by Melanie Rawn
Another of Glenin’s favorite walls was being repainted. As her carriage passed by, she exclaimed in disappointment at the tarps and scaffolding covering a scene of Seinshir in spring. The Guildmaster began multiple apologies. Midway through the recital, Glenin ordered the driver to stop. She alighted, her escort close behind her.
“I’d like to see it, just the same,” Glenin said. “Perhaps we could have something to drink as well.” The Seinshir painting was on the wall of a tavern, and she was in need of something to settle her treacherous stomach. Damn Garon.
“Certainly, certainly,” babbled the Guildmaster, and snapped her fingers at one of the outriders.
Glenin picked her way under the scaffolding past benches of covered paint cans. Lifting aside a portion of the tarp, she saw the familiar blue of the sea, the tall grass and flowers, the splashing stream. The Guildmaster, anxious to be helpful, yanked a little too hard on another tarp. Scaffolding rocked, bricks weighting the tarp shifted—and the drape fell away to reveal another scene encroaching on Seinshir’s springtime charm. No, not encroaching; growing out of it, reaching from the green beauty in harsh splashes of hot color.
The Guildmaster wailed aloud. Glenin stood silent, transfixed.
Ambrai. Mage Academy, Octagon Court, Bard Hall, Healers Ward—yes, it was all here. All afire. Everything she had heard about the annihilation of her home was before her in livid color.
The person she’d heard it from was here, too. Auvry Feiran, tall and implacable, stood alone in the foreground. His was the only human figure in the composition. The fierce, triumphant smile on his face as Ambrai burned told Glenin everything she needed to know about the artist’s intentions.
“Lady, I’m—I had no idea—” The Guildmaster was practically sobbing.
“Who did this?” Glenin asked softly.
“I’ll find out—I swear I had no knowledge of—oh, immediately, Lady, I promise!”
Without another word, she climbed back into the carriage. The outrider, just emerging from the tavern, took one look at her face, and promptly dropped both crystal mugs of wine to the ground. As he hurried to mount, the innkeeper came out, ready to greet the distinguished guest. All he saw were his best serving pieces shattered on the street, the back of Glenin’s carriage, and a half-finished painting on his wall that made his knees buckle.
“Cover that up!” he shrieked, staggering for the crumpled tarp. “What’re you staring at? Give me a hand here! Oh, merciful Saints!”
Glenin stared at the driver’s back, stone-faced and seething. How had they dared? How? To paint an accusation that the Lords of Malerris were responsible for Ambrai and used my father as their tool—
But the painting had only told the truth. The truth—for all Lenfell to see or hear about.
Ah, but who had seen? Only those who had gathered at Glenin’s arrival in the district. None would dare speak of it.
“When I find whoever painted that—” the Guildmaster began.
“Will you?” Glenin inquired pleasantly.
The woman’s jaw shut with an audible snap. Of course the artist would not be found. Someone would warn her or him. There were a million places in the world to become anonymous. And who would paint such an indictment without knowing the sensation it would cause—and planning in advance for a swift departure? It was akin to Bard Falundir’s effrontery years ago, only the artist would probably have learned by example. No, she or he would not be found.
Glenin didn’t much care, not even to learn the name. What shocked her was the gall of it, the slap in her father’s face. She hadn’t known he was so deeply hated.
So they blamed him for Ambrai, did they? And, beyond him, the Lords? What of Anniyas, whom Falundir had accused obliquely of the same guilt? Why had she not been in that painting?
“An interesting path of speculation,” whispered a voice in her mind, and she closed her eyes briefly. Yes, Doriaz—interesting, indeed. Does it indicate a campaign by the Rising to make my father the villain, with the Lords telling him what to do and Anniyas clear of blame? Or is Anniyas transferring responsibility to Auvry Feiran and the Lords? Or is it merely one rebellious, defiant artist at work here?
“Do you wish to return now, Lady?” the Guildmaster ventured.
