The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  “I know. You’re too good with a sword to have killed them.”

  “They would be, if I’d wanted them dead.”

  “I know,” he repeated quietly. “We have to leave now, Cai.”

  Sarra would hate herself all her life for being unable to go to her sister. But she couldn’t do it. She just couldn’t. She could not keep the Wraith of Gorynel Desse from enshrouding that slight, golden-haired girl.

  Taig knew her before. He knew Cailet. The person I’ll know isn’t just my little sister. She’s Alin Ostin and Tamos Wolvar and Lusath Adennos and Gorynel Desse. Taig can see the Cailet she was, and still is somewhere inside. He can reach her. But I’ll never know her as she was before. There’s too much knowledge in the way.

  A familiar solid strength grazed her senses: Collan Rosvenir. “Come on,” he said softly. “Pier and Keler have taken the others out. We’ve got to get Cailet away from here before someone comes.”

  “Yes,” she said mindlessly. “Of course.”

  Out. The warm sunlight of Renig’s central circle, the cool shadows of side streets; the scents of old stone and fresh bread and the sea; the calls of street vendors to indifferent customers, aggravated fathers to wayward children, sailors on deck to their mates high in the riggings. Sarra was remotely aware of all these, but nothing truly touched her senses until she emerged from a darkened alley and saw the sun-sparked ocean.

  To sail it as she had sailed with Mai Alvassy—to come to know her sister as she had her cousin. Just to talk with Cailet, alone, with no one and nothing demanding their time. Confessing, confiding; sharing their lives and hopes and dreams; learning who and what they had been, were now, and wanted to be. There would be no need for those Others, no need for the Mage Captal to work spells or cast Wards or even so much as make a decision.

  Until Ryka.

  She understood then a little of what must happen to Collan. Ryka was a word that caused her pain.

  Sarra gripped Col’s wrist. “Where is she? Where’s Cailet?”

  “Right up there ahead of us. She’s all right. Taig’s gone to find a ship—”

  “No,” Sarra managed, her breathing sketchy and her eyes wincing from the brilliant sun flash of the waves. “We mustn’t go to Ryka.”

  She could feel him staring down at her, heard him clear his throat. “The idea doesn’t thrill me, either, but—”

  “Then help me,” she whispered. “She can’t go there. She’ll die.”

  “What?” He turned her from the bright sea, taking her shoulders in his hands. “What are you talking about? What do you know?”

  “Help me,” she repeated. Forcing herself to look at him, she thought distractedly how incredibly blue his eyes were as suspicion and speculation replaced his puzzled frown. “I’m Mageborn, too,” she said, trying to steady her voice and nerves under that piercingly blue gaze. “I don’t know any spells, but you have to believe that there is magic in me—”

  “And it’s telling you not to go to Ryka.” A sigh hissed between his teeth. A moment later he muttered, “How did I get myself involved with you people?”

  He let go of her, and without his supporting hands she swayed, dizzy. The pain inside her stilled. Catching her balance, she started across the cobbles to Cailet, who leaned against the wooden rails separating boardwalk from beach. Her sister was staring out to sea: southwest, toward Ryka.

  “Cailet—”

  The pale golden head turned. Tousled and exhausted, the Mage Captal looked barely twelve years old. Except for her eyes—fierce with black fire, terrifying in their hunger. Sarra stumbled on uneven pavement, falling to her knees as if a wind had slammed into her back.

  And a wind it was—sudden, unnatural, staggering everyone in sight, swinging shop signs full around on creaking iron hinges and tearing at skirts and cloaks and coifs. Canvas sails ripped from repair frames on the beach. Drooping pennants snapped to life and tore loose from poles. The boardwalk fencing groaned as it shook and splintered. Sarra scrambled to her feet and was blown toward her sister just as the wood gave way. The two of them fell ten feet onto the packed rocky sand below.

  8

  Though the memory lacked details, Collan knew that a strong wind had saved his life once. He felt its assault as a warning now. Taig Ostin lurched against him and only luck kept him upright. He swung around, eyes watering as fine grains of dust needled his face, and saw Sarra and Cailet tumble through the shattered railing.

