by Melanie Rawn
Sarra was on her feet now, trembling with anger. “So you think ethics are a luxury you can’t afford?”
“Once this is over—”
“—then you’ll have time to be as ethical as any Captal who ever lived?”
“You weren’t prissy about ethics when you killed the Advocate!”
“Who was about to kill you!”
“Where’s the difference, Sarra?” she cried. “Where’s the line? If you kill to protect me, how is that different from me killing to protect you and all the others?”
“Magic,” Elomar said.
Cailet swung around to face him, his uplifted face clear and cool by moonlight. “She killed with a knife and not with a spell, is that it? She’s got no magic to use. I do. And I’ll use it as I need to, and if that means killing with it to preserve what we are—”
“You will destroy what we are.” He was serene, and a little sad. “Perhaps worse, you will destroy yourself. There are reasons for our ethic, Captal. Reasons why we do not weave Nets as the Malerrisi do. We will build your brick wall for you, but do not command anything more. It will not be done.”
Outright defiance, delivered in a calm tone that struck a spark off her temper. “Damn me as you will,” she said through gritted teeth. “But I am your Captal, and you’ll do as I say, Mage.”
“Cailet.” She heard Taig’s voice as if from a great distance. “Cai, listen to yourself.”
“What’s the matter—I’m not being me again? Who would you prefer, Taig? I do a wonderful impersonation of Gorsha Desse!”
“And an even better one of a Malerrisi First Lord.”
He’s got you there, Captal, came an infuriating whisper in her mind.
“Shut up, all of you! All of you!” she cried, and ran from the balcony, breaking Elomar’s Ward with an abruptness that left him gasping.
She took the steps of the Double Spiral two and three at a time, to the third floor where earlier Sarra had shown her the family’s vast apartments. She knew who had lived in each: Grandmother and Grandfather in the eight-room suite to her right; Alvassy and Desse kin scattered along the left; her parents in chambers overlooking the river and the Mage Academy. It was here that Cailet now went, the place where Maichen Ambrai had lived with her husband and conceived three daughters, the place she’d fled one night with Sarra’s hand in hers and Cailet barely a quiver in her womb.
She could see them, mother and daughter, through Gorsha’s eyes. The memory from the black mirror. And the other memory, of Maichen turning her face away and refusing even to look upon her newborn Mageborn child.
The room had burned, but not as thoroughly as the rest of Ambrai. The beams of the coffered ceiling were intact, if stained by smoke and soot. Cailet felt tears sting her eyes and told herself it was the lingering char of wooden furniture, carpets, draperies, clothes.
She crossed the littered floor to the windows and glared across the river to the moonlit ruin of the Academy. Had Auvry Feiran stood here, gloating that those who had rejected his presence for so long were forced to accept his presence in the Ambrai First Daughter’s bed?
How could she know that they’d forbidden him the Academy grounds for a long time, fearful of his magic? How could she know that even after he was acknowledged a Prentice, instead of staying to become a Listed Mage, he’d left Ambrai behind for twelve years?
Only to return and become the husband of Maichen Ambrai. And father her three daughters. Glenin, born on St. Chevasto’s Day—and there was portent enough for anyone. Sarra, who would be twenty-three years old next week. And herself. Cailet. Third daughter. Afterthought. Accident. Mistake. Born in Wildfire, conceived in lust but not love—
On the last day of the year, Gorsha murmured. The Wraithenday. I knew when it happened.
Did the magic shake inside you? she demanded bitterly, sarcastically. Did the stars tremble in the skies?
Nothing so trite. Very simply, my dear, their door was locked and Warded all day. He wanted her to come with him; she wanted him to stay. Neither convinced the other. And you’re wrong about how it happened. They made love with the last of their love, Cailet. They made you.
“What a comfort,” she said aloud. “How long did it take her to learn to hate him? And me?”
She never hated either of you.
“She wouldn’t even look at me!”
Silence.
“Why should she want to?” she said at last, too weary to deny it any longer. “I was an accident and a mistake. I killed her. And look how I turned out. I’m not worth it, Gorsha. . . .”
The Ladymoon was setting, and the angle of silvery light revealed the Mage Academy in all its wreckage. It was the place she would have lived as Captal, the center of Mageborn life on Lenfell. Of ethical Mageborn life, she reminded herself. Maybe it was a good thing the Academy lay in ruins. She was unworthy of it, of the hundred Captals and the thousands upon thousands of Mages who had gone before her.
Of the sacrifice of her mother’s life. . . .
“Cai. I’m sorry.”
She’d been expecting Sarra, not Taig. She didn’t face him. Couldn’t.
A few hesitant steps; a silence; then: “I don’t know that I’ll ever get used to this. But I promise I’ll try harder from now on.”
She shook her head, mute.
“You’re still so young,” he murmured. “No matter what happened to make you Captal, you’re still hardly more than a child.” More footsteps, one of them crunching something broken and burned behind her. “You haven’t lived very much of your own life yet. You’re still learning. And I’m not helping much, am I?”