Glenin roused herself. “I’ve been invited to see several new compositions. There’s no reason to let this incident spoil the day.”
Pathetic in her relief and the implied absolution, the woman ordered the carriage to turn left at the next intersection. For the next hour Glenin praised and complimented and wished she could go back to the Council House and think this through in peace.
Finally back in her chambers, shock caught up with her. Instead of a quiet hour before dinner spent in thought, she hunched sweating and shaking over a sink, vomiting helplessly. Damn Garon.
By the time she could leave Firrense, she was well on the way to hating it, too. She cut her visit as short as decently possible without offending too many people—though most everyone had guessed the cause of her wan looks. The quiet sympathy she received irritated her even as she graciously accepted it and secretly cherished it as proof of how much she was loved. She didn’t want to be pampered and catered to; she wanted to go to Malerris Castle, get this over with, and go home to Ryka Court.
Where she would have to battle a strong temptation to geld her husband—slowly, with his own nail scissors.
Curiously enough, while actually sailing up the Rine River and then down the Steen River, she felt fine. The sloop’s gentle rocking on the wide waters soothed her. Besides, there was little to do but rest and read and watch the scenery go by. South Lenfell was a less diverse land than the North: there were ice fields and mountains, and rolling farmlands, and the soggy flats of Rokemarsh, and that was about it. Ambraishir all by itself was more varied than this whole continent.
Ambrai . . . she remembered its beauty from journeys with her parents and grandparents long ago. From Maidil’s Mirror in the ragged Wraithen Mountains, the Brai River surged through magnificent gorges down to rugged hill country; farther south were broad wheatfields and grazing land before a twenty-mile stretch down to the sea where high winds were excellent for pushing ships upriver but terrible for any crop taller than a few inches. Glenin had traveled the whole of Lenfell and found much to admire, but in her secret heart Ambrai was still the loveliest.
Still, the South had its charm, mainly in the richness of its growing. For though it was winter in North Lenfell, here it was high summer. In the orchards, branches were bending with the increasing weight of fruit; fields of short grain like green velvet spread beside earlier crops glowing gold and rippling eight feet high in the breeze. Villages and small towns appeared at intervals, set far back from the river to escape the yearly spring flood that roared down from the Endless Mountains. One of Glenin’s tasks this trip was to discuss the possibility of dikes and levies so the settlements could expand, but she was beginning to think a damming project might be a better idea. The thought pleased her, being quintessentially Malerrisi: to control, to bring into order, to tame the two great rivers, was better than allowing them to run wild each spring.
Rural visits were always easy for her—and one reason was that there were so few names to remember. No town of less than 500 inhabitants contained more than three family Names and a local Deputy of the Census who kept all the bloodlines straight. Although the purge of the Fifths after the Waste War had culled out the majority of defectives, there lingered a strong prejudice against consanguinity. One of Glenin’s other duties was to hear requests from villagers to find young men of other Names willing to relocate and husband the local girls for an infusion of fresh blood. These youths’ Names would be forgotten, for their children would, of course, inherit the mother’s Name. But the Deputy of the Census would keep track of it all, and fear of disease and disability would fade for another few generations. Glenin thought this silly, for there hadn’t been a
single birth of a defective reported in all Lenfell for centuries. But it was a simple enough matter, and created much goodwill, for her to send husbands to some remote village. All were eager to leave old homes behind; some brought dowries; and a select few, those who would husband First Daughters, were allied to the Lords of Malerris.
So Glenin had sailed up the Rine to Isodir, and then down the Steen to Firrense, doing her multiple duty while every day growing angrier at Garon.
On the fourth day of Midwinter Moon she boarded her seagoing ship once more. From Dinn it had sailed to Firrense’s port on the Sea of Snows, arriving just in time to collect her for the scheduled journey to Domburr Castle.
Waiting for her on board was the Fifth Lord of Malerris.
