The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  Still. . . . “You don’t look much like your brother Taig,” she said.

  “Nobody’s seen him recently enough to tell,” Alin answered. “Consider us introduced.” He didn’t bow. Instead he turned to lead the way down the alley.

  “He’s not much for conversation,” Valirion explained with a shrug.

  “Val’s eloquence intimidates me,” Alin snapped.

  “Or manners,” Valirion added with a wink. “Pretty girls intimidate him, too.” He escorted Sarra to the street, for all the world as if to the grand ballroom at Domburr Castle.

  It had just gone Thirteenth—the hour after dinner and before bedtime. In summer, when daylight lasted until nearly Fourteenth, the streets were crowded with people strolling to and from shops, taverns, friends’ homes, the docks, or nowhere in particular. But in winter, dark by Eleventh, everyone stayed by their own warm fires.

  Some twists and turns later, just in case they were being followed—highly unlikely in the nearly empty streets, but Alin was evidently a worrier—they were dockside. Alin ignored three large sailboats Sarra considered possible for the journey. Almost at the end of the main wharf he swung abruptly over the railing and vanished.

  “Ladder,” Valirion whispered. Sarra’s eyes blinked wide. He shook his head for silence, striking a casual pose with his arm around her. Two fishermen, a father trailing four small children, and a pair of lovers passed by.

  “The nuzzlers,” Valirion whispered, “are Council Guard.”

  She tilted her head back as if stargazing again. “Met them before?”

  “In nasty circumstances. Alin really knows how to show a friend a good time in Roseguard. It’s safe now. Down. Hurry.”

  Glad she had worn trousers instead of a skirt, Sarra did as Alin had done. She felt disappointed; it was just an ordinary old ladder, placed there to facilitate repairs to the wharf planking. Eight rungs down, with the sea lashing the pilings below, a hand closed around hers and urged her to sidestep.

  “This way,” Alin said.

  She placed a cautious foot on a narrow board slung on chains between two massive support beams. Sea spray wet her boots and the hem of her cloak, splashed droplets onto her cheeks. When Valirion was balanced beside them, Alin lit a match without benefit of flintstrip. Sarra blinked. In Pinderon, Lady Lilen had said Margit was her only Mageborn daughter. Daughter—not son. By such delicate nuances, Sarra told herself wryly, were secrets successfully kept while telling the plain truth.

  The tiny light revealed a huge support piling. Sunk beneath the waves to support the wharf like all the others, this one had a set of rusty hinges at one side. Alin’s long fingers probed. He swore under his breath.

  “Salt air,” Valirion said, “is hell on the mechanism.”

  “Shut up, Val,” Alin hissed, and sprung the catch. A door opened, two feet wide by three feet tall. He gestured Sarra inside.

  She gathered the cloak tight and ducked inside. Val scrunched his way in behind her, begging her pardon for crushing her against the dank wood. Alin simply crammed himself in and locked the hatchway.

  “Close your eyes.”

  Gorynel Desse had ordered the same on the flight from Ambrai. In the four years since Pinderon she’d set herself to remembering every scrap of what he’d caused her to forget—and she had vivid memory of the desperation in his voice. Desse had worked the spell in a moment. Alin seemed to be taking a long time.

  As if her worry had been audible, Valirion assured Sarra, “He’s really quite good at this—not half the lackwit he looks.”

  Alin muttered, “I love you too, Val.”

  Abruptly Sarra’s senses blanked. The sound of waves lapping at pylons, the stinging salt-scent of the sea, the tickle of wind seeping through cracks, all vanished. She barely had time to be frightened before the strong, sharp smell of lemon sage filled her nostrils.

  “You’re Mageborn,” Alin accused.

  Sarra opened her eyes to an astonishing dazzle of sunlight through a window. Blessed St. Rilla the Guide, they were halfway around Lenfell!

  “That’s why I had trouble,” he was explaining to Valirion. “She’s Warded, and a fine job someone did of it, too. But she’s Mageborn, truly told.”

  “Sorry,” she managed, trying not to gape at her surroundings: the upper floor of a mill that hadn’t ground grain in at least twenty years. Round, of course, like all Ladders. But what an odd place to put one. “I didn’t think it would matter. Nobody’s supposed to know, anyway.”

