The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  “Calm yourself, my love. The boy is just fine. He and Val are having the time of their lives.”

  “They’re too young for the Rising, no matter what you say. And now Taig—praise be to St. Miryenne he’s not Mageborn!”

  “I shudder to think what he’d do with real magic as well as the legendary Ostin charm—which doesn’t fade, by the way. By Maidil’s Mask, you should’ve taken me to husband, Lilen.”

  “And have all my children turn out Mageborn, and be even more frightened than I am now? You men, you never understand.”

  “Well, probably not. As for our Cailet—is she old enough to go riding out alone and just happen to happen upon the Mad Old Man of Crackwall Canyon?”

  “The—? You mean he’s you?”

  “Second Rule of Magic. It would have been shockingly unsubtle simply to show up around here. I’ve been spreading rumors for—oh, going on five years now. And it’s been a strain, what with all the other demands on my limited time and considerable talents. Luckily, I’m as fit and clever at seventy-one as I was at forty-one.”

  “And as arrogant and braggardly!”

  “And you are as lovely at fifty as ever you were when first you stole my poor heart.”

  “Fifty-five, and your heart had nothing to do with it. I know you, Gorsha. So did Fler, which is why she married Niyan instead of you. And Jeymian, who had the sense to marry Toliner Alvassy. And that’s not to mention—”

  “Lilen! I beg you! This catalog of women who rejected me is too depressing for words!”

  “Tell me what we’re to do about Cailet.”

  “You already know. You’ve always known that one day Mage would call to Mage and Blood to Blood as it has with Sarra, and the safe days would be gone.”

  “I’ve always known it would break my heart. Must it be now, Gorsha? She’s so young. . . .”

  “But old enough to eavesdrop in perfect silence for the last ten minutes, and understand much of what’s said. Come in, Cailet.”

  6

  Some weeks later she rode out alone on her very own mare (a Birthingday present from Lilen) on an errand for Healer Irien. He gave her directions to a cottage snuggled into one of the many splits in the sides of Crackwall Canyon. Inside she found an old man she’d never met before, a hundred books, and the beginnings of her life’s work. Not that she knew it as such for several years—because the first thing Rinnel Solingirt did was make her build a wall.

  To be fair, the cottage—a generous term, considering its state of disrepair—really did need a retaining wall, if only to give the rose bush something to climb. The existence of this stubborn plant was astonishment enough to Cailet. That it was in constant bloom despite the multiple vicissitudes of The Waste led her to believe that Rinnel had talents more esoteric than brewing herbal remedies, carving jade, and telling stories.

  Sale of the carvings to a shop in Longriding kept Rinnel fed. He was expert at using the natural striations of color in the jade to enhance a pattern. The most beautiful of all the pieces she ever saw him make was a jagged black pendant with a relief of volcanoes spewing red-orange lava; the week she turned seventeen, he gave it to her. Mostly he strung etched beads into necklaces and carved earrings and finger rings. Most lucrative were his large pendants of St. Geridon’s double horseshoes favored by bower lads; most popular were the other, more modest, Saintly sigils.

  His herbal potions cured anything from snakebite to freckles. Healer Irien had, in fact, sent her for an ointment guaranteed to soothe acid-rain burns better than the remedy he’d been using. Although Cailet learned eventually the calming craft of carving jade, she had no interest in the Healing arts. Rinnel didn’t press knowledge on her, though often he wielded mortar and pestle or mixed powders while exercising his third major talent: telling stories.

  These utterly fascinated Cailet. He recited the Lives of the Saints with all the not-so-holy details other versions left out; the tale of Grand Duchess Veller Ganfallin; the deeds of various heroines and heroes; the histories of selected Mage Captals and First Lords of Malerris. He was a walking library, and when he ran out of stories for the day or Cailet was compelled to ride home for dinner, he shared with her his more conventional library of books.

