by Melanie Rawn
Lilen would not tell Cailet where Rinnel was taking the boy. She didn’t know and didn’t want to. Ignorance was the best guarantee of secrecy. As for how many of these children survived in this mysterious haven, Lilen guessed their numbers to be around a thousand. Perhaps two thousand. Perhaps more.
“Who takes care of them?”
“I don’t know. Caisha, I’ve told you all I can and all I’m going to. It’s past First and you should be in bed asleep.”
Cailet had one last question. “If they mend the baby’s foot and he grows up all right, then could he maybe come back out into the world again?”
“Perhaps. It’s done only when the disability can be explained away by injury.” She paused. “There was one that I know of, a little girl with a winestain birthmark rather like a coif. She—”
“They would’ve killed her for a birthmark?”
“It was disfiguring,” Lilen answered bitterly. “Her parents were Bloods. The Healer was a Mage Guardian, and he got the child to safety. She was about five, I think, when her hair was thick enough to hide the birthmark. Beautiful hair, black as a raven’s wing. . . .”
“What happened to her?”
“Hmm? Oh. A woman of her own mother’s Name adopted her. No one ever knew.” She smiled. “I know because my grandmother’s brother husbanded her. We’ve been helping children like her ever since.”
Now, as Cailet lay sleepless, it occurred to her that she might be one of the babies born maimed. There was nothing physically wrong with her—not now. But had she been flawed somehow, crippled, imperfect? Had her mother rejected her for some disfigurement that had been cured or had faded with time? Was that why Lilen had taken her in?
She knew better than to ride out to Rinnel’s cottage for the next week or so. When she thought enough time had gone by for his return, she saddled her mare and went to visit him on a clear autumn morning.
There were no signs that he’d been gone. She hadn’t expected to see any, though it would have been useful as an opening to the conversation she half-feared to have with him. He made her welcome as always, asking if she’d enjoyed the last dozen books she’d borrowed (a pointed reference to the fact that she hadn’t yet returned them).
Knowing no other way to begin, she blurted it out: “You know about everybody and everything—did you know my mother?”
The green eyes were untroubled; he showed no surprise; he merely nodded as if he’d been expecting this question for a long time. “I know about most people and quite a few things, and I did meet your mother.”
“What was she like? Why’d she give me away? Was I born crippled? Did somebody come when I was born and take me away like you did that baby? Is that why Lady Lilen took me in as a fosterling?”
He held up a hand. “Slow down! Whatever are you talking about?”
“I saw you that night. Lady Lilen told me all about it.”
“Ah. I understand. And you think this is what happened to you? Saints and Wraiths, the ideas that find their way into your head! Cailet, my dear, you were born the most perfect and beautiful child who ever drew breath.”
“Truly told?”
“More truly than anything I’ve ever said in my life. Your mother didn’t ‘give you away’—she died, poor lovely creature, and don’t think you’re to blame for it, either. She survived your birth but she couldn’t survive a broken heart when she learned of your father’s death.”
“How did he die?”
Rinnel was silent for a long minute. “At Ambrai. He died at Ambrai. Your mother was a dear friend to Lilen Ostin, who wouldn’t even consider letting you grow up anywhere else. Now, does that answer your questions?”
“Some,” she sighed. “I know better than to ask where you took the baby, or how many there are like him. Lady Lilen says nobody can put a stop to it. But I bet Taig will, once the Rising wins.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if he tried. You must remember, though, how much of our identity as a society is based on the success of the Bloods and Tiers in eliminating defects and diseases that run in families. For a for instance—I’ve never seen a single person under the age of fifty wear reading lenses. Bad eyesight often comes with age, it’s the human condition. But to be born with it is a flaw no one will admit to. Which is why, even in an enlightened tribe like the Ostins, Terrill denies he can’t read for more than an hour without getting a headache, squints when he thinks no one’s looking, and does very badly in classes unless he’s seated right up at the front closest to the writing board.”