  “Nobody would, except a Mage who’s looking for it—or trying to take you through a Ladder.” Alin narrowed pale blue eyes at the sunlight that danced with dust and ancient chaff. “I hate this one,” he said, and sneezed.

  “It’s a long walk to Roke Castle,” said Val. “Do you want to rest, Domna?”

  “I’m fine. What are we doing in Kenrokeshir?”

  Alin, already starting down the rickety wooden stairs, jerked his chin at Valirion. “He’ll tell you as we go.”

  The next morning—which was to say, the morning she would have seen in Roseguard but which was not the morning she was currently in; the morning happening around her was one that had already happened in Roseguard, but was still occurring in Kenrokeshir (with the feeling this could get very confusing, she decided not to think about it)—a ship would sail to Ryka, with a single stop at Shellinkroth. Sarra would in theory be on that ship, locked in her cabin, a martyr to seasickness. At Havenport she would recover enough to venture by night into the port for a walk. And when she was rowed back to the ship, seven new passengers would sneak on board with her.

  “Alin, myself, and five Mage Guardians,” Val said. “We’ll collect two here, then go Laddering to Cantrashir, where another pair are waiting. The last is already in Shellinkroth. Then it’s on to Ryka. Ladder to Ambrai, from there to Brogdenguard and Dindenshir, and join the ship again with ten more Mages.”

  “Why can’t the Mages just use Ladders to get to Roseguard?”

  “Because you have to know where you’re going,” Alin said.

  Again, Valirion was the one to explain. Knowing the location of one Ladder was useless unless one also knew where it went. Not knowing, one would be lost forever inside a magical void called a Blanking Ward. Usually a Mage had to know just a few personally convenient Ladders. With the deaths of so many in the seventeen years since Ambrai, only a few Guardians now knew every Ladder.

  “And one unofficial Prentice,” Valirion finished, eyeing his cousin with combined fondness and worry. “In the vernacular, Alin’s a Ladder Rat.”

  “I think I see,” Sarra said. “The Mages we’re collecting would have to do a lot of unnecessary traveling among Ladders they know, at tremendous risk.”

  Val stretched a shoulder. “I just hope they’re not all as cramped as the one at Roseguard.”

  “So we’re going a-gathering Mages. Do you know them?” Meaning, did he know that one of the collectibles was Gorynel Desse?

  He shook his head, fingers busy at the throat of his coif. “Oh—pardon, Domna,” he said, starting to reknot the laces.

  “Take it off if you like. I won’t be offended. You too, Alin.”

  Blond hair was immediately revealed, shaken, finger-combed. Val, ever courtly, said their thanks to Sarra as he scrubbed his own scalp.

  “Saints, that’s a relief! A coif is torture in the best circumstances—and you don’t know what it’s like to wear one in The Waste in summer.”

  Sarra laughed. “I don’t intend to find out, either.”

  “No chance of that.” Val gave her a look perilously akin to an ogle, and grinned. “Of all the ways I could think of to disguise you, Domna, turning you into a boy definitely isn’t an option!”

  Sarra frowned. While it was true that her childhood pudge had redistributed itself most attractively—Tarise reported overhearing her described as being “built like a brick dollhouse”—Sarra di
sapproved of such remarks. Charming as Valirion Maurgen was, his manners needed some polishing here and there.

  Alin gave them a glance over one shoulder, brows arching and lips twisting. “Hands off, Val. She’s Blood.”

  “So are you, Domni mine.”

  To Sarra’s surprise, Alin blushed bright red before setting his back to them and picking up the pace.

  It was nearly dark, and Val had found them a sheltered little copse in which to spend the night, before it finally hit her. The cousins were lovers as well as partners; Alin was jealous. She clamped her teeth tight around a giggle. So Val still kept one eye open for the ladies, did he? She’d have to get it through to Alin that he could relax as far as she was concerned.

  The blue cloak was quite warm enough to sleep in. Although it was winter in Sheve, here in Kenrokeshir it was soft summer. St. Lirance sang her to sleep, sighing through oaks and flowering trees and sage scrub. When Sarra woke next morning, her cloak and hair were drenched in dew and scattered blossoms.