  “Get these people to shelter!” he yelled at Lusira Garvedian, and vaulted the fence. He landed hard, knees cracking as they flexed to absorb the shock of impact. Protected here from the wind, he ran to the tangle of fair hair and dark cloaks lying too motionless on the sand.

  He separated them carefully and turned them over. Blood seeped from a gash on Cailet’s forehead; when he tried to coax her arm from its outflung position, she cried out. Sarra sat up on her own at the sound, biting her lips white as she reached for her ankle.

  “Broken?” Col asked, cradling the younger girl’s head in one hand while he dabbed at the blood with the edge of her cloak.

  “I d-don’t think so. Hurts, though. Is she all right?”

  “I think you each cushioned the other’s fall. Lucky. How’re your ribs? Take a breath. Good. Now a deeper one.”

  She did so, and nodded. “I’m fine. It’s just my ankle and my shoulder.” She ran gentle fingers along Cailet’s ribs, pressing lightly and watching for reaction. “She doesn’t seem bruised, either. What’s wrong with her arm?”

  “Sore shoulder, seems like. Where’s that Healer Mage?”

  “Probably flat on his face in the street with everyone else. Listen—it’s still howling up there. But how could any wind blow in that fast?”

  “And you say you’re a Mageborn,” he retorted. The split on Cailet’s brow was clean now—not even an inch long, probably wouldn’t scar, but head wounds did bleed like a sieve.

  “Then that Advocate wasn’t the only Malerrisi in Renig?” She let loose with a few choice phrases that made Collan blink. Were Blooded First Daughters supposed to know words like that? She finished with, “How could I have been so stupid?”

  “Not stupid,” he soothed. “Just wrong. Happens to the rest of us all the time. Got anything clean to put on this? They gave me a clean coif this morning, but this shirt hasn’t seen soap and water in weeks.”

  “I spent the night in jail, too, remember? My clothes are as filthy as yours.” She began tearing the sleeve off Cailet’s shirt. “What do you mean, ‘wrong’?”

  He’d known the instant he said it that he should’ve kept his mouth shut. How to explain that he knew the wind was not an attack but a warning? Well, y’see, First Daughter, when I was a little boy. . . .

  Cailet stirred and began to waken, which spared Collan’s having to answer. “Easy, kitten,” he soothed.

  Sarra leaned closer. “Cailet? Does anything hurt?”

  Long, pale eyelashes lifted from startlingly black eyes. “You mean something in particular, not just everything in general?”

  Col grinned down at her. “You’re all right.”

  “That’s your opinion.” She used her good arm to push herself up, and gingerly rotated the other shoulder. “It’s sore, but nothing cracks. That’s good, right?”

  “Right.” He took off the dark brown coif the Watch had made him put on that morning and drew it down over her head. “This will hold the bandage in place.”

  “Bandage? Oh,” she added, flinching as he eased the material down over the small wad of white shirt on her forehead.

  “Hide her hair inside it,” Sarra said suddenly.

  Col glanced at her. She was looking up toward the invisible boardwalk with an odd expression on her face—like the one when she’d told him they mustn’t go to Ryka. He opened his mouth to ask what she was talking about, then realized that they both could sense things that had no rational explanati
on. Did that make him a Mageborn, too? No, Cailet had said he wasn’t. A definite relief. . . .

  “They’ll look for a blonde girl in a Council Guard uniform,” Cailet said.

  Sarra nodded. Col figured that if the Mage Captal trusted this woman’s instincts, he might as well do the same. He finished tying the laces of the coif at Cailet’s chin, and then sat back on his heels.

  “But they’ll recognize us prisoners immediately,” he reminded Sarra. “And nobody with eyes would ever believe you’re a boy.”

  He didn’t understand why she tensed at the words, as if they’d caused pain. Cailet gave a brief snort, distracting him.

  “Thanks, Minstrel,” she said wryly.

  “Listen!” Sarra sat straighten. “The wind’s stopped.”

  “I’ve yet to figure out who started it,” Cailet responded. “But I wish I knew how. We could get to Ryka in no time with that kind of wind in the sails.”