  By Deiket Snowhair and Eskanto Cut-Thumb, the books! Rinnel deplored her appetite for improbable adventure stories (she had a weakness for dragons), but his collection included several examples of popular literature. He corrected her total ignorance of Bardic literature, and sneaked in a few classic romances (his own weakness). She read about persons real and imaginary, events that truly happened and events that never could, high-minded poetry and sly ballads. Of philosophy, government, the sciences, and politics, she learned nothing except what incidentals were included in the other works.

  Cailet’s education at Rinnel’s hands was eccentric, but he was not out to make a Scholar of her.

  “People!” he declared again and again. “Learn about people—how they think, what they feel. The rhythms of their minds and hearts and bodies. What they’ll give their lives for—and what they’ll put up with. Learn people in all their wisdom and folly, their honor and cravenness, their courage and cowardice. Learn how to read them in an eyeblink—and how not to make snap judgments!”

  Cailet accepted that the histories could teach her some of this, but was at a loss as to how novels, songs, poetry, and the like would be of use. Still, the histories became more interesting when she’d read the livelier tales and made connections between who people were and what they did and why. Veller Ganfallin, for instance, figured as the villain in all the histories, but was never portrayed any more deeply than a layer of dust on a tabletop. Songs and stories made up for this, varying in their interpretations of her character but almost always giving Cailet some insight into avarice, amorality, and the grandest possible ambition.

  So she read, and listened, and watched as Rinnel carved jade or concocted potions. But that was only after she’d built a wall.

  The cracks in Crackwall Canyon were due to both erosion and earthquake and supported a surprising variety of life. In smaller crevices, animals—mainly rodents—made permanent dens. A mile from Rinnel’s cottage was a family of silverback cats; once or twice Cailet saw the breeding pair herd four kits out for a hunting tutorial. In springtime residence were three couples of flightless cranes—ridiculous creatures with huge horny beaks, stunted wings, and long spindly legs capable of outrunning a horse at short distances. Plants that processed acid rain into fresh water sprouted in great clumps where rivulets collected in season.

  People who thought The Waste was lifeless were wrong. There were vast flats, of course, where The Waste Water had been drained. It was murderously hot in summer and freshwater wells were few and far between. But galazhi thrived, and silverbacks, and a thousand other species of plants and animals.

  Including humans, whom Rinnel termed the most dangerous by far. Not for him the protective walls of Ostinhold; he preferred the lonely wilds, and his cottage that seemed a part of the canyon itself. Two sides of the split formed the side walls. The back and front were made of stacked stones mortared to snugness, and the roof was layer after layer of sandstone shingles supported by five pillars inside the cottage. The southward slope of the roof fed runoff to the little garden of plants that purified just enough water for Rinnel’s use (Cailet brought her own when she was to stay with him for more than a day).

  Despite the bulk of the roof supports, the interior was quite spacious—if eccentrically shaped. Wide at the front, narrow at the back, the cottage followed the dimensions of the canyon crevice. There were shelves of various lengths and depths carved into the walls: some for books and storage, one for a bed, one with a deep firebowl in the center and a grill over it for cooking. (Cailet also brought her own food, for Rinnel was, by his own admission, the worst cook in North Lenfell.)

  So what need for another wall? Cailet didn’t pose the question in so many word
s, but Rinnel saw it in her face as he mixed a quantity of mortar while she stacked bricks.

  “Your horse, my dear,” he said. “That’s why you’re going to build a wall. It’s my cottage, but the wall is to protect your property.”

  “But she’s very well trained,” Cailet objected, sneezed dust, and resumed, “and she’ll stay put without even a hobble.”

  “Mmm. And what if one afternoon Domna Silverback decides she doesn’t feel like prowling too far afield for her kits’ dinner, eh? Horses are either very stupid or very smart, I’ve never figured out which. But moron or genius, no horse alive who wants to stay that way will linger where there’s a big cat around and hungry. Mortar’s ready,” Rinnel announced, and seated himself on a flat stone with every indication he intended to stay there all afternoon. “Have at it, Cailet Rille.”

