by Melanie Rawn
Yet there was a useful lesson here and a caution against making the same mistake with her own son.
“You’ll be with me all the time, precious,” she vowed, stroking her belly. “I’ll teach you and love you and we’ll be together every day. And one day when you marry, if you marry, whoever she is will never replace me. Never. Because we’ll be like my father and me, alike in our thoughts and dreams and hopes. More than that: both Malerrisi from the first glint of magic in our eyes.”
She allowed her magic to swell within her mind as the child was swelling within her body. The feeling reminded her of the days before Golonet Doriaz had come to teach her: pregnant with potential magic, her entire being focused on making it grow.
Her senses expanded, giving her the carefree shouts of sailors on the lake, the crisp breeze, the scents of sun-spangled water and new grass—and the call of a powerful Mage Guardian.
12
“I don’t mind saying that was the oddest thing I’ve ever felt in my life.” Elin Alvassy shook her head, short blonde curls bouncing, as she poured more wine for herself and Cailet.
“How so?” Cailet was genuinely curious; she knew what she’d done, but had no idea of its effect. Praise St. Miramili, it had worked; seven Mage Guardians and eight of the Rising faithful from Renig Jail were sleeping in the upstairs rooms and the stables of the Shipwrecked Sailor. They had been two days arriving here, but they had made it.
Five hadn’t. Three Mages had been taken when the Legion first marched through the city; two of the Rising struck out on their own from hiding and were seized. Taig mentioned going back for them, but he knew as well as the rest did that the five had already been executed.
Elin glanced around the taproom, a little too obvious in her desire not to be overheard. The place was mildly populated: local farmers and their husbands, the blacksmith and his apprentice from down the Coast Road, and a trio of giggling sisters celebrating an eighteenth Birthingday. Keler Neffe and Tiron Mossen were making themselves agreeable to the honoree while Taig traded stories with the blacksmith and Elomar sat apart with Lusira—both to keep the men present from eyeing her overmuch and to watch the back door unhindered. Cailet herself sat midway down a splintery bench that ran the length of the side wall, with the space between tables in front of her and a clear view of the door to her right. The positioning wasn’t something she’d even had to think about; another bit of the Bequest, but she doubted it came from the Scholarly Captal Adennos.
Sand-floored, low-ceilinged, reeking of stale wine, and fitfully illuminated by the fire in the central pit, the Shipwrecked Sailor was as dismal a place as Cailet ever hoped to see. But she couldn’t fault either the food—classic country cooking, better even than at Ostinhold—or the hospitality. Mention of Collan Rosvenir was responsible for this last. His name had worked a remarkable change on the owner, whose initial suspicions and justifiable outrage at being awakened past Second were transformed into an effusive welcome. Domna Kelia Theims and her four dark-eyed daughters had bustled about until nearly Third, preparing a hot meal, changing the sheets on their own beds to accommodate the travelers, and plying them with questions about their beloved Minstrel. Cailet began by wondering which of them Col slept with on his visits, and ended by concluding he shared his favors with all five.
She—or maybe it was Gorynel Desse—admired his energy.
Inspection completed and voice lowered, Elin said, “It was almost a compulsion. Something inside that demanded I find you. And—this will sound thoroughly bizarre, but—I also felt as if I was a compass needle and you were magnetic south.”
“So wherever I went, you’d be drawn to me.”
Her unacknowledged cousin nodded. “It did get incredibly frustrating, though. By the time we were able to leave hiding, the focus was changing. Then we had to wait until the gates opened in the morning.” She chuckled suddenly, showing a hint of Sarra’s deep dimples. “If I never do another Invisibility Ward, it’ll be too soon!”
She’d cast the Summons long enough for it to be felt, then stopped. But it was lingering about her person, and whether or not it would fade completely was anyone’s guess. She cursed her inability to cancel it. All the words and Wards and workings—but maybe this was how a Captal’s Summons was supposed to function. If only she were a true Captal, she’d know.
