The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  “They’ll have to do it eventually. I’m just getting them used to the idea in advance. Telo, why did Anniyas break the tie in my favor?”

  “Why don’t you ask her? She’ll be here in a few minutes.”

  “Telo! Why?”

  He flicked a glance down the corridor; footsteps and voices echoed, growing closer. “Because now you and Agatine and Orlin and I—and everybody else with a stake in your inheriting the Slegin fortune—owe Anniyas a very large favor.”

  “She thinks she bought us?” Sarra spluttered and brushed droplets off her gown. “How dare she—?”

  “Actually, I’m comforted by how it happened. It means she intends a future for you.”

  Sarra mulled this over. Then she gulped down the rest of the wine.

  Telomir spoke swiftly and softly. “It’s certain she plans to use the Slegin holdings to manipulate you. Think what a position you’d be in if it came to a choice between all the people of Sheve, for whom you’ll be responsible, and—other people with claims on you.”

  “I’m not worried about it,” she said, more or less truthfully. “Soon everyone in Sheve will be . . . protected.”

  “I hope so.” He glanced up as the first guests passed the alcove. “Listen, Sarra. The Council will arrive late—they have to get rid of their robes. By the time they get here, you can be hip-deep in men. Use them. I’ll help, but I can’t glue myself to your side. Don’t drink too much and don’t say anything serious.”

  “And don’t make any rash, drunken promises of marriage,” she finished, making a face at him. “I’m not stupid, Telo.”

  “Just forgetful. You know who you’ll have to talk to, don’t you? For a few minutes anyway. I’ll keep watch and if you’re in trouble, I’ll be there as fast as I can. But this meeting is up to you, Sarra.”

  She nodded grimly. “I’ll be all right. But I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Never doubt it. Can you feel the wine yet? Good. Smile for me. Yes, that’s it. You’ve just won a huge victory and you’re going to be one of the richest women in the world, and you can’t wait to see a hundred men crawl on their lips across broken glass just to have you kick them with your dainty little foot!”

  She giggled at the image he evoked; there were a few of the Court fops she’d love to see in exactly that position. By the time he escorted her through the double doors of the Malachite Hall, the wine bubbles were in her blood and she tilted her chin arrogantly and smiled her sweetest smile—hiding scorn, panic, and a ravening need to go home.

  True to Telomir’s prediction, she was instantly surrounded by eligible young men. She flirted, laughed, teased, took tiny sips of wine, and wondered how long she would be compelled to stay at this celebration of her triumph.

  Garon Anniyas parted the crowd to offer congratulations; she smiled at her sister’s husband as if she truly liked him. A young Doyannis blade, defying Aunt Veliria’s condemnation, begged the privilege of escorting her all the way to her ship when she left on the morrow for home. This elicited howls of protest. Why should he have the luck, she mustn’t leave Court so soon, whatever would they do without her beauty to gaze upon, she simply could not abandon them and break their hearts—and-pitiful-so-forth. Irien Dombur, no longer wearing his Council robe, took a liberty by taking her hand to his lips and kissing the center of her palm—not the pulse over her wrist, as was mannerly, but a lingering caress that included the tip of his tongue. She felt her eyes go wide at the boldness, but the urge to giggle was stronger. Repressing both outrage and mirth, she simpered and dimpled.

  For a solid hour, all the greatest Names of Lenfell, incarnate in young, comely, virile masculine form, were intent on her. She had never suffered a worse headache in her life.

  Then, in the momentary space between two embroidered longvests, she saw Avira Anniyas and Glenin Feiran heading toward her. As the knot of young men untied to admit the First Councillor, Sarra saw Auvry Feiran approach, with antiquated Flera Firennos supporting herself on his arm.

  Sarra felt sick. Whatever spell or Ward protected her, let it be strong—yet not so strong as to be sensed by three powerful Mageborns. For she was sure about Anniyas now, absolutely sure. Nothing else made any sense.

  The First Councillor was two inches taller than Sarra, weighed about twice as much, and looked every minute of her sixty-eight years. Her light brown hair was heavily grayed, and her eyes were as flat as a shallow pan of water. From six feet away, Sarra could smell the cloying floral scent of her perfume.