  She conceded the point about her mare. Even if Rinnel would be the primary beneficiary of the improvement to his home, she didn’t begrudge him a wall in exchange for letting her roam through his books and listen to his stories. In the two weeks since her first visit, there’d been plenty of both. Besides, while she worked he would probably tell her another one.

  So Cailet—who even at thirteen had helped repair more than a few of Ostinhold’s walls—stirred the mortar experimentally, adjudged it of the correct consistency, lined up two dozen bricks in easy reach, and started in.

  And, as she’d hoped and expected, as the wall took shape, so did a story.

  Back before the Generations (said Rinnel), the only walls on Lenfell were those to keep animals in or out, like the wall you’re building now. None were needed for protection against other people, because there was no such thing as war. It wasn’t that people then were any better or wiser than we, or less covetous of their neighbors’ property. But war costs lives, money, and time much better spent in living. Our ancestors were very practical people who liked things to be efficient, and war isn’t.

  The way they prevented wars was to have Mage Guardians work with the government. An individual or family—this was when there were over five thousand Names, remember—or a city or sometimes a whole Shir would present a petition outlining the trouble. People would testify—yes, this is the origin of our Court system. Where was I? Oh, yes. Mages would listen, evaluate for truth, and report to the government without making recommendations. And the government would make a decision. Sometimes they were just, and sometimes not so just, but that’s the way of people and by and large the truth won out.

  There came a time, however, when the Captal began to make her opinions known, and to say what ought to be done. The government began to resent the Captal’s forceful presentation of her point of view. In one famous case where Mages were involved, she was strongly suspected of tilting the facts to favor her Guardians.

  Now, what you must understand about them is that since the Founding they have taken an Oath of Dedication. Not to the Captal, but to all Lenfell. The Captal believed that by telling the government what it ought to do, she was only doing her duty to our world. Many Guardians agreed with her. After all, Mages had ways of discerning truth so there could be no doubt. It is a skill sadly lost, by the way—or so I’m told.

  Anyway, after all the schooling and discipline and testing undergone as Novice and Prentice, a Mage was thought to be at least a little wiser than most people. So I suppose it was natural that some Mages thought that they ought to be doing the deciding.

  As it happens, it was your own Name Saint, Caitiri, who first told the Captal that there were Mages who thought this way. The Captal shrugged, for it was the direction her own thoughts were heading, and invited the leading proponents to a conference. Caitiri was present, representing the majority of Guardians who adhered to the old ways of assistance without interference.

  (I know you know the popular tale of Caitiri’s life—how she defended Brogdenguard single-handedly against a flood by calling up the fires of her Hearth, but that’s purely symbolic, as you’ll discover.)

  Where was I? Ah, yes. Caitiri listened, and so did the Captal, and when the Mages had argued their position, everyone retired until the next day. The Captal summoned Caitiri to her chambers, and though it’s rumored she wept for shame, I don’t believe it. What she did do was confess that she had been exerting her extremely subtle and terrifically potent magic on the other Mages as they spoke without their knowledge (for she was Captal, and Captals are always the most powerful of the Guardians). Anyway, she learned what they had not said: that they believed not only in their own superior wisdom in making decisions but that they should in fact be making every decision on Lenfell.

  Education—how, how much, and who. Which Webs to allow, and which to unravel. How to honor each Saint, and which Saints were worth honoring. Which Bards to support, and which to suppress. What was published in the broadsheets and what could not be. Legend has it they even wished to decide who would marry whom, how many children they ought to have, and whether those children were girls or boys.

  The Captal was horrified. So was Caitiri—for although she had suspected, she never thought the other Mages would be so bold as this. What they wished was, truly told, to decide the ordering of every life from cradle to grave.