“But he’s smart! And he’s an artist, too, you should see some of the things he paints—he wants to go to school in Firrense when he’s old enough. Why is he ashamed? It’s just his eyes, not his mind!”
“Well, how did you feel for the last two weeks, thinking you were born with some similar flaw?”
She hung her head to hide her blush. “It’s not right,” she mumbled.
“No, it’s not. And don’t look for it to change all that quickly, either.” He paused. “In the past, being Mageborn was considered a defect. It’s getting to be that way again.”
She looked up at him. “But—that’s just what we were saying that day—that people put labels on other people for things they can’t help being!”
Rinnel smiled and poured them both a mug of cider. “Here ends the lesson for today, little one.”
“But—”
“It’s too hot to do so much serious thinking. Drink, and catch me up on all the latest gossip. Is Riena Maurgen still juggling five boyfriends at once? And has the delectable Kania Halvos found a fourth husband? Ah, to be sixty again!”
Part Two
968–969
Ladders
1
Caitiri’s Forge glowed hot with sparks
A million struck into the dark
A million more, the sky to fill
The night, so black and wild.
Sirrala laughed: the red-gold sparks
Turned to diamonds in the dark
White as ice, but fiery still
At night, so black and wild.
Lirance breathed wind into the dark
Blowing free the diamond-sparks
Warm wind she called against the chill
Of night, so black and wild.
Delilah caught sight of the sparks
And led them dancing through the dark
Across each sea and field and hill—
By night, so black and wild.
Velenne made Bardsong in the dark
To guide the darting shining sparks
In one vast dance, the sky to fill
At night, so black and wild.
Sarra hummed the old tune aloud, for there was no one to wince. It was a night for songs, even if she couldn’t sing; every star close enough to touch, to pluck and scatter like dewdrops. It seemed a million or so had already been tossed by some generous hand onto the darkness of the sea. But millions more were there for the gathering. Tonight she felt she could reach them all.
She leaned on the carved windowsill of Roseguard’s Have-a-Word Room—a whimsical name for a privilege held dear by everyone in Sheve. Lady Agatine spent several hours here every week; those wishing speech with her entered by any of six passages, none observable within or without the keep. Alone with their Lady in complete privacy, anyone could discuss anything for any length of time. Complaints, proposals, personal troubles, public disputes—and succulent gossip—all were heard in the Have-a-Word Room. And none of it was ever heard outside without specific permission in writing.
Sarra had been here just once. Shortly after she turned eighteen, she came here to receive private congratulations from citizens of Roseguard. But one day this room would belong to her. Agatine, last of her Name, had petitioned the Council to make Sarra her heir. In this, she secretly anticipated the time when “Liwellan” would be discarded and
“Ambrai” reclaimed—and all that went with it, for when Glenin became Feiran, Sarra became Ambrai First Daughter. The merging of Ambraishir with Sheve would protect Agatine’s beloved land.
Though Sarra agreed to this, she was adamant about signing over Roseguard, Sleginhold, and other family properties to Agatine’s four sons. Just because they had the misfortune to be born male was no reason to take their homes away. Agatine and Orlin warned against trying to get this past the Council anytime soon. Transferring primacy of a whole Shir from one Name to another hadn’t been done in at least ten Generations; transferring sole ownership of such extensive holdings to males would scandalize all Lenfell.
Which prospect bothered Sarra not in the least. It was her first move as an important player in a game Anniyas had thus far been winning, hands down. Sarra intended to shock Lenfell quite a few more times on her way to victory.
She would, however, hold back on giving Riddon, Elom, Maugir, and Jeymi the Slegin family lands. She would present herself meekly to the Council and be suitably grateful for their favor—even if her stomach curdled.
Scrupulous search had already been made by the Census Ministry for a female Slegin. Agatine was an only child from a long line of only children—that she had borne four offspring was an anomaly—and the closest the Ministry came was an Alvassy cousin many times removed. As this childless lady had just celebrated her ninety-fourth Birthingday, it had been decided that Sarra would be allowed to inherit.
