by Melanie Rawn
The Captal himself rescued her from death by boredom when he excused himself to go watch their Portside approach from the bridge. After landing, they would rest for the night at an inn run by the Council, and then travel overland to Ryka Court.
Where Sarra might very well see her father and sister again.
She didn’t look at Ryka. She looked northwest, where The Waste was. Where her other sister was.
Soon, Cailet. Very soon.
Betrayals
1
A petulant scowl marred Garon Anniyas’s handsome face as he regarded the young woman he husbanded. “But you’re always gone. How can I be expected to father a daughter when you’re never here?”
Glenin gave him the briefest of glances, then returned to her packing. “Pregnancy would be inconvenient at this time, Garon.”
“You’ve been saying that one way or another for four years! Mother isn’t happy about this, Glenin. You should’ve had at least two children by now.”
“Your mother contented herself with only one.”
“My mother is not the issue.”
She was, and they both knew it. This conversation, repeated at irregular intervals over the last two years, invariably annoyed Glenin. But because she still needed Garon, since through him she had his doting mother’s ear, she made an effort to mask her feelings.
Turning, she smiled and said, “Come, husband, you know how much work needs doing. Pregnancy would keep me from the Ladders, and I hate being on board ship. The final six weeks before birth and until the baby’s weaned, I wouldn’t be able to travel at all.”
“There are other people who can do what you do.”
Even as he said it, she saw in his face that he knew this, too, for a lie. And resented that she could do what he could not. For, despite a carefully chosen father in whose family Mageborns were quite common, Garon possessed neither a hint nor a glimmer of magic. He was in this respect a terrible disappointment to Avira Anniyas; in all others, however, she considered him the model of all the masculine virtues.
Glenin knew better. He showed his sweet, obedient side to his mother—and to Glenin herself, the first year of their married life. But Anniyas’ hints about children had recently escalated into strong suggestions, and soon she would be making outright demands. Garon was, in short, caught between the two very powerful women in his life. And he didn’t like it one bit.
“But there are few people who can do it so well,” Glenin said in answer to his lie. “Smile, Garon,” she coaxed playfully, loathing the necessity. “We’re young and healthy. There’s plenty of time for making babies.”
And, because it was necessary to keep him contented, and because it was also necessary to remind him why she did what she did so well, she locked their bedchamber door with a single gesture. He gave a start of surprise. She didn’t often use magic around him; it was all the more effective for being so rare.
“In fact,” she suggested, “why don’t we practice?”
Her hired bower professional had used much the same words during their time together a few weeks before the wedding. She’d avowed herself so in love with her future husband that she wanted to learn everything men liked in bed. Everything. The young man happily obliged, giving her plenty of practice.
Humiliating—but she’d known from the first that Garon could be held only through the senses. He was incapable of feeling an unselfish emotion, even for his own mother. Basically, he was a creature fashioned for pleasures. Some were innocuous amusements: riding, hunting, dancing. His gambling was mildly scandalous, his love of food and drink merely self-indulgent. His interest in other women was something else. Glenin had no objections as long as the women feared her too much to allow themselves to be caught. She would not share him sexually. She neither loved him nor found him physically compelling—though she had subtly taught him to be an agreeable lover. But she knew that her personal power could be enhanced by the absolute and obvious fidelity of her husband.
Besides, Anniyas would be unhappy if her darling boy was unhappy in Glenin’s bed. And because Anniyas must be kept happy, so must Garon.
He came to her willingly, not from husbandly duty but because he truly wanted her. Why should he not? All who saw her agreed on her beauty. Thus far there had been no need for any esoteric and somewhat chancy Malerris spells of desire. One day she might have to use them, a prospect she accepted with a shrug. Indeed, she would have been mortified to be the kind of woman a man like her husband would fix on for the rest of his life. His eternal devotion was not among her ambitions. All she needed was his sexual faithfulness.