  After breakfasting from Val’s journeypack, they started walking again. At length the cart track split in three like the tines of a fork; Alin led them to the west. Several more miles through low hills took them to an abandoned manor house by dusk. There they met up with the first two Mages.

  Lengthy travel between Ladders was obviously impossible for the elderly Scholar in bedraggled black and gray cassock, silver Mage Globe sigils of his calling pinned to a frayed collar. His companion, a vigorous woman of about forty, was every strapping, healthy inch the Warrior Mage. Her black cloak lay folded on a chair back, red lining and Silver Sword badge clearly visible.

  “Kanto Solingirt,” the old man said, bowing gracefully over Sarra’s wrist, his mustache tickling her skin as his lips barely grazed her pulse-point. She allowed him the liberty because she liked him on sight.

  “Appropriately named, Scholar Mage,” she replied, smiling.

  He chuckled appreciation. “It was a sad day when Eskanto Cut-Thumb was removed from the Official Calendar. Alas, bookbinders now are lumped in with printers, judges, and other suchlike cripples patronized by St. Gorynel.”

  “I’ll tell Gorsha Desse you said so, Fa!” The Warrior Mage smiled at Sarra. “I’m Imilial Gorrst. We didn’t expect you until later today.” She turned to Val, fair brows lifting. “Still advertising your sword, boy?”

  “Both of them,” he retorted, and smacked her a kiss on each cheek. “But no more fencing matches with you, Imi. I’ve still got scars from the last one.”

  Alin only grunted by way of greeting, which seemed to offend no one. Turning to Val, he asked, “Time?”

  “Twelfth, less ten minutes.”

  Alin nodded. “We’ll rest here until Half-Fifth. Scholar Kanto, I’m assuming you can wrap an Invisible around all five of us?”

  The white mustache acquired a rakish tilt at each corner as he grinned. “My specialty, and my pleasure.”

  2

  Valirion kept watch. He wedged himself into a window, profile and drawn-up knees vaguely outlined in starlight. At Second—or so he said when Sarra asked; she was never sure of the time without a clock—she joined him near the window, huddled on the single wobbly chair.

  “Can’t sleep?” he murmured, smiling in the gloom. “Have some of this.” He held out a cup of tea thoughtfully spelled Warm by Imilial Gorrst.

  Sarra drank, handed it back. “Why wasn’t I told earlier about the Mages?” Then she made an annoyed gesture. “Silly question. Ignore it.”

  “Not silly at all. Somebody’s got to know what everybody else is doing! And the system we use for it now is your design.” He grinned, white teeth flashing in his dark face. “Alin and I are the first foundation blocks of your personal pyramid, Sarra. A few of the younger Mages we’ll collect on this trip may be added as well. I don’t know.”

  “You can’t know. That’s the whole point.” Sarra was unsurprised that the Rising had adopted her pattern. It was practical, effective, and reasonably safe. “How did you and Alin get into this?”

  “Taig.”

  “Why did I expect that answer?” she smiled.

  “He’s sort of a force of nature, isn’t he? Lilen says his father was the same way. Rolls through your life like a storm, sweeping you along whether you want to be swept or not. . . .” He took another sip of tea. “Anyway, both Alin and I wanted to be swept. Night and day we are—in more than looks!—but we understand each other. No secrets. Sort of instinctive, you know?”

  She didn’t, but nodded anyway.

  “It’s been that way since school,” Val went on musingly. “He’s got this crazy memory—highest marks ever posted at Longriding Academy. Me, I’m hopeless at books. Naturally I made friends with him.” He laughed low in his throat. “Then I discovered I actually liked the little wretch. And so I got interested in what he liked, and that meant talking about our studies—so my marks went up without even having to cheat!”

  “How mortifying for you,” she remarked. “Go on.”

  “Well, one autumn a Scholar came to Ostinhold to teach him magic. I don’t have any, unless you count always knowing the exact time. Not the most useful talent—unless you’re partnered with a Ladder Rat.”

  “It would be inconvenient to appear unannounced at dinnertime.”

  “Such bad manners,” he agreed.

  “But you protect Alin, too.”