She could never admit her failings. They had to think she knew what she was doing—even when she felt as if she was sleepwalking. Sometimes all this was a kind of waking dream anyway. One thing she knew, however—and, on analytical reflection, realized that this was what had prompted her to use the spell to begin with. Mage Guardians would know it for what it was. Malerrisi would not.
Pier Alvassy had also used the image of a compass when he and Keler and Tiron arrived at the St. Tamas Shrine. They’d already known to come there, naturally, but Pier avowed that even if they hadn’t known, they would’ve known. That was why Cailet had felt justified in leaving the shrine and Renig behind her. The Mages would follow. To hear them tell it, they had no choice but to follow. Elin’s tale pretty much matched those told by the others. Pulled east, they slipped out when the gates opened to let the morning produce carts in. Some Mages, able to cast a Folding spell, had come quickly; some, like Elin, had to walk the whole way without benefit of magic.
Fifteen former prisoners were safe now. Cailet’s own little coterie—Elin, Pier, Taig, Elo, Lusira, Keler, Tiron, and Falundir—was complete.
Except for Sarra and Collan. Neither would have felt the summons. They knew to come here; the tavern had been Col’s suggestion. But they wouldn’t know where to follow. And that meant Cailet couldn’t leave the Shipwrecked Sailor. She’d send the others on their way tomorrow, on foot and on a couple of the small fishing boats that worked Blighted Bay. But she could not—would not—leave without Sarra and Col.
Which presented difficulties. Imilial Gorrst had given her a taste of how Mage Guardians behaved when they perceived their Captal to be in danger. She had a brief vision of trailing all of them behind her as she walked into Ryka Court, and made a face.
“The wine’s not that bad,” Elin smiled. “Unless you’re used to the finest Cantrashir reds, or the shabby they make in Bleynbradden. Bottled sunlight, my grandfather called it, despite the silly name.”
“It’s a slurring of something older,” Cailet responded absently. “Like Mikleine and Maklyn—the same Name long ago, only the original wasn’t either.”
“Truly told? That’s interesting.”
“Bards call it language shift, I think.” She changed the subject because she had no idea where—or who—the information came from. “Will you feel up to traveling again tomorrow? With Folding, it’s not that long a trip to Combel.”
Elin’s pretty face, reminiscent of Sarra’s but with the green Desse eyes, developed a suspicious frown. “Where you go, I go,” she warned. “And that’s true of the other Mages as well.”
Cailet gave a sigh and rubbed her shoulder. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
13
The Legion was on the march. Having disposed of five recaptured Mages and traitors of the Rising, they split into squadrons and began a thorough search of the surrounding countryside.
Sarra and Collan were about three miles ahead of them.
Taking the Coast Road to the Shipwrecked Sailor was not an option. That would lead the soldiers straight to Cailet. So they turned due north, and for two days and two nights walked the brown and gray scrub hills toward Combel.
Sarra’s boots, chosen with the rest of the Guard uniform for fit, supported her bad ankle well enough to make a fast pace only mildly painful. Collan made do with a pair of clogs filched from a doorstep back in Renig. His heels were spared blisters, but by the second night his toes were raw and bleeding. From dusk until full dark he immersed his feet in an inch-deep trickle of water muddied by sheep earlier in the day. When Sarra tried to give him her socks, he laughed, ask
ing if she thought the seams would survive his big toes.
What food they had brought with them from Renig was gone by the third morning. Col was fairly sure there was a small holding up the road that cut across to Blighted Bay; after all, somebody close by must own the herd of sheep. But late that afternoon it began to rain, cutting visibility to half a mile. It wasn’t an acid storm, Sarra assured Col before it hit; she’d learned what one of those smelled like as it approached. This rain came from a stray cloudbank drifting over St. Deiket’s Blessing, the mountains that were Ambraishir’s border with and protection from The Waste.
Clean water wouldn’t scar them, but they were well on the way to drowning by sunset. The hills were curtained in silver rain beneath a dark gray sky. Gulleys filled, overflowed, flooded, washed away topsoil in rivers of mud. There were no sheltering trees and no sign of human habitation—not even a shepherd’s hut. Col would have settled for a sheep to hide under.