  “Nobody’s going to Ryka.” Col held up a palm to forestall her protest. “Sarra says it’s a bad idea and I agree with her. We can go anyplace else you fancy, kitten, but not to Ryka.”

  “But I—”

  “He’s right,” Sarra stated flatly. “Anywhere but Ryka.”

  Nearly invisible brows drew together over Cailet’s sharp, straight little nose. “I’m Mage Captal,” she began.

  “And do you forget who I am?” Sarra retorted.

  “That doesn’t give you the authority—”

  “Doesn’t it just!”

  The angular, bony jaw acquired a stubborn jut. “We’re going to Ryka!”

  “We are not!”

  Tempted to clap a hand over each mouth, Col interrupted with, “Fascinating as you ladies are, I don’t give a damn who either of you thinks she is. The only place we’re going right now is to find Elomar. The way you’re talking, you both got all the sense knocked out of you. Come on.”

  He stood, helped Cailet up, and when she was secure on her feet reached for Sarra’s hand. When she set her right foot to the sand, she would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her around the waist.

  “Put me down. I can walk.”

  “Sure you can.” Swinging her up into his arms, he started to the boardwalk steps a few hundred feet away. Cailet followed, trying not to limp. “By the way, did you stop to think what people are going to see in that courtroom?”

  “What do you mean?” Sarra demanded. “A Justice, a clerk, and a Watch officer, and a dead Malerrisi.”

  “A dead Advocate,” he corrected. “With no evidence of her being Malerrisi. And that’s once they get past a whole squadron of bleeding Council Guards.”

  “I shouldn’t have done it,” Cailet said at his left shoulder. “There were other ways—”

  “You did the best you knew,” Collan said firmly. “The mistake was killing the Advocate.”

  “It was not a mistake!” Sarra exclaimed. “She would’ve killed Cailet!”

  “Tactical error, then. Stop wriggling, First Daughter.” He bounced her in his embrace to emphasize the point, then asked, “Why do I have to keep telling you that?”

  He came to an abrupt halt as Elomar Adennos simply appeared before him. Rationally, Col knew an Invisibility Ward had just been dropped; irrationally, he was so startled he nearly dropped Sarra.

  “Hide,” was all the Healer said, and they flattened themselves against the rocky wall below the boardwalk.

  “Spell us Invisible,” Sarra whispered to Cailet. The girl shut her eyes and bit both lips bloodless, but at length shook her head.

  “I can’t, Sarra, I’m too tired.”

  “Elo?”

  “Only for myself. Hush.”

  Boot heels thundered a regimented rhythm on the boardwalk and came to a smart two-stomp halt. Geridon gelded! thought Collan in shock. Nobody marches like that but the Ryka Legion! He tried to hollow out a man-sized hole in the stones with his spine, his grip on Sarra tightening.

  One set of boots was out of step, drumming furiously to catch up while their owner barked out breathless orders. “—everyone, understand? I’ll have ’em all on murder charges, every motherless one of ’em! Get the rest of your people offloaded and to work! And no more shit about the wind keeping you from landing sooner! You’ll make up for it now!”

  Justice Lunne had evidently woken up in a perfectly foul temper.

  Another voice, rigidly controlled, said, “We are here to transport Mage Guardians to Ryka for trial, not to clean up your mess. The Council—”

  “—couldn’t find their own sorry asses with a mirror! You do as I say or I’ll have your ass up on charges!”

  “The law prohibits interference with the Legion.”

  “You’re lookin’ at the law in Renig, girlie! I’ll interfere as I damn please! Now, move!”

  Part of Collan hoped they’d go on arguing so the Mages had more time to escape. Part of him wished they’d go away before they heard the pounding of his heart. And part of him wanted desperately to be a Mageborn so he could Ward the broken section of wooden fence with a Nothing Down There But Sand And Seaweed.

  Well, he’d been right about the wind, anyhow. It got Sarra and Cailet out of the way—not exactly subtle, but a cut forehead and a wrenched ankle healed while a slit throat wouldn’t. More importantly, the wind had delayed the landing of the Legion’s ship. He could just imagine what might have occurred had the soldiers marched up the wharf just as their little group marched down it.

  Thing was, where had the wind come from?

