The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  Any other woman of Collan’s vast experience would have shouted, slapped him, or stormed off. Sarra Liwellan met him look for look and replied, “Did you ever stop wishing you had?”

  She swept gracefully in front of him to enter the common room first, as if he’d minded his manners and allowed her to precede him. All he could do was grind his teeth and follow.

  Taig had set the room up as a kind of kitchen-dining area, with braziers for cooking and a motley collection of tables and chairs. Bard Hall had escaped the worst of Feiran’s Fires; it rose on its own hill in the middle of a quarter mile of open parkland. Long-ago Bards had built their refuge for silence and solitude. Ambrai had gradually spread out all around the Hall, yet it retained much of its isolation—probably due to the eerie quiet of the dead city. This isolation had not spared the newer brick-and-timber buildings, but the main Hall was relatively unscathed.

  So here there was comparative comfort, with beds enough and food enough, though the latter was monotonously decanted from glass jars in the cellar. That cellar also yielded some very good wines, and what the meals lacked in variety was compensated for by vintages that had aged undisturbed here for over seventeen years.

  As he looked around for an empty seat, Collan realized that Ambrai had died probably about the time Cailet Rille had been born. He himself had been twelve or thirteen, and . . . and . . .

  He stopped before a headache could even threaten.

  Taig crouched near a brazier, turning a succulent fish on the grill. He smiled when he saw them, and said, “Saved this one for you. But I thought I’d be taking a tray to Cailet’s room. Is she all right?”

  “For the moment,” Sarra replied. “Send half of that anyway. And while you’re there, make sure Elo and Desse get some sleep.”

  “As my Lady commands,” he said. “I’ve got some news for you. Imilial Gorrst is here.”

  “Imi? Holy Saints, where?”

  “She and her father just finished eating. They’re off to bed—and they need it, believe me.” Deftly slicing the fish, he forked portions onto two plates and held them up. “Here. Beets and beans on the table over there. Help yourselves.”

  Col hated beets only slightly less than he hated beans. He found a wine bottle and a glass, juggled them and his plate on the way to a chair, and applied himself wholeheartedly to the meal.

  With Sarra and Taig seated just behind him, he had no choice but to listen to their conversation. Who Imilial Gorrst and her father were, he neither knew nor cared. But he was impressed despite himself at the tale of their travels to Ambrai.

  “. . . missed him at Renig. I don’t know how he did it, with Malerrisi crawling all over the place, but he did. He stole a boat and sailed it alone across Blighted Bay—”

  “Kanto Solingirt is almost eighty!”

  “Tell him that!” Taig chuckled. “After he got across, he stole a horse and went overland to the Brai River. Then he stole another boat from a village dock and drifted downstream. He saw Imi just outside town yesterday, and they came in together this evening. I tell you, Sarra, he acts as if all he’d done was go for a stroll!”

  Col wished he had half the old man’s energy.

  “Minstrel Rosvenir,” asked Tarise Nalle, “can you spare a drop or two from that bottle for a thirsty woman?”

  “I’ll gift you with a whole glass, Lady,” he replied, and poured her cup full to the brim.

  “My thanks, but as my husband will tell you, I’m no lady,” she said with a smile, and returned to her seat.

  Taig was now in the middle of another tale. This one, by the tone of his voice, made for less happy telling.

  “. . . sailed to Pinderon with no one the wiser. They sent the books by caravan to friends in Cantratown. Imi is almost certain they’ll be safe until we can claim them.”

  “After all we went through to get them, I hope so! But what about Advar? Isn’t he here, too?”

  “No. I’m sorry, Sarra.”

  Her voice was small and soft with grief as she said, “Tell me.”

  “After hearing what happened at Roseguard and why, they knew to come to the Academy. Somewhere between Pinderon and Ambraishir, a sailor fell from the rigging and broke both legs. Healer Senison did what he could without revealing himself—but the injuries were too extensive. He had to use magic, Sarra.”

  “And they caught him at it,” she said quietly.

  Another brave man—and a damned fool, like the Scholar Mage, Collan thought. What is it with these people, anyway?