Sarra fought her way to the top of another rise and turned to face him. “Is my hair clean yet?” she shouted over the pounding rain.
He gave her a weary grin. “You’ll be blonde again by Twelfth!”
“We can’t stay out here all night! There’s got to be someplace to go!”
“Why do you think they call it The Waste?”
By the time they topped the next hill, after several slips and a spill or two in the rushing mud, the sun was no longer even a pretense in the west. Wordlessly, Sarra took Col’s hand. Hers was very small and very cold, and for the first time in his life he felt that his own was too big and too clumsy. He could coax the most delicate music from even a child-sized lute or mandolin, but he was now almost afraid of breaking the slight fingers curled in his palm.
A moronic thought, but he couldn’t shake it. What the hell was she doing here, anyhow? A Blooded Lady like her, born to wealth and privilege—she should’ve been snug and warm before a roaring hearth, wearing a velvet gown, her hair all in loose curls and a book of poetry in her hands.
Ah, but she had a conscience, he reminded himself, trying to walk and not slide his way down the hill. She wanted to change things. Most women contented themselves with running the lives of their husbands and children. Saints save him from a woman who wanted to run the whole damned world—after she’d changed it to suit her, of course.
“Collan?” she yelled suddenly. “Is that a light?”
He squinted into the dark and driving rain. “Where?”
“That way—no, more to the left—”
“I don’t see anyth—wait!” He shook his face clear of water. “There!”
“I thought I was imagining it! Come on!”
Shivering now, drenched to the bone, they slogged along a ravine three feet above flowing mud. The light wavered, vanished, reappeared. All at once Collan felt packed earth underfoot: soaked but distinctly different from the soggy hillside soil. It couldn’t remotely be termed a road—sheep track was about the height of its dignity—but it led toward the flickering golden light.
Perhaps a quarter of a mile later he saw a house. The path they were on intersected with another, and tucked to one side of the crossing was a rustic two-story cottage. The light came from an oil lantern on a hook beside the door. White stone walls, narrow dark windows, thickly tiled roof, the dwelling looked old enough to be a relic from before The Waste War. Col experienced a fleeting, wistful vision of the cozy chambers above the taproom of the Shipwrecked Sailor, banished it with a sigh, and resigned himself to straw, icy drafts, and rats.
At least it had a roof. After two nights of dirt beds, straw sounded great. And almost anything—even with rats—was preferable to Renig Jail.
He tugged Sarra’s hand and pointed. She nodded numbly, hair plastered to her skull and rain streaming down her face. She freed her fingers and went to open the door, calling out, “Anyone here?”
Silence. Darkness. Col unhooked the lantern and joined Sarra in the tiny hallway, closing the door behind him. “Nobody home. Think they’d mind . . . ?”
“Probably. But I mind drowning.”
Col raised the lantern to have a look around. A narrow hall ran down the middle of the house. A white iron staircase doglegged at a small landing, then rose to a wooden balcony above the front door. The steps were punctured in a floral pattern to ease their weight, and each bar supporting the banister ended in a little rosebud finial. Flecks of red, yellow, orange, pink, and lavender paint clung to the roses, and various shades of green to the leaves.
To the right through a doorless opening was a huge, cold, empty kitchen with a hearth big enough to roast an elk. Two elks. Sarra investigated while Collan stepped across the hall to the opposite room, which was strewn with splintered trestle tables and benches.
“The cupboard,” Sarra reported, “is bare.”
“Upstairs, then.”
They climbed, dripping rain. She opened the right-hand door; he opened the left. The large room was empty but for an impressive array of cobwebs and an ancient iron-strapped chest secured by a formidable lock.
“Col. . . .”
There was an odd note in her voice, as if once again she required a witness to justify what she thought she saw. He followed her voice across the landing. In the doorway he stopped, blinked, and stared.