Generous of them, Sarra thought acidly. As if Agatine—or any woman—should have to grovel for the right to dispose of her property as she sees fit! But irritation was quickly subsumed into excitement and satisfaction. She had her excuse for going to Ryka Court. At last.
The excitement was ruthlessly quelled to a quiver. Between the ages of eighteen and twenty-two she had learned discipline—but no magic. It was unnecessary and dangerous for her to have use of her Mageborn powers. Accepting this was her greatest and hardest lesson in discipline.
The opening of the door behind her made her turn. She smiled at her foster parents. “No, I wasn’t about to sneak away early! I can see the Sparrow best from these windows, that’s all.”
Agatine and Orlin joined her, gazing at a constellation low on the horizon. The two great wings, flickering tail, and uplifted head of St. Rilla the Guide’s starry sigil flew eastward in the winter sky.
“I pray she watches over you and brings you safely home,” Agatine murmured.
Sarra clasped her hand. “I’ll be fine. Just so long as Telomir Renne doesn’t put every eligible man in Ryka on parade!”
“Telo wants to see you happy. So do we,” Agatine replied.
“You’re a match for my brother and his schemes,” Orlin said, a chuckle rumbling in his broad chest. “Besides, no man born is good enough for you.”
Sarra laughed. “You raised me—you’re supposed to think that!”
“Telo means well,” Agatine said. “A ‘parade’ will be a useful distraction.”
A small silence ensued. Then Orlin smiled. “Do you still want all the stars for your very own? After all, Aggie settled for just one.”
“Conceited pig,” Agatine accused, chuckling.
Sarra’s Name-Saint had turned the stars into diamonds, according to the song. She hadn’t kept even one. Sarra would, if only she could find one like Orlin. Kind, strong, intelligent, considerate, thinks Agatine is the center of the universe—and without a braggardly bone in his body. But who do I meet? Morons like Dalion Witte, reckless independents like Taig Ostin, and that damned fake Rosvenir Minstrel. And now Telomir will march the whole roster of Ryka Court fops past me. Just as well I decided long ago never to marry!
Besides, I don’t have the time.
“If anything goes wrong, don’t you go getting mixed up in a battle,” Agatine warned suddenly.
“I won’t get the chance,” Sarra sighed. “Everybody else will do any necessary fighting. All I ever get to do is talk!”
Which, admittedly, she loved. She’d begun her career in meetings with Slegin stewards, then attended conferences with Council delegations, and just this past summer had spoken to a group of Council members—including Garon Anniyas. Unsettling, to hold forth to her sister’s husband on the dangers of strangling trade (a thinly veiled reference to the crippling restrictions on Mageborns). But her petitioning carried with it the right to speak at Ryka Court. Sarra intended the First Councillor herself to listen this time.
Agatine drew her closer with a hand at her waist. “You have an honest and eloquent voice, dearest. Orlin and I taught you to shape the words, but the truths behind them are your own. Don’t risk yourself if there’s fighting. Promise me you’ll obey Telo.”
“I know my duty.”
Relieved, Agatine nodded. “Be especially careful on the way home. It’s the most vital part of your mission.”
“I’ll find him—if he’s still alive.” Doubt crept into her voice. “It’s been years since anybody’s heard from him or of him.”
“Oh, he’s alive,” Orlin murmured. “He’ll be around as long as he’s needed.”
“As long as Cailet needs him,” Sarra corrected. “She still doesn’t know, does she?”
Agatine shook her head. “I don’t like to think of the shock when she learns the truth, Sarra. I hope you’re there with her.”
“I’d better be, or Gorynel Desse will answer for it.” Then she brightened. “I can’t wait to bring Cailet home. Once the Mage Guardians are safe on Warded Slegin land, she’ll have dozens of teachers—and the Rising will have a central headquarters at last.”
Orlin arched a brow. “Simple as a stroll through Roseguard Grounds, eh?” The edge to his voice was positively serrated. Instincts that had never failed her made an easy jump to guessing his thoughts.