Vassa Doriaz bore scant resemblance to his long-dead brother. Golonet had been a lean, elegant, tawny lion with a gravel-and velvet voice. Vassa was just as tall, but the similarities ended there. At forty-three, a husky body spectacularly muscled in his youth was softening. Dark hair and blue eyes icy as a mountain lake were fading to gray. But the evidences of aging were deceptive: in the five years since his elevation to Fifth Lord he had personally killed seventy-four Mage Guardians.
He rose and bowed when Glenin entered the cabin. She gestured permission to sit. She busied herself with setting a Ward on the door, counting her luggage, and removing hat, scarves, and gloves. Only then did she seat herself on the second chair in the stateroom and look her tutor’s brother in the eye.
“You know, of course.”
“Yes, Domna.”
So they still would not accord her the title of Lady she coveted so much. Though she heard it regularly as a First Daughter, it would mean nothing to her unless on the lips of a Lord of Malerris. Irritation made her voice sharp. “It will be necessary to arrange an excuse to sail for Seinshir instead of Domburr Castle. See to it.”
“I shall.”
At least he was polite enough to refrain from questions—unlike the Warden of the Loom. The First Lord did not consider himself superior to all other men; he considered himself superior, period. Anniyas remarked once that she doubted the First Lord’s father had ever taught him any manners; Glenin earned roars of laughter when she replied that she doubted if the First Lord had had a father.
But Evva Doriaz, mother of Golonet and Vassa, had schooled her two sons rigorously. It showed now in the Fifth Lord’s restraint despite what must be vast anger at this accidental pregnancy.
He did further credit to his upbringing by pouring her a cool drink from a pitcher set on the table between them, waiting for permission before serving himself. Likewise he waited again for her to speak first, as was proper.
“I didn’t use the Ladders for a very good reason, Vassa,” she said, giving him his first name because she could never bring herself to address him as she had his brother.
He nodded. “Miscarriage resulting from a Ladder is much more traumatic than the medical procedure. I understand. We all do.”
“Good.” The difficult part of the conversation over, she pointed out the advantages of the situation as worked out the very day Garon had caused the problem in the first place. When she was finished, Vassa Doriaz again nodded.
“Very wise, Domna. I hope you suffered no serious physical unpleasantness.”
Eleven mornings of the last sixteen she’d lost the previous night’s dinner into a sink; she was unable even to smell her favorite coffee blend without breaking into a cold sweat; a headache began every morning precisely at Half-Sixth and lasted until she managed to choke down some food. Her temper was dangerously short and she felt like eight kinds of hell.
“Nothing to signify,” she said.
“I’m glad to hear it. When it is time, your carrying should be easy.” He shifted in his chair, finished his drink, and changed the subject—not impolitely, but firmly. “If I may, Domna, I should like to discuss something that has puzzled several of us. Have you any knowledge of Sarra Liwellan?”
“The girl proposed to inherit the Slegin lands? My husband met her in Roseguard last year, I believe. What’s so puzzling about her?”
“The fact that she was seen at Malerris Castle when she was also on board a ship halfway to Havenport.”
“Malerris Castle—!” Glenin sat forward. “By Ladder? Which one?”
“The Shellinkroth shrine. She and the two young men with her were diverted on their return journey to the Traitor’s Ladder. But it was a near thing.”
“They found nothing, of course.”
“Bones and an empty tower. Still, the Mage Guardians now know two—that is to say, four—more Ladders. The question is, which of the three is Mageborn?”
“There’s been no Mage or Lord named Liwellan in Generations.”
“Fourteen, to be precise.”
“Who were the men?”
“Not known. Both had the look of The Waste about them, I’m told—though observation was necessarily at a distance and nothing they said was overheard.”
“‘The look of The Waste’?”
“Their boots were galazhi hide.”
“A common enough material for the purpose.”
“Acid-stained before tanning, not after.”
“Ah.” The scars of acid storms produced endless variations in the hide—Glenin’s own gloves were of the rare Melting Snowflake pattern, perfectly matched—but the marks always showed up as white on the leather. Flaws acquired after tanning were invariably brown.