  “It was a different ship, he wasn’t posing as Imi’s husband anymore. They pretended they’d only met in Pinderon. But she was suspect just the same. She couldn’t save him, Sarra. She had to denounce him. One of them had to survive. Only they knew about the books.”

  “How did he die?”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “How did he die, Taig?”

  Collan, who didn’t especially want to hear, gave her full marks for her own kind of courage.

  There was the sound of a large and hasty gulp of wine. “By the sword. Quick and clean. Imi demanded it. They wanted to throw him overboard to drown. But she said she’d heard steel was the only sure way to kill a Mage.”

  “I . . . understand.”

  Collan was damned if he did. Self-sacrifice was expected of parents when their children were endangered; although he couldn’t find even the rudiments of such an emotion in himself, he recognized it as simple practicality. But to give your life to save a woman? Moreover, a woman who told your killers how you ought to die?

  Well, maybe he could understand that much. Drowning wasn’t his idea of an appealing death. Straight through the heart with a sword was marginally less awful; as Taig had observed, it was quick and clean. But as far as Col was concerned, living was the only sane option. Selecting the least objectionable way to die from a list of possibilities wasn’t something he’d ever thought about. If the Saints were kind, he wouldn’t have to.

  Sarra and Taig rose then, dinners only half eaten. Understandable, after that conversation. Col wasn’t enthused about finishing his own, but the fish really was too good to waste. He washed a bite down with more wine, emptying the cup, and bent to retrieve the bottle. As he straightened, he heard Tarise gasp and say, “No, don’t come in here!”

  Wondering who among them might be forbidden a share of the communal meal, Col leaned around to see past Taig and Riddon. It was nobody very impressive, just a thin, dark-skinned, middle-aged man with brilliant blue eyes. He didn’t even look like a Mage, until Col met that shining sky-blue gaze.

  And agony exploded in his skull.

  18

  Heavily dosed and hastily reWarded, Collan Rosvenir lay senseless on a cot inches too short for him. Sarra watched as Gorynel Desse pushed himself to his feet and rubbed his eyes.

  “Will he be all right?” she asked.

  “Elomar does excellent work. Mine is even better.” But it sounded forced, and he looked two steps away from collapse.

  The Healer Mage stepped forward to tip a little more of the potion down the Minstrel’s throat. It had been supplied by Riddon Slegin, of all people—a circumstance not yet explained to Sarra’s satisfaction. She opened her mouth to ask, but Desse suddenly swayed on his feet. Elomar caught him, and Val half-carried the old man out the door.

  The two Mages were beyond the limits of their strength—and Cailet and Captal Adennos and Tamos Wolvar must still be dealt with. Sarra clamped her teeth together against a formless, useless cry.

  Elomar stretched out on the other bed, feet protruding over the edge as the Minstrel’s did. “I’ve got to get some rest,” he muttered. His body agreed, it seemed; he shut his eyes and was asleep in one minute flat.

  Sarra fixed on Riddon as her only source of information. Taking his arm, she steered him into the hallway. “I want to know what’s going on here, Risha.” It was an indication of too
much time spent with scandalously independent males that she tacked on, “Please.” It was an indication of the manner of his raising that the word took him by surprise. And she didn’t know what it meant that she disliked the reaction.

  “Someplace private?” he suggested, glancing up and down the hall.

  “My room.”

  Her suite at Roseguard was—had been—the epitome of elegance and comfort. Her chamber at Sleginhold was—and, she hoped, remained—as comfortable in a charmingly rustic way. Her bedroom at Bard Hall was the size of a closet. Six feet by four, it boasted a cot with two blankets and no sheets, and a wobbly chair. A water basin nestled precariously in a wall niche not quite deep enough to hold it, where a statue of St. Feleris the Healer had probably once stood.