  After a few more threats, Justice Lunne prevailed. The boots thudded away. Col heard something about searching the beach, and held his breath.

  “Justice, the area is obviously deserted, but you’re welcome to sift the sand for renegade Mages if you like. Good morning.”

  More angry footsteps. After what Collan judged to be a sufficient length of time, he whispered, “What now—wait for the tide and then float out to sea?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Sarra replied, her voice pitched to his ears alone. “Drowning would suit you. We’re the problem, you know. Elo can Ward himself Invisible, and Cailet doesn’t look like Cailet anymore. They can get away. But you and I are recognizable. And I can’t walk.”

  He thought for a moment, then whispered, “Back me up, Sarra. I can get rid of them.”

  Cailet was inching her way over. She looked like a pretty adolescent boy in her brown coif and Guard regimentals—young even for the lowest rank, but certainly unidentifiable as Mage Captal, let alone female.

  “Get out of here,” Collan told her. “You and the Healer are getting in the way of two lovers looking for a little privacy.”

  Black eyes widened. He felt Sarra twitch a little in his arms, but her voice was cool and steady.

  “We’ll meet up later. Go on, Cai.”

  Elomar was nodding. “Meet where?”

  Col was ready. “The Shipwrecked Sailor, down the Coast Road to Blighted Bay. Tell the owner I sent you.”

  With a swift shake of her head, Cailet said, “I can’t leave you—and Elo has to look at Sarra’s ankle—”

  “You have a dozen Mages depending on you, Captal,” Sarra Said.

  “Go on,” Col urged. “We’ll be fine. I’ve gotten out of worse than this.” Setting Sarra down to balance on her good leg, he said, “I’m about to sweep you off your feet, First Daughter. Strip down to your shirt and trousers.”

  She opened her mouth, then shut it and did as told. Smart girl.

  “I won’t leave you!” Cailet caught at Sarra’s hand.

  “Can you swim?” the older girl demanded.

  “What?”

  “Swim, damn it! That’s the other alternative! Do as I say, Cailet.”

  “Captal.” The Healer Mage tugged Cailet’s arm—the sore one; she winced. “We must hurry.”

  “Stop calling me that!” But she went with him, and even after
he vanished beside her (which ranked right up there with Lady Lilen’s cactus as one of the most incredible things Col had ever seen), Cailet kept looking back over her shoulder. At last both were gone up the stairs, and Collan sighed his relief.

  Leaning back against the wall, he took off his boots. Then he unbuttoned his pants. “Better hope that if we get caught, the soldiers are women.”

  Sarra turned her back. “So?”

  “Distraction, First Daughter. Distraction.”

  Her reaction was half choke, half laugh, and all insult. “One look at you in all your glory and they’ll forget their own Names, is that it?”

  Only one response to that. “Well, have a look for yourself,” he invited, kicking sand over their discarded clothing.

  “Thank you, no,” she replied. “I prefer to remain as optimistic as possible about my chances of surviving this.”

  One thing about Blooded-First-Daughter Liwellan, Col mused: she was never slow with a reply. “Aw, just one little peek. It’d do wonders for your confidence, I promise.” Then, without warning, he caught her up in his arms again. She spluttered; he grinned; she glared.

  “I don’t like you,” she hissed.

  “Sure, you do.” Striding swiftly down the beach, he stayed close to the wall so the short cliff would hide them from anyone on the boardwalk above.

  “No, I don’t.” Wriggling a little, she added, “This is ludicrous.”

  “You have a better idea? Dignified can equal dead, First Daughter. And remember, you don’t have an identity disk anymore. If we’re caught, it has to be in the most improbable circumstances we can think up. That way, the obvious gets overlooked.”

  “Oh, now I understand!” she said sweetly. “No circumstances could be more improbable than me disporting myself with you!”

  He told himself he was too preoccupied with finding just the right place to be bothered thinking up an answer; besides, he really ought to let her score at least once. Masculine generosity in such cases allowed women to continue the smug delusion that they were superior. He hurried toward the fishing wharf, a narrow projection of wood with a few benches at its far end. Quick-footing it past the beach steps, he ducked beneath the wharf and waded into sluggish surf.