“Don’t worry. They’re in Dindenshir.” They: her father and eldest sister.
A discreet cough turned them all from the windows. “Your pardon, Lady Agatine, Lord Orlin. Time.”
Sarra blinked as a young man appeared from behind a tapestry—an entry to the Have-a-Word Room she hadn’t known about. “Now? I thought—”
“This is Valirion Maurgen,” Agatine introduced. “He and his partner will be your escort, Sarra.”
“But I’m supposed to leave tomorrow morning!”
Maurgen shrugged. “Plans have a tendency to change, Domna.”
She frankly looked him over. He was of medium height—though all men looked short near Orlin—muscular and swarthy, with a wrestler’s square stance and solid build. Dark eyes sparkled above a curling mouth and a formidable chin with a rakishly offset cleft. Modestly coifed and longvested, he wore a heavy silver hoop in his right earlobe—and a heavy silver scabbard at his left hip.
“I, for one, am glad of it,” Valirion Maurgen added. “It’s time I got back to The Big Empty. All these trees make me nervous.”
Sarra quickly sorted through her mental file. Maurgen: a Third Tier family connected by marriage to the Ostins—as indeed almost everyone seemed to be, including the Ambrais. So she and Valirion were cousins of a sort, she supposed, although as a “Liwellan” she could never claim the kinship.
“But—all my things, my clothes—”
“My partner has a cloak for you. That’s all you need. Say your farewells, Domna. It’s a long walk to the harbor.”
And just that swiftly was it done: Agatine and Orlin were embraced, the tapestry was drawn shut, and the door was closed.
“Forgive the demotion in rank,” Valirion Maurgen said, setting match to candlewick to light their way down an iron spiral of stairs. “As the Liwellan First Daughter I should call you ‘Lady.’ The insult to your status pains me. But we’ll be going places where it’s best if you’re not too much of a Blood.”
“Trivial,” she replied, holding tight to his hand. The steps were slick and treacherous. “Call me Sarra if you like. Is it far?
I could use that cloak.”
“If my partner hasn’t tucked it around some stray litter of kittens.” He snorted. “Eyes like glacier ice, heart like mushy porridge, that’s my Alin-O.”
It couldn’t be, but she had to ask; the name was not a common variant of Alilen. “Alin Ostin?”
“The one and only—and thanks be that there is just the one of him! You know him?”
She could hardly admit to having played hoop-a-roll with him at Ostinhold when she was five years old. “I’ve heard the name.”
“He’ll be crushed.” Valirion shot a grin over his shoulder. “My clever cousin thinks he’s the most cunning, secret, unknown, anonymous, stealthy and so forth agent in all the Rising. Ah, but you’re Agatine’s foster-daughter, so you’d know such things. That may console him a bit.”
“I met Taig Ostin a few years ago.” Sarra didn’t tell him how ignorant she was of the essential names of the Rising. Which appears to be largely an Ostin enterprise, she thought with a smile. Lilen, Taig, and now Alin and this Maurgen cousin. And me. At last!
Eventually they reached a barred iron door. On the other side was an alley swathed in midnight. A slight, pale, intense young man was busy stuffing a mass of wheaten hair into a black coif. He glanced up as Valirion and Sarra emerged.
“About bloody time,” he grumbled.
“No pun intended,” added Valirion.
“Don’t be flippant, Val. I’m freezing.” He flourished a dark blue cloak around Sarra’s shoulders. She returned the favor by tucking in stray wisps of hair almost the same gold as her own. Yes, this was definitely Alin: the only one of Lilen Ostin’s brood with his father Tiva Senison’s coloring. His dark-haired, suntanned siblings had teased him to fury about it back at Ostinhold, branding him a changeling for his blue eyes and fair, freckled skin. But also alone of them all, Alin had inherited their mother’s ruler-straight nose (the others had anything from hawk’s beaks to snubs) and Lilen’s broad, lofty brow. Sarra reminded herself not to comment aloud on what she remembered. As far as Alin knew, they were meeting for the first time.