time ago. Babies aren’t born deformed or diseased anymore. Actually, the worst I’ve ever heard of is shortsightedness in certain families.”
That explained Lenna Ellevit’s unattractive squint. Glenin nodded. “But if no one is born crippled anymore, why are there still Bloods and Tiers?”
“Consider it from a Blood’s point of view. If there were no Tiers, what would happen to the marriage value of daughters and sons? That’s why some Names try to convince the Council that they should be Blooded. And with every Name elevated, there’s one more group wanting the system intact.” He cleared his throat. “Truly told, Glensha, the First Councillor has offered this to me.”
It burst out of her before she could think. “Then I’d really be a First Daughter of a Blood again!”
Her father frowned. “You will always be that.”
“Yes, I know—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I understand, heartling. Ours is a proud Name, even though First Tier. I’m the only child of the last Feiran. And because you’ve taken my Name now instead of your mother’s, like me you’ll be scorned by the Bloods—just because all those Generations ago, one Fei
ran child of every hundred wasn’t born perfect.”
“It’s not fair!” Glenin exclaimed. But she was wondering feverishly what this had to do with being Mageborn and hiding it, and the terrible days her father said were coming.
“Your grandmother was dead set against your mother’s taking me to husband,” he went on bitterly. “Polluting the purity of the sacred Ambrai Blood—even though that name would be borne by our children and mine would vanish with me, as forgotten as the Fifth Tiers. She would know, she said—mighty Allynis Ambrai, whose Blood hadn’t mixed with a Tier’s in thirty Generations!”
Glenin squirmed slightly as his arms tightened around her. He gave a start as if he’d forgotten she was there. He smiled again, but it was a cramped, forced thing.
“You have my name, Glensha, because in the world I’m going to make for you, there’ll be no more Bloods or Tiers. No more unfairness, no more scorn. Only Mageborns taking their rightful places at the Great Loom.”
He laughed softly at her confusion. She hadn’t heard him laugh since long before leaving Ambrai. She wondered suddenly if the divorce had been due to his First Tier status, then rejected the notion. Mother wasn’t like that.
But Grandmother was.
“It’s too long a story to tell on an empty stomach,” he said, hugging her. “For now, I’ll tell you this: before you and I and others who believe as we do can be what we were meant to be, it will have to seem that all Mageborns are gone. Magic is too powerful and dangerous to be left to those who don’t understand its true purpose. Think of the world as a vast Loom, Glenin, and picture yourself as one of the weavers.”
“Because I have magic?”
“Because you have magic,” he affirmed. “Whatever your name, you’ll always be the First Daughter of Auvry Feiran.”
They went back to the table where the evening candle had burned low, and ate in companionable silence a dinner long since grown cold.
2
Magic woke in her just as he’d said it would. One blustery winter night in 955, a week after her first Wise Blood, her bedroom windows blew open. It was too cold to get up and close them; she huddled into the quilts, wishing the shutters would close and lock on their own. And they did—so securely that the next morning the servant couldn’t open them.
But Glenin could.
The delight of knowing her magic had begun compensated for not having the same womanhood celebration as other girls. She had no mother or aunt or grandmother to send out invitations ready since her twelfth Birthingday, or to present her to the assembled guests as a woman grown. There were no presents, no congratulatory notes, no tributes of hothouse blooms—though Elsvet Doyannis gave her a nosegay of wildflowers, the First Councillor sent gold earrings, and there were verbal acknowledgments from other girls in class.
Elsvet’s party during First Frost had been spectacular, as befitted her Name’s wealth. Avira Anniyas, unable to attend, sent a fine gift of matching silver bracelets. Two hundred and thirty guests dined and danced in a huge chamber festooned, torchlit, and awash in Doyannis blue and green. As it was near the Feast of St. Tirreiz the Canny, remembrance tokens for the guests honored the patron of merchants and bankers: large leather purses stamped with the Doyannis Ship sigil in gold, jingling with double eagle coins. Glenin considered this display of largesse vulgar, and donated the money to the Compassionate Fund for Orphans of Ambrai. That Auvry Feiran had four years earlier helped to create these orphans troubled her not at all, nor was she concerned by the current sorry state of their lives. As a contributor, she was entitled to a copy of the yearly report on what had been done with the money, and for whom. It made interesting reading.
Elsvet’s very public celebration was of her new womanhood (though she was none the wiser that Glenin could tell); Glenin’s very private one with her father was of her new magic. It didn’t even rankle that she could never share this more important event with anyone. She loved secrets, and cherished this one more than most.
Most people had two patron Saints. The one in whose week they were born watched over their lives, and the one for whom they were named influenced their characters. (No one was named for Kiy the Forgetful, though to be born in Harvest week omened well for a career in—or luck with—the law.) Some mothers sought extra favor by naming a child for the birth-week Saint. Unlucky persons were born during an Equinox or Solstice week, which had no Saints. Women had another Saint, the one in whose week their Wise Blood first flowed. A girl born during Velireon’s week, named for Delilah, who matured during the week of Alilen was protected by the Provider, the Dancer, and the Seeker all her life.