  Glenin Feiran was magnificently beautiful, though a little pale. Elomar had told Sarra that a recent miscarriage was the reason for her early return to Ryka Court. By Ladder, from the ruins of Malerris Castle—which shocked one and all. But it was understood that Auvry Feiran’s concern for his daughter’s health necessitated the use of the only Ladder still functional at the Castle. And if he had been able to use it, surely no Lords of Malerris lurked there still. They would have killed on sight the architect of their destruction.

  And him, this man who was her father—Sarra fought memories of the tall, laughing man who swung her up into his arms and read her stories and helped her pick wildflowers in fields far beyond the Octagon Court—

  Memories, too, of playing with Glenin in the well of the Double Spiral, squabbling with her, their riding lessons, the family picnics, going to sleep with her head on her sister’s shoulder—

  She fled the images, then abruptly changed her mind and chased them all down, tucking them in a corner of her heart so they could not escape and betray her. At least she had memories, good memories, of father and sister and mother; it was so much more than Cailet had.

  So much more than she had of Cailet. . . .

  “Here she is!” Anniyas cried brightly. “Glenin dear, I must make known to you Lady Sarra Liwellan. Lady Sarra, my daughter-at-law, Lady Glenin Feiran.”

  She barely had time to meet her eldest sister’s gaze when Anniyas reached out a hand to Auvry Feiran, saying, “Commandant! Come at last to attend your daughter, I see. We need only Garon to make our family complete. Where is the boy, anyhow? Flera dear, you really shouldn’t be standing so long. Where are your charming granddaughters?”

  “Charming,” the Council member agreed, nodding and smiling at Sarra.

  Taking the old woman’s hand, Sarra said, “Let me find a place for you to sit down, Lady. If you’ll excuse me for a moment only, First Councillor?”

  Telomir Renne caught up with them halfway to a chair by the wall of windows. “Nice catch,” he muttered. “I’ll go back with you and help.”

  “Charming,” reiterated Flera Firennos. “You remind me of someone, child. Can’t think who. I’m sure she was charming as well. I wonder who it was.” Sinking into a padded seat, she looked up with mischievous old eyes. “Wouldn’t do for Avira to know, though, would it?”

  Sarra smiled and winked. “We’ll let it be our secret.”

  “May I offer you some wine, Lady?” Telo asked.

  With flirtatious severity: “Young man, are you trying to get me drunk so I’ll agree to marry you?”

  Giggling—a bit hysterically, to be sure—Sarra said, “Isn’t he dreadful? His mother ought to’ve given him a good paddling!”

  The bright eyes turned positively wicked with glee. “His mother was never the question, child. As for that so-called Nameless father of his—”

  “Who shall remain Nameless, if it please my Lady,” Telo interrupted, his smile a trifle strained. Sarra shot him a sharp glance as he went on, “Allow me to find your granddaughters to attend you.”

  “I’m quite happy here by myself, without their natterings,” she snapped, then cackled softly, rocking back and forth. “Oh, if Avira only knew what I know about the two of you!”

  “Our secret,” Sarra repeated conspiratorially, giving the old lady a wink and a curtsy before Telo led her away. In an undertone, she asked, “Do you think she really
knows—?”

  “Who can say? Smile. You won’t have to talk with them long. Just be ready to follow my lead.”

  She wanted very badly to ask who his father was. Later—when she wasn’t looking her own father right in the face.

  “Please excuse the interruption,” she apologized to Anniyas. “But she really was looking rather unsteady.”

  “Oh, she’s been that way for years,” said the First Councillor. “It was kind of you to see to her comfort, my dear Sarra—may I call you Sarra?—and only confirms the wisdom of the Council vote. You’ll make a fine ruler for Roseguard and all the Slegin holdings.”

  “You honor me, First Councillor.” How bizarre it was, to be exchanging polite chat with this woman. It was difficult to believe her the cause of so many deaths.

  “She knows worth when she sees it,” said Auvry Feiran, with a smiling glance for Glenin. “We haven’t met, Lady Liwellan. I’m Auvry Feiran, father of this Lady here, whom you so generously complimented today.”