  Riddon lowered himself gingerly into the wooden chair, catching his balance as the bad leg tilted him sideways. Sarra sat on the bed and searched his face. This eldest of her little brothers had always presented himself as careless and carefree, a rich and privileged Blood with no more thought in his head than what to wear to the next Saint’s Day Ball. There was much more to Riddon than that, though few knew it. Now there could be no more pretense. He had seen his parents die, and one of his brothers; he had battled a squadron of Council Guard and a Malerrisi-trained Mageborn whom swords could not touch; he had lost his home and everything he knew. At twenty-one, he looked forty.

  “Tell me,” Sarra said, her voice gentle.

  “Collan’s Mageborn.”

  “What?”

  “Well, I think so, anyhow. I mean, what else could it be? He’s Warded, like you. And that girl, Cailet—Sarra, who is she? Why is she so important?”

  “Later,” she said, with no intention of explaining more than the rudiments. “I want to know what you know about Collan Rosvenir.”

  So he told her how the man had arrived at Roseguard bearing a portentous message, and been an unwilling guest, and been knocked over the head by Verald Jescarin—presumably at Desse’s order—before they left through the Ladder.

  “Which doesn’t make any sense unless he is Mageborn,” Riddon said. “The rest of us can go through Ladders without any trouble, but an uneducated Mageborn wouldn’t know what to do even though he had the magic to do it with, so it’d be more difficult for the Mage working the Ladder.”

  She couldn’t disagree with his analysis—though it revealed that he knew more about Magelore than she, which surprised her. Alin had discovered Sarra’s Wards the first time he took her through a Ladder. Desse might have anticipated problems with Rosvenir, and precluded them by a well-timed knock on the head.

  “While we were on Ryka,” Riddon continued, “Father gave me a bottle and said keep it handy at all times. He had one, and I think he gave Tarise another. If Col showed any signs of pain or passed out suddenly, I was to give him a swallow of medicine. I don’t know what’s in it. And I don’t know why seeing Bard Falundir did that to him. I’m sorry, Sarra, I’m not much help.”

  She thought for a while, picking at the frayed edge of a blanket. Then: “I think you’re right, and he is a Warded Mageborn. I’ve heard that sometimes the Wards have to be set so strongly that when they’re—oh, attacked, I guess, by what they’re supposed to Ward against—it causes the person great pain.” She’d done more than hear about it; she’d seen it in Cailet’s tortured face.

  “We’re probably not supposed to know any of this.”

  “Probably not. Risha, how are you doing? And Maugir and Jeymi—there hasn’t been any time, I’m sorry I haven’t—”

  “It’s all right. You’ve got more important things to do. Don’t worry about us, Sarra.”

  “I do, though,” she murmured.

  “You’re not our mother.” He grimaced. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded. Besides, in a way you kind of are, aren’t you? All the Slegin lands are yours now, and governing Sheve.” A wan smile touched his lips. “Not to mention governing us. I promise the Slegin boys won’t be a worry to you, Lady.”

  “Riddon Slegin, if you ever call me that again, I’ll—sweet Saints, what was that?”

  The high-pitched screech echoed once more through the hallway, closely followed by a long, plaintive howl.

  “Tamsa’s kitten and Jeymi’s puppy,” Riddon said. “They’re either fighting or somebody stepped on both of them at once.”

  “That’s not what it sounds like. It’s—” Sarra gasped as white-hot pain lanced through her skull. She felt Riddon’s hands on her shoulders, holding her upright. Then the pain was gone, leaving her with pounding heart and sweat-slicked skin.

  “Sarra? What’s the matter? Sarra!”

  “I’m all right. It’s gone.” She rested her forehead against his arm, breathing deeply. “I’ve never felt—if that was even a hint of what Rosvenir felt—”

  “Are your Wards falling apart?” he asked worriedly.

  “No. At least, I don’t think so.” She straightened up. “But someone’s using powerful magic.”

  “Or Cailet Rille’s got loose again. Sarra, who is she?”

  “The next Mage Captal,” she replied grimly. “And if that was any indication, it may be happening right now.”

  It was not. What the lightning agony indicated had been guessed by Riddon: Cailet’s magic had surged dangerously.

  “The interior casing is gone,” Elomar told Sarra when she arrived outside Cailet’s chamber. “Now she fights exterior Wards.”