Glenin had been named for St. Gelenis. That her Wise Blood came during Weaver’s Moon was a sign of Chevasto’s special regard; she had been born on the Saint’s very day in 942. Not for her the riches omened in adulthood for Elsvet by St. Tirreiz the Canny, or the health that the Grenirian Blood hoped would come to their frail Velenna with St. Feleris the Healer’s patronage. With Gelenis First Daughter looking out for her interests and a double mark of favor from the Weaver, she would certainly take a prominent position at the Loom.
She understood much more now than when she first arrived at Ryka Court—five years ago this coming new year, though it seemed much longer. Her father took her into his confidence more and more, explaining Anniyas’s moves in Council as they advanced the weaving of the Loom. He gave her the rare and secret books his unnamed Mage Guardian teacher had given him long ago. Often she had to bite her lip to keep silent in class when the official Council version of events was discussed, for much of it was lies.
She knew, for instance, that although history ascribed equal blame to Mage Guardians and Lords of Malerris, the former were solely responsible for the Waste War. Glenin had read an account reporting the words of the Mage Captal himself, mourning what he and the Guardians had done.
May the people of Lenfell forgive us. We will never forgive ourselves the folly of believing that use of such power could end in anything but misery. The fault was ours, the atonement never enough. Our oath of service must apply not to ourselves from now on, but to those we so grievously betrayed.
Glenin’s reading did not tell her why magic had not been outlawed and all Mageborns killed outright. She eventually concluded that the Lost Age following The Waste War had been so terrible that only Mageborns could have held the tattered remnants of society together. And after the First Wraithenbeast Incursion . . . well, proof enough that those with power ought to be free to use the power that was their birthright.
It had been demonstrated to her early on that those with talent and wisdom were duty-bound to seek high position. It was Auvry Feiran’s ineligibility for important office that had, in fact, caused the divorce.
From 931 until his death in 948 at age fifty, Lady Allynis’s brother Telo had been Chancellor of Ambraishir. It was the only post in all Lenfell always held by a male: the father, uncle, brother, son, or husband of the ruling First Daughter. Thus it was expected that when Maichen Ambrai married, her husband would eventually take her uncle’s position. But she had chosen a Prentice Mage, and therein lay the difficulty.
Mage Guardians did not hold public office. This dictate was nearly as ancient and exactly as absolute as the imperative that the Captal must survive. Governments had to be protected from Mageborn control—and Mageborns from the control of governments. This rule was especially necessary in Ambraishir, location of the Academy. Some First Daughters and Captals had loathed each other; some (as was the case with Allynis Ambrai and Leninor Garvedian) were personal friends. But whether their interests overlapped or they worked against each other, every Ambrai First Daughter and every Mage Captal scrupulously avoided even the semblance of interference in the other’s jurisdiction.
Maichen Ambrai had chosen a husband her mother despised for his First Tier origins and for his failure to become a Listed Mage Guardian—but these things were incidental to his uselessness as a potential
Chancellor. When Telo Ambrai died unexpectedly, all of Lady Allynis’s rancor—softened somewhat by the birth of two fine granddaughters—was renewed. She needed a Chancellor, and Auvry Feiran was forbidden the office.
Her husband, Gerrin Ostin, had neither the training, the temperament, nor the inclination for public life. He was the perfect husband: adept at and content with making his Lady’s home, hearth, and happiness. He shuddered at the very notion of helping Allynis govern the whole Shir. And because she hadn’t married him with an eye to the Chancellorship, loved him exactly as he was, and treasured his talents that left her free to do her own work, she didn’t cause him chagrin by asking.
There was one other candidate: Gerrin Ostin’s namesake, Telo’s son by Gorynna Desse. As Allynis’s nephew, and husband to Tama Alvassy (Ambraishir’s other great Name), Gerrin Desse had excellent Blood connections. He had already shown political savvy by helping his father restructure the tax code, earning the respect of all three fractious regions: fishing coast, farming heartland, and wild mountains. But in 948 Gerrin Desse was barely twenty-two. He had a pair of very young children to care for. And his beloved uncle was Gorynel Desse: Warrior Mage, First Sword, and most powerful Mageborn in a dozen Generations.
In desperation, Lady Allynis sent an appeal to Jeymian Renne, whose husband Toliner Alvassy was Tama’s uncle. Toliner was Commissioner of Neele, so he had knowledge and experience. Ambrais and Alvassys had intermarried many times in Generations past, so he was more or less family. But in marrying the lovely and mysterious Jeymian Renne, whose Blood owned approximately half Brogdenguard, he had forsworn his allegiance to Ambraishir. Only divorce could return him legally to his home Shir. Lady Jeymian was willing to divorce him for appearances’ sake and live with him in Ambrai as if they were still married. But Toliner, happy in his marriage and his duties, categorically refused.