It was a chamber fit for a Grand Duchess of Domburronshir, if there’d been any such personage after Veller Ganfallin. A gigantic oaken bed dominated, framing a mattress thick enough to sink a rowboat. The swagged hangings were of heavy gold-on-green brocade. The matching spread was quilted in bullion thread, its intricate patterns piercing through the contributions of a whole flock of geese. Thick Cloister rugs covered most of the stone floor in darkly glowing colors. Atop them were a pair of cushioned chairs, a low table, and a second, smaller bed over in a recessed alcove. A similar alcove on the other side of the fireplace was partitioned off by a carved wooden screen. The hearth, mate to the one directly below in the kitchen and using the same chimney, was piled with wood just begging to be lit into a conflagration.
Col fished in a sodden pocket for his matchbox and crouched down to do the honors.
“Do you believe in this?” Sarra asked softly.
“I believe I’m about to get warm for the first time all day.”
Slowly, almost as if each word must be forced from her lips, she said, “Somebody lives here, despite the neglect downstairs.”
Col smiled satisfaction as the kindling caught. “Do you have any money left?”
“Not much, but it’s a nice thought.” She peeled open a wet vest pocket and came up with a small handful of coins.
“What I had in mind wasn’t paying the owners, but flipping for the bed.”
With a grimace, she tossed him a copper. “Why would I have thought differently? Everything else we have is stolen, so why not the bed as well?”
He sighed. “I had two choices. Maybe get arrested for stealing the clothes, or definitely get arrested for outraging the public morals. Walking around town half-naked will do that.”
“Yet you’re the one who shoved my face in how poor everyone is!”
She must be tired; it was too easy to top her. “You’re the one who’s going to change it all, and you’d never have made it out of Renig without me, so the people I took this stuff from will come out ahead in the end.”
“You have a highly individualized notion of ethics.”
“If you’re waiting for me to be offended, you’ve got a long wait.” He inspected the coin. “Head or—uh, bottom?”
“I’ll never know why they made the new cutpiece so vulgar. Head.”
St. Delilah’s proud profile turned up; the noble, naked wrestler’s backside turned down. As the fire warmed the room, Col stripped, too, and draped his clothes to dry. Sarra’s came sailing across the room to land at his feet; he grinned to himself, but didn’t swing around to look and embarrass her.
Chores done,
caution made him slide home the door’s dead bolt before he pulled back the covers and snuggled into his feather-studded alcove nest for the night. He doused the lantern, leaving it near his bed. “Sleep well.”
“Mmmm,” came the drowsy reply.
He lay back, watching fire-thrown shadows on the beamed ceiling. Straw, drafts, and rats? But for the lack of a real bathroom (there was a chamberpot behind the screen) and the lack of a dinner, this was all he could ask. Warm, dry, blissfully comfortable, with a fire to last all night and not a drop of rain leaking through the roof . . . a splendid refuge, indeed. . . .
14
Cailet was right about the Mages. They refused to set one foot down any road whatsoever unless she went with them.
The resistance was led by an old man who’d been a Captal’s Warder for thirty years. Gavirin Bekke, seventy-four this summer and retired since before Leninor Garvedian’s death, was a Warrior Mage to his arthritic fingertips and knew what was what when it came to protecting a Captal.
Moreover, he was a collateral descendant of the Caitirin Bekke who had built the tower at the Academy, he had served as a Warder under First Sword Gorynel Desse, and his father’s cousin’s son had at one time been Desse’s Swordsecond. Cailet, dim recognition teasing at her mind, knew enough about him to know that he meant what he said when he announced that where the Captal was, there too would he be. (She also felt mild shock that he had grown so old—a reaction based on Gorsha’s eternally youthful image of himself, no doubt.)
So here she was on a rainy spring morning, the fifth day of Lovers’ Moon, on a fishing boat plowing the waves of Blighted Bay. She was dry enough in the tiny wheelhouse, but staying out of the way in such cramped quarters was a problem. Two other boats were similarly packed with refugees, the younger ones ready to help with the catch in return for passage across to Ambraishir. Cailet had given startled permission for several of the Mages to cast a Come and Eat! Ward into the water to attract the fish. She hadn’t known that was possible. Then again, none of her four benefactors had known the first thing about fish.