“Wasters, you say?” She mused a few moments, then smiled. “At least one of them was tall, dark, and very handsome.”
“That was Lady Ria’s opinion,” he replied, lips twitching at one corner.
Lady Ria. Glenin had done a thousand times more work for Malerris than that simpering fool whose only talent was fecundity. Five daughters and three sons she’d borne to various Lords, all of them richly Mageborn, all of them nearly as stupid as their mother.
And yet Ria of the Third Tier Shakards was a Lady, while Glenin Feiran, First Daughter of the Ambrai Blood, was merely a Domna—who must sacrifice her own First Daughter because she had been ordered to bear a son.
“How did you know?” he asked.
“Who else could it be but Taig Ostin?”
“That . . . had not occurred to us,” Doriaz admitted slowly. “None of us have ever seen him.”
“None of you travel as extensively as I,” she retorted. “The last I heard, Taig Ostin was in Rokemarsh.” With so brief a hesitation that not even the perceptive Fifth Lord noticed it, she added, “Six Mage Guardians live in one of those absurd stilt houses in Jenaton.”
“Appropriate,” he said, and for a moment his ironic smile resembled his brother’s. “Jenavirra of the open book, patron of memories.”
“All they have left,” Glenin agreed, “perched at the end of the world like that. I’ve had them watched, of course, in hopes of catching bigger fish than Taig Ostin.”
The excuse for not having revealed them earlier was given with a casual shrug of her shoulders. Technically, she need not even have mentioned it; she had advanced enough in the regard of the First Lord that he allowed her her own judgment in such matters. Humiliating to know she operated as an individual only with the permission of a man. Her father had explained it as being part of the discipline necessary to those who would become Weavers at the Great Loom.
Additionally, the fish all Malerris had been angling for these seventeen years was known to be the close friend and former lover of Taig Ostin’s mother; if anyone could lead them to Gorynel Desse, Taig could.
Besides all that, it was not any Lord—or even the First Lord—who sat opposite her now. Vassa Doriaz was the Seneschal, with a power of life or death subject only to the consent of the Warden of the Loom. It was he who sought and excised flaws.
“If we deprive Ostin of one hiding place, he’ll have to find another. You’d think he’d be running out of them b
y now.”
“Eventually,” Glenin said with another little shrug. “Kill the Mages in Jenaton. I’ve let them live long enough, and they’ve been small use to us. If it’s done correctly, they may even be persuaded to speak before they die.”
It was a deliberate reference, and Vassa Doriaz stiffened slightly. He was skillful, ruthless, and lethal—characteristics imperative in a Fifth Lord, who must judge more sternly than St. Venkelos—but Anniyas had once told him to his face that he enjoyed his work too much.
“You welcome the necessity and never feel the loss. Regret the wasted lives, Doriaz. Regret the threads that are lost. Until you learn that, you will ever be too quick with those Gold Scissors of yours.”
Seventy-four Mageborns in five years had discovered just how quick. Glenin wondered if he would add these six to his personal list or leave them to underlings eager for status. Well, it was none of her concern. She’d given up a secret according to prior plan—and damn Garon for making her lose a secret and a First Daughter and so much time—and she needed a secret to replace it.
“Where is Sarra Liwellan now?”
“She arrives at Ryka Court soon to petition the Council for inheritance rights to the Slegin lands.”
“Well, she can’t be Mageborn, and Taig Ostin certainly isn’t—or he would never have come so close to death that time in Shainkroth. The other man must be the one taking them through the Ladders. What did he look like?”
“Slight, very blond. Nothing recognizable about him.”
“Pity. You people really ought to leave the Castle more often.” She indicated that he could pour her another drink. When he had done so, she said, “I’m rather tired. Perhaps we can continue this tomorrow.”
“Of course, Domna.”
Whatever delicate rudenesses she inflicted on him, he could always reply—in perfect courtesy—with that despised title. She forced a smile. When he shut the door she drained the cool fruit juice down her throat in five long gulps.