  “A pleasure.” She did not extend her wrist for him to kiss. “Both to meet you, and to speak nothing but the simple truth about your daughter.” Sarra directed her most guileless smile at her sister. It was a heady game, this; she was beginning to enjoy it. I am not who you believe I am—and who I am, I know you would not believe.

  Glenin said, “I regret I was unable to meet you before today.”

  With perfect honesty—for it was Sarra’s own niece or nephew Glenin had carried—she replied, “I heard of your loss. I’m very sorry.”

  “Thank you. In fact, I’m a little tired. If you’ll forgive me. . . .”

  Auvry Feiran looked worried. “Would you like me to find your husband? Or will a mere father’s escort do?”

  She placed a hand on his arm and looked one last time at Sarra. “I’m certain we’ll meet again, Lady Sarra.”

  “So am I, Lady Glenin.”

  And, that simply, it was over. They left, and Sarra was left with Anniyas on one side, Telo on the other, and a score of eager young men hovering nearby.

  Not quite over. Not yet. Anniyas tilted her head like an inquisitive sparrow and said, “See any you fancy?”

  She must have caught Sarra’s quick glance at her admirers. “Not a one,” Sarra answered forthrightly.

  The First Councillor laughed. “Beauty, brains, and taste! Forgive my frankness, my dear, and rest assured I appreciate yours. And now that we have established that we may be blunt with each other, may I give you some advice?”

  “Please.”

  “Have children as you please, but marry no one. My mother used to sing an old song about it—I’ve forgotten most of it, but—” She paused, then recited:

  Though he seem as solid as oak

  Yet recall that oaks draw lightning

  Though he seem as beautiful as roses

  Yet recall that roses wither

  Though he seem as strong as daggers,

  Yet recall that steel may shatter

  Though he seem as true as—

  “Oh, bother, I forget the rest. And now that I’ve begun, it will drive me mad until I remember it all! Minister Renne, have you heard this song?”

  “With regret, First Councillor, no.” He smiled. “Truly told, I’ve about as much ear for music and poetry as the average cart horse.”

  Sarra smiled pleasantly. She’d known from the instant Anniyas said “advice” that a warning was coming. She also knew there had been no song sung by her mother; Anniyas had made it up, perhaps on the spot but probably prepared in advance. She was, in fact, telling Sarra precisely whom not to marry: any young sapling of the Ostin Oak Tree; any young bud from the Slegin Rose Crown; any young blade of a Rosvenir—

  Rosvenir? Had that idiot Minstrel become an agent of the Rising? If so, Roseguard had better not be on his itinerary.

  “How maddening not to remember all of it,” Anniyas said.

  Meaning other tainted Names? Alvassy, Garvedian, Desse, Gorrst, Maurgen, Adennos, Solingirt—Sarra knew a dozen by now, many of them with sigils to play on in this little song.

  Sarra plied her dimples. “Oh, but you will remember, you know. You’ll wake in the middle of the night knowing every word—and then be unable to get it out of your head for days! That’s how it always happens to me.”

  “You’re far too young to suffer lapses of memory, my dear!”

  And that was a reminder not to forget exactly who was responsible for the inheritance. “I never forget the important things, First Councillor.”

  “Ah. And what, in your experience, is truly important?”

  So innocuous a question, so dangerous. Sarra began to see why Avira Anniyas was so formidable.

  “Family, of course,” Sarra said, “and—”

  “Mother!” exclaimed Garon Anniyas. “Here you are!”

  Sarra would have wagered the Octagon Court that she would never be happy to see her sister’s husband.

  He kissed his mother’s cheek, nodded at Sarra and Telo, and said, “I’ve been looking for Glenin.”

  “She wasn’t feeling well, and left.” Anniyas looked irked at the interruption, but only for a moment; as she gazed up at her son, it was obvious that she adored him.

  It was not the emotion Sarra had seen in Lilen Ostin’s eyes for Taig; she loved her son deeply, all the more so for knowing him down to his marrow. But Lilen would have sacrificed Taig, back in Pinderon—though her heart shattered, she would have done it. Not because her loyalty to the Rising was stronger than her love for her son, but because she knew that to betray others to save him would mean to betray what Taig was.