That their relationship was the antithesis of most marriages still angered her sometimes. It was for the husband to work at making the woman happy and keeping her desire for him fresh; it was for the husband to worry about the woman’s straying. Glenin knew she was quite probably the most coveted woman in the world—wealthy, powerful, intelligent, beautiful. She could have any man she wished, merely by arching a suggestive brow. But the one man she would ever want had died years ago.
So she had taken Garon Anniyas to husband. That she should have to demean herself by catering to this man—to any man—was the ultimate humiliation.
But behind this man was the woman who ruled all Lenfell. So Glenin gritted her teeth and made herself as necessary to Garon as—for the time being—he was to her.
As he caressed her, she allowed her body to respond while her mind disengaged and calculated. Tomorrow she would leave by Ladder for Dindenshir. Two weeks later she would travel upriver to Isodir. Somewhere on the journey she could pretend symptoms of pregnancy. By the time she reached Firrense, she would “miscarry.” Anniyas would be sad and sympathetic, and encourage them to try again. Garon would be relieved at evidence of his potency and eager to prove it anew. The only potential drawback was that Anniyas might forbid Glenin further travel. But timely discovery of another nest of Mage Guardians would outweigh dynastic ambitions; Glenin had several such enclaves in mind.
Secrets are such lovely things, she thought as Garon heaved and sweated beneath her. (She had allowed him on top only once; experimentation with unconventional positions was a thing to be used when and if his desire began to wane.) Power came from secrets: hoarding one’s own and discerning those of others, both types to be used with exquisite timing to specific purpose. But for every secret used, another must take its place. If she exposed one Mage enclave, she must balance the loss by learning another secret of equal value. Because no journey failed to provide its cache of secrets, she wasn’t worried.
But she was genuinely shocked when, on the barge upriver from the Calmwater to Isodir, she found she really was pregnant.
2
Glenin traveled extensively and was always welcomed with every honor. Her tour in the last weeks of 968 was no different from the others. But the secret journeys and the private welcomes were far more satisfying.
Officially, she was not Mageborn. Officially, she traveled by Council ship. Officially, she was Special Emissary from the Assembly of Lenfell—the hundred and twenty elected Shir representatives who convened in legislative session from Maiden Moon to Harvest of each year. Officially, as the Lady in whose gracious name the antiquated system of Bloods and Tiers had been abolished, she investigated and reported to the Assembly on that system’s dismantling.
Unofficially, she was accomplished in the Malerris Tradition of magic, did a great deal of traveling by Ladder, worked for the First Councillor, and hunted down Mage Guardians.
She was very good at both her official and unofficial duties.
A ship would leave Ryka Portside with Glenin officially on it. At the first stop she would go elsewhere unofficially by Ladder. When the ship docked again, she would sneak back on board and pretend she’d been there all along. A marked facility at spells of Silence and Invisibility served her well.
She was said to prefer entering a port without fanfare, slipping in
to talk to the common folk without being recognized. Thus her official arrivals almost invariably took place in the middle of the night, and any reception by local dignitaries was scheduled the next day—the later in the afternoon the better.
Her unofficial arrivals took place anytime. From the Ladder in Renig, for example, she would go to Malerris Castle and thence to Kenroke or Wyte Lynn Castle or Dinn or, indeed, almost anyplace on Lenfell. As long as she could get to a Ladder that led to Malerris Castle’s central network, she could pick and choose her destination. The only stricture was getting to her ship’s stated port in time to make her official arrival.
The Lords of Malerris—at the Castle and elsewhere—welcomed her visits with respect and affection. Many had become friends; several had named their children after her. She was known to be their future, for what Avira Anniyas gained, Glenin would use.
The First Councillor, not being stupid, knew who would succeed her, but at the age of sixty-eight she was nowhere near ready to relinquish her power. What Anniyas did not know, being too necessary at Ryka Court to visit Malerris Castle more than a few times a year, was that she would most probably not see her seventieth Birthingday.
Glenin knew it, and so did the Lords of Malerris.