  Now, if you’ll look at those bricks you’re slapping on top of each other, you’ll notice that no two are identical. Mostly the same size and shape, but by no means perfectly matched. There are even a few clinkers in the bunch—overbaked, chipped, flawed. So, too, with people, or so these Mages believed. Those who would not or could not fit into the greater pattern of life were useless. Not that the Mages advocated execution—they weren’t evil, after all. They simply felt that such persons should be set apart where they could do no damage.

  And this decision would, of course, belong to Mages. One word, and a girl destined to be—for instance—a bricklayer but who really wanted to be a bookbinder would be first cajoled, then ordered, then compelled to follow the grand plan. If she did not, she would be sent to a community of like-minded misfits, where she could do as she pleased—as long as she didn’t upset the overall pattern.

  Now, it so happened that the Captal’s own mother had wanted her to follow the family trade of carpentry, and the trouble when she turned up Mageborn was something to behold. So she had personal knowledge of how it felt to be ordered to do one thing when your heart was leading you in another direction entirely. The next day she announced her decision to withdraw from public affairs, and flatly forbade Mages to serve in government—which effectively squashed certain people’s ambitions, for how could they enforce their notions of order without official position and the power that goes with it?

  Caitiri secretly wept for sure knowledge of what would happen next. And she was right: the rebellious Mages gathered together, fully four hundred of them—there were many thousands of Mages then—and sailed for Brogdenguard.

  If you’re wondering why Brogdenguard, and I see by your face that you are, let me tell you a thing very few people know. The beautiful mountains there, the ones we call Caitiri’s Hearth, are volcanic—and mighty they can be when they’re in a mood for it, too. But the vital thing about them is that they form a natural shield against magic. Some think this is due to sheer size, but in my opinion, it’s the masses of iron. Mageborns can set Wards on almost anything, but they have a rotten time trying to Ward iron—or so I’m told.

  At any rate, off the rebel Mages went to Brogdenguard. Caitiri alone understood why: the barrier formed by iron would prevent other Mageborns from sensing whatever magic they cared to work there. And, considering their philosophy, ignorance of their activities would be dangerous.

  To be brief, because I see you’re tired and running out of mortar, Caitiri went by Ladder to Neele, rode the fastest horse she could find up into the mountains, and worked a little magic of her own. The “flood” she burned away in the standard tale was the influx of renegade Mages. You’ll have to judge for yourself if it’s tru
e about the way she did it.

  The defeated Mages took ship for Seinshir, where they built Malerris Castle—for this was what they decided to call themselves, the Lords of Malerris, although there were as many women as men among them. Caitiri died in the doing, but she accomplished what she set herself to do. For hundreds of years the Malerrisi could do nothing but plot and plan and try some very limited schemes, for someone was always watching.

  But a century or so before The Waste War, one of them had a distinctly brilliant idea. They built a tower and ran iron rods into its walls, which smudged perceptions of what they were up to. Only the one tower, but it served to conceal what they wished to conceal. They could work no magic within, but neither could their words or maps or anything within that tower be perceived from without. And after The Waste War, the knack of Longsight was lost—along with how to make a Ladder, and how to read the truth, and much else that Mageborns once knew.

  So the Lords of Malerris could speak and scheme and spell just as they pleased, and no one would be the wiser until the evidence of their magic appeared. Thus it remains to this day.

  Cailet reached for another glob of mortar, heard the spatula scrape inside the bucket, and glanced around. She was astonished to discover the bucket was empty and the bright eastern sunshine of morning had become the dusky western light of afternoon.

  All day? She’d been working all day? She blinked at the wall she had built almost without knowing it: fully five feet high and extending eight feet out from the canyon wall. Over half done, with only the weariness of her muscles and a few scrapes on her hands to show she’d done it all herself.

  “I think that will do for today,” said Rinnel, pushing himself to his feet. “Have something to drink and then ride on back to Ostinhold. I’ve a book inside you can return when you come back on the fifth to finish the wall.”

  She did, though it was much harder work this time. Rinnel told no stories, but instead sat near the cottage door grinding roots for some potion or other, and would not give in to her entreaties for another tale.