  No such complications of knowledge shadowed Anniyas’s feelings for Garon. He was her only child, her “good brave boy,” her precious darling; her love was encompassing, absolute, and blind.

  “Why didn’t someone send for me?” Garon asked anxiously. “How long ago did she leave? Never mind—I’ll go to her at once.”

  Anniyas grasped his hand firmly in both her own. “Auvry is with her, my dearest. I’m sure she’s just fine.”

  Ah! Sarra thought. Not so blind after all, that she could not see his love for Glenin taking precedence. Anniyas was not yet jealous—from which Sarra instinctively knew that this husbandly devotion was recent, probably dating to the miscarriage. But Anniyas was most definitely determined to keep her son at her side. Not Glenin’s; hers. Power play, Sarra told herself, and decided to tweak the First Councillor a bit.

  “Of course she is,” she told Garon. “A bit pale, and she said she was tired. The gallery must have been quite warm and stuffy—and Saints, the crush in here now! She probably just needed some fresh air.”

  “You see, Garon?” his mother soothed. “Listen to Lady Sarra.”

  “You mustn’t worry,” Sarra went on, ignoring a sharp glance of warning from Telomir Renne. “She had her father’s arm to lean on.” As the conjured image of his beloved’s faltering steps sank in, Sarra finished, “It’s sweet of you to be so concerned. If I ever do decide to take a husband, I hope he takes as good care of me as you do of Lady Glenin.”

  That did it; duty to his darling came first. He apologized to all and escaped his mother’s grip. “I’ll be back once I’ve seen to Glenin’s comfort,” he said, and left the Malachite Hall.

  Telo made some jesting remark about besotted young lovers. Sarra smiled. Anniyas did not. After another few minutes of polite inquiries about Agatine, Orlin, the four boys, the charms of Roseguard and wishes for a safe return journey, Anniyas excused herself to talk with Kanen Ellevit.

  One more hour and it really was over. Sarra’s feet ached in the high-heeled shoes and it was a real strain not to limp out of the Malachite Hall. As soon as she and Telo were in more private corridors on the way to his chambers, she kicked off the shoes and carried them. Her skirts, two inches lower now, threatened to trip her.

  At length, safely within G
orynel Desse’s Wards, Telo doffed longvest and coif before sprawling in a chair. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard anyone call Garon ‘sweet.’”

  “When did he decide he’s passionately in love with Glenin?”

  “He isn’t. Everybody knows—” Then he paused. “Ah. But he looks like it now, doesn’t he?”

  After throwing her shoes in the general direction of her bedroom, Sarra stretched full-length on a couch. “I thought it might be fairly recent. Did you see his mother’s face? Right on the edge of jealousy.”

  “So you gave her a nudge.”

  She grinned over at him. “Just a little one. How did you like her song?”

  “I’ve another line for it. ‘Though he seems as true as an arrow/Yet recall that wood may warp.’ Now, that’s Garon, down to the ground.”

  “Yet he flies straight and true enough to Glenin.” She glanced around as the door opened to admit Alin Ostin and Valirion Maurgen. “Well? What did you think of my speech?”

  “Marvelous—as if you needed us to tell you!” Alin smiled and gave her an elegant bow.

  “You looked superb, at any rate,” Val teased. “I’m to be congratulated for designing the gown.”

  “You ought to be flogged,” Sarra retorted. “Do you know how long it took to get into it?” She raised both arms, each sleeve boasting twenty-five tiny pearl buttons from wrist to elbow. There were fifty matching buttons down her back.

  “Dare I hope my Lady is requesting assistance in getting out of it?”

  With a show of supreme indifference to his cousin’s flirting, Alin sank into a chair, folded his arms, and closed his eyes. “Wake me when it’s time to hike back to the boat.”

  Sarra laughed, relaxing for the first time that day. She’d never had any really close male friends, and was discovering how much fun they could be. The warmth was different than that shared with Orlin and her foster-brothers, and despite Val’s occasional outrageousness there was none of the woman/man undercurrent there’d been with Taig. And that idiot Minstrel. Certainly none of them would spend so much time and energy creating just the right dress for her.