  Inside, Desse was struggling once more to contain her enormous power—so potent in that single burst that it had even touched the two terrified animals.

  “But she doesn’t know how,” Sarra said. “So she’s lashing out, trying to find a weak spot. And did, a few minutes ago.”

  “Yes. Neither Gorsha nor I will get the sleep you promised us. We must begin soon.”

  “Riddon,” she said over her shoulder, “find Taig. Bring the Captal and Scholar Wolvar here at once.”

  He hesitated, frowning. “Sarra, they’re both very sick. Wouldn’t it be dangerous to move them?”

  “Bring them, please.” She was now Lady of his Name, though they shared not a single drop of Blood. He obeyed. She thanked Agatine and Orlin for raising dutiful, mannerly sons—and once more was confused by her own annoyance.

  “What about the Minstrel?” she asked Elomar.

  “Recovering.”

  “Him, or his Wards?”

  Elomar arched a brow. “You guessed?”

  “Well, it’s obvious,” she said, not mentioning that it had taken Riddon’s explanation to make her realize it. “He’s Mageborn.”

  “No, he is not.”

  “Elo, don’t story me as if I was still Tamsa’s age!”

  “Collan Rosvenir is not Mageborn.”

  “But—the Wards?”

  “Ask Gorsha.”

  At long last she remembered her lengthy list of issues she’d intended to discuss with the First Sword. Trivial things, now. No, she corrected, they were important. Would become important to her again. Like other people. It was all in the timing.

  “Elo . . . why Bard Falundir? It was sight of him that caused the pain.”

  “That, Lady, I may not say,” he replied formally, and when she frowned and drew breath to protest he held up his hand in the sign that meant Mage-Right.

  She might have argued, had not the door eased open to reveal Gorynel Desse. He leaned heavily against the frame, bleary-eyed and nearly spent.

  “That was . . . close.” His voice was a raw wound. “It must be tonight.”

  Timing. There was no time left.

  “Bring on my victims,” he muttered. “And may Venkelos the Judge show mercy to me.”

  Sarra surprised herself by saying, “And Gorynel the Compassionate watch over us all.”

  19

  “. . . rather hasty patch job, but it ought to hold.”

  Collan figured he ought to w
onder who was talking and what she was talking about, but couldn’t work up much enthusiasm for it.

  “Don’t worry. Guardian Desse says he’ll recover.”

  It occurred to Col that it was himself she was talking about, and curiosity roused enough to pose a query: Just what was he expected to recover from?

  Another voice, deeper but just as female, said, “You’d better leave, old friend. He mustn’t see you—and he may wake any minute now.”

  Got news for you, domna whoever-you-are, Col thought, trying to open his eyes so he could see whoever it was he wasn’t supposed to see. He heard a door closing just as his eyes were opening, and cursed inwardly.

  What he did see dismayed him. Tarise Nalle’s was one of those faces that didn’t take stress well. Collan found himself resenting events that had marred her tawny-gold prettiness. Neither could he help contrasting her with Sarra: the fatigue-bruised eyes, the strained thinness of the lips, the tension in shoulders and neck, all were identical—but where Tarise was made haggard by exhaustion and sorrow, Sarra had seemed refined by it, as metal is purified by fire. Perhaps “redefined” was a better word, his Minstrel’s mind mused, drawing on a thousand songs and finding none of them adequate to Sarra Liwellan.

  Which was, he decided, just about the stupidest thought he’d ever had in his life.

  Shifting his muscles to judge the feel of sheet, blanket, and what he lay on, he found things pretty much as he expected: he was tucked in bed right and proper as a newborn babe, and just as naked. A rush of anger and humiliation finished waking him up.

  “Where the hell is my shirt?”

  Tarise let out a little yelp. “Holy Saints! Don’t do that!”

  “So. You’re the famous Collan Rosvenir. How do you feel?” The second woman walked into his line of sight. Tall, square-jawed, and wide-browed, though her garments were tattered nearly to rags she carried her impressive strength—and her sword—with a supple feminine grace.

  “I’m fine,” he told her. “And I’m getting out of here.”