Although it had long been planned that Glenin would bear a child before Anniyas’ death, the pregnancy she discovered on the tenth day of Candleweek was no part of anyone’s schedule. The Great Loom did not allow for it at this time. The interweaving of her thread with Garon’s must not come until the Mage Guardians were annihilated once and for all, because of the danger of their subversion. There had always been tales of young scions of Malerris turned from the Weaver to the Mages. Auvry Feiran—whose pattern in the Loom was proudly termed the Great Seduction, even by him—was Malerrisi vengeance. It was unthinkable that the grandchild of their crowning success would be born into a world where any Mage Guardian survived. So this pregnancy must be terminated.
Besides, the child Glenin carried was a girl and it was imperative that she bear a boy.
Because she was dedicated to the Malerris Tradition, she accepted their dictates regarding the timing and sex of her offspring. Glenin’s childbearing had been carefully planned by the Fourth Lord, Master Weaver; lavishly prepared for by the Third Lord, Threadkeeper; eagerly anticipated by the Second Lord, Master Spinner; and patiently awaited by the First Lord, Warden of the Loom. The Fifth Lord, the Seneschal with his golden Scissors poised at the first sign of a snag, was the person to whom she would report the difficulty. He would then arrange to solve it, as was his duty.
But because she was also the First Daughter of First Daughters going back more than a score of Generations, Glenin secretly rebelled at the sacrifice of her own First Daughter to the Loom. She knew she must not bear this child. But, despite the multiple discomforts of early pregnancy, she couldn’t keep herself from wanting to keep it just a little longer.
So she did not use the Ladder in Isodir, nor the one in Firrense, to visit Malerris Castle.
In both cities, and at short stops in town along the rivers between, she did her usual work. She strolled quays and marketplaces; took afternoon tea in the houses of local notables; accepted petitions for delivery to the Council members for Dindenshir, Rinesteenshir, and Gierkenshir; visited infirmaries and schools and factories.
These carefully planned rounds established Glenin as not above mingling with the common folk; as mindful of the importance of each town’s leading citizens; as a sympathetic intermediary between the people and their elected representatives; and as deeply concerned with health, education, and trade.
And they adored her for it.
Some of it she genuinely enjoyed. There was always something fascinating by way of regional handicrafts to pick up while shopping—and besides adding to her wardrobe, jewel coffers, and art collection, it pleased the provincials to see her buy and often wear some item of local crafting. She also liked her hours at the various academies. Small children worshiped her, older girls wanted to grow up to be her, and boys invariably fell in love with her.
Truly told, Glenin was a sociable creature, deft in the practicing of her wit and charm. There was no one she could not win over and she shone in both large gatherings and individual encounters. In this she was utterly unlike Anniyas, who, curiously enough, was extremely shy and needed a few stiff drinks before she could face even four guests at dinner. Though she had no such problems in political intercourse, her rural childhood in Tillinshir had left her with a dread of social gatherings—as if no gown, no matter how elegant or costly, could make her feel well-dressed and no amount of washing could remove the barnyard from her boots.
Glenin’s advantages over Anniyas in this respect were nearly laughable. Not only was it in her nature to be gregarious, but she had lived the first years of her life in the most glittering, sophisticated court in Lenfell as the First Daughter of the First Daughter’s First Daughter.
In Ambrai’s glory days, Grandmother Allynis hosted one major party every Saint’s Day and at least one minor one every week, mainly because she wanted to know what Ambraians were thinking. This information she used constantly in her governance of the Shir. Banquet, lawn picnic, garden tea, country dance, formal ball, morning poetry reading, afternoon musicale, evening concert, midnight supper—Allynis Ambrai had quite simply adored giving parties. Maichen attended all these events and still more at various city residences. She was her mother’s link to the younger generation, but she also loved people and they loved her. Both women understood that social occasions had a variety of purposes: to gather news and gossip; to see and be seen; to flirt, court, and fall in love (which, in fact, Maichen and Auvry Feiran had done at a spectacular ball given by her cousin Gorynna Desse); to discuss and barter and politically maneuver in an atmosphere more relaxed than an audience chamber.