  Val patted his sword hilt to confirm it. “He’s useless with weapons, is my Alin-O. Nicks himself on a butter knife. But don’t ever get in range of his fists.” He chuckled reminiscently. “There’s a Council Guard in Dinn whose teeth will never meet each other again unless somebody uses ’em for shirt buttons.”

  Glad to know the sword wasn’t just for show and the pair could be counted on in a scrap, she went on to the next topic on her list. “Tell me what other spells Alin can do.”

  “Fire—barely. You’ve seen that. It’s the first one taught, preparatory to kindling a Mage Globe. But he can’t. There’s nothing else he can do with his magic. Oh, he knows the spells down to the last syllable. But he can’t work them.” Val shrugged. “Something about not being able to let a teacher in to tag power sources for him. Once they found out about his sense of direction—he’s as good at that as I am with time. . . .” He stopped for a moment. “I’ll never forget it. St. Agvir’s Day it was, at Ostinhold. I’d come for the feast. Nobody heard him scream but me and Cai—the Ostin’s adopted daughter, Cailet Rille.”

  “Mageborn?” she asked casually, knowing the answer.

  “And then some, or so Alin says. Anyway, I’m not clear on Mage things, but the Scholar, who taught him Laddering did it that day—quick, hard, and dirty. It hurt him in ways I’ll never understand. Desse turned purple when he found out, and nearly crisped that fool Scholar’s brains for him.”

  Sarra didn’t know magic could be painful. Would it be so for Cailet?

  “They needed him fast, y’see,” Val went on softly. “The only Mage who knew all the Ladders was dying. The Scholar cleaned out the old lady’s mind—with her permission, I’m told, but. . . . Anyway, they needed somebody to put all that Ladder Lore into. Alin ended up with no other magic but light.”

  Sarra shook her head. “That must hurt him most of all.”

  “Speaking from experience, Domna?”

  She lifted one shoulder, dismissing the notion. “I’ve gotten used to the idea. Magic isn’t my share—at least, not until it’s safe to be Mageborn.” Resettling herself on the chair, she went on, “And call me Sarra in private.”

  “I hope your name isn’t as appropriate as Kanto Solingirt’s?” His voice was light and teasing, and she wasn’t sure if there was an offer in it or not. Doubt was removed a moment later. “If so. . . .”

  Men, she decided, were becoming entirely too uppity these days. Still, she liked Val, so her reply lacked the sting it might have. “You’ll never know, Valirion Maur
gen. Besides, your Alin-O wouldn’t approve.”

  She felt rather than saw his astonishment. “How did you—?”

  “My talent,” Sarra purred, “is coming to a correct conclusion based on fragmentary evidence. In the vernacular it’s called ‘gut jumping.’ Pass the tea, please.”

  3

  The next Ladder was forty-three miles from the abandoned manor house. Solingirt did his best, but at nearly eighty he could not be expected to hike along as swiftly as the rest of them. He was incapable of Folding the trail, and Imilial Gorrst could do so only for herself. Sarra filed this bit of knowledge away—Mage abilities varied among individuals, even within families.

  They made almost half the distance, but they also made an early night of it when a shepherd’s hut presented itself, empty this time of year with the sheep in high summer pasture. Alin roused them early the next morning. They started walking at Fourth, the sun not even a promise over the eastern hills. When the spires of Roke Castle came into view, Sarra sent Imilial ahead to scout the Ladder’s accessibility and secure it if need be.

  “And can you get us something to eat?”

  “Absolutely, Domna. Alin, love, show me the place we’re staying tonight.” She set a silver-green Mage Globe to burning between them.

  He didn’t flinch, but his pale skin turned sickly white—and not due to the glow of magic. “You won’t need that,” he said in icy tones, and proceeded to draw a map in the dirt.

  The awkwardness lasted until Imilial was gone. Sarra walked with Kanto Solingirt while Val went ahead with Alin. She noted that no words were said, no touches given, no obvious comfort offered. But Alin’s thin, tense shoulders soon relaxed, and eventually his hand sought Val’s for a brief squeeze. When daybreak peered through the hills at them, he dropped back to talk with the elderly Scholar. Sarra joined Val to take the lead.