Barely eight years old when she left Ambrai, still Glenin had been a perceptive child, observing her grandmother and mother in action and instinctively comprehending what she observed. As the next heir, she had attended all social occasions (except those that started past her bedtime) from the time she was five. So she had begun with a vast advantage over Anniyas.
Besides, Glenin Feiran was acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman in the world (with the possible exception of Lusira Garvedian), and Avira Anniyas would never be anything but short, dumpy, and plain.
“Plain” could never describe Isodir. Its nickname of the Iron City—said by its ruling eponymous family to be a tribute to their resistance to Grand Duchess Veller Ganfallin—was really a reference to the local mania for wrought iron. Doors, windows, gates, sewer grates; chairs and tables, benches and bookshelves and bedsteads; trellises, gazebos, catwalks fifteen feet above the streets—everywhere the eye was dizzied by twisted bars, curlicues, floral sprays, medallions, all of it painted either black or white. The Isidir Blood reserved exclusive right to use colors. Within and without their capacious residence, what ironwork was not painted Isidir purple was painted Isidir yellow, and motifs of violets, dark lupines, daisies, daffodils, and dandelions were rampant.
Glenin hated the Iron City. It felt like a cage for a reason other than the obvious. Iron and magic did not mix, except in ancient swords forged by the long-extinct Caitiri’s Guild. The Sanctuary Tower at Malerris Castle, the one with iron rods in its walls, had the same effect on her and most other Mageborns. One could talk of magic and plan its use there, but working it was impossible.
As much as she loathed Isodir, the Iron City, that deeply did she love Firrense, the Painted City, where nearly every wall on every street was decorated with a mural. Scenes real or imaginary; portraits of persons living, dead, or legendary; geometric patterns that repeated a thousand times or never appeared twice—and there was always something new to see and admire. Despite eaves and awnings, weather eventually damaged the pigments. No wall lasted more than four years. The paintings were then either replaced with new ones or—in the case
of those too wonderful to be lost—painted over exactly as they had been.
Everyone who visited Firrense toured the walls. Glenin did so her second day there, escorted by the Guildmaster of the Walls (twenty years in the post, a brilliant administrator and critic, but unable to draw a straight line with a ruler) in an open carriage. Glenin was constantly recognized and warmly welcomed as she made the rounds.
The first stop was the fantastical scene of the Saints—all 386 of them from the old calendar, one for each day of the year—that sprawled the length of High Street. For a full quarter mile it ran from All Saints Temple to the last shop before the great marketplace of Merchants Round. Lusine and Lusir guarded their flocks; Maurget fashioned a necklace for jewels held by Sirrala; Velireon scythed wheat; Tamas pointed to Firrense on a map; Tirreiz counted coins; Jenavirra smiled her sweet sad smile; Jeymian gathered forest animals around him; Lirance stood atop her tower, long black hair like a banner in the wind. Each scene flowed into the next with incredible skill, seeming to be all of a piece. Miramili rang wedding bells, Imili nearby with a basket of flowers; Steen raised his blade in salute to Delilah; Gorynel set type in a printing press while Eskanto sewed pages and Deiket shelved the finished books.
Even Saints whose names were long forgotten appeared on the wall, painted over five hundred years ago and repainted constantly since. Some part of it was forever being redone, for it took three years to get from one end to the other and by then it was usually time to start over. The artists never made mistakes, and the design never varied from the gigantic full-sized cartoon kept in All Saints. So many of the names and so much symbology had been forgotten that a small industry revolved around scholarly treatises arguing one way or another. Of these lost Saints, Glenin found most intriguing the golden-haired man setting a wooden ladder against a wall. No one knew his name, but she was certain he was either Mage Guardian or Malerrisi Lord. The ladder made it obvious.