She choked out his name. “Taig—”
“No, let me finish apologizing.” His voice was very near now, just over her shoulder. “Not for what I said, but for how I said it.”
“It’s all right,” she said thickly. “I understand. I deserved it.”
“Yes, you did,” Taig replied, and he was the elder brother again, scolding her for her own good. Then he spoiled it by saying, “But I shouldn’t have said it in front of other people. A Captal deserves more respect.”
“But I don’t.” She gathered her courage and turned to look at him. Tall and hawk-nosed and tired and silver-eyed—and all she had ever wanted since she could remember, all the solace she’d ever run to find when she was in need. “I was wrong, Taig. You and Sarra and Elo were right. Keep at me about it. Keep correcting me. Who knows, maybe one day you won’t have to. Maybe I’ll learn how to be a Captal.”
“Just be Cailet,” he told her with a tender smile. “You can trust her to know what’s right.”
“Do you?”
His brows arched as if he’d never given it a second thought. “Of course.”
She bit both lips. “Taig?”
“What is it, Caisha?”
“Why does it have to be so cold?”
He gathered her into his arms. She hid her face against his chest. Warmth enough, but borrowed. Not really her own to claim.
After a time she pulled away and tilted her head back, trying to smile. “Has Sarra found us someplace to sleep for the night?”
“One floor down. It’s a storeroom for antique Cloister rugs too valuable for even you Ambrais to walk on.”
“Iron door?” she guessed.
“Steel, in between layers of cedar. They’re unrolling the rugs now.” He smiled. “You ought to be very comfortable. I remember waking up quite a few mornings to find you curled up on my carpet, sound asleep.”
“Taig! I’m too old to be afraid of the dark anymore!”
“All grown up now, eh?”
Cailet shrugged. “I want to stay up here for a while, Taig.”
Taking her shoulders in his hands, he said, “Don’t be too long,” and leaned down to kiss her brow. “And take Elo’s advice, will you? I don’t like to think of you walking around unWarded.”
; “Yes, Papa.”
With a grin, he squeezed her shoulders and departed. Before following him, she bid good night to the Ladymoon and the tiny companion that followed her like a coin rolling across the sky. It was the work of a word and a thought to construct a Ward that would keep her safe even while she slept. Wrapped in it, aware of its subtleties but too weary to analyze them, she kindled a tiny Globe to light her way to the Double Spiral.
She had descended only two steps when she saw Taig. He stood five steps below her, motionless, waiting for her, every muscle of face and body taut and his eyes frantic with warning.
In the silence she heard footsteps above her, coming down the other stair.
Sarra had told her that people on one spiral never knew if anyone was on the other. Not quite believing, Cailet had insisted on testing it out. To her surprise, it worked exactly as Sarra said it did. The intruder would not even see the light from the Mage Globe. But had her footsteps been heard? Marble echoed appallingly. Her heartbeats seemed thunderous. She listened to the rhythm of those other boots, nodding her head in time, then trod softly down to Taig, as if the sounds were prints on sand to which she matched her own feet.
He hugged her protectively close. More than halfway to the third-floor landing, they were hidden from anyone coming up their spiral by the sweeping curve of the inner wall. But the outer wall was less than four feet high, a marble balustrade carved with interlocking openwork octagons. When the intruder left the Double Spiral, she or he would see light. So Cailet let the Globe dissolve. In absolute darkness she listened to the descending footfalls. A hesitation, then a halt. Taig’s arm tightened around her.
“I know you’re here,” a man’s voice breathed. “I can feel it.”
With a silent curse, Cailet let the Ward drop as well.
Other footsteps—lighter, running up the steps two and three at a time—echoed in the Double Spiral.
“Father!” A loud whisper, the voice of an adolescent boy who came to a panting stop on the landing below. “Nobody downstairs. Everything’s open except some storerooms with the doors locked from the outside. No magic anywhere.”
“I felt nothing upstairs, either. Hush and let me think.”
The boy obeyed for all of a minute. “Father? I felt the Summons back at the Castle after you showed me how, but right now all I sense is the Blanking Ward in the Ladder.”
“Perhaps that’s confusing the magic,” the man fretted. “But you’re right, the place is empty but for us.”
Suddenly Cailet could see the pattern of octagons. Simultaneously, she felt magic—right through two solid marble walls and the Warded circle of the Ladder they enclosed. Mage Globe, supplied the calm, quiet voice she associated with Tamos Wolvar, and she knew as well that its ruddy hue was indicative of angry frustration. As if you required such confirmation after hearing the tone of his words, the old man appended with wry apology.
Colors don’t lie, but voices can, she replied. Thank you.
The boy was speaking again. “Maybe we should go back and get some other Lords to help.”
“I didn’t spend days tracking down that Summons only to let someone else find the new Captal before I do!”
“Why didn’t Auvry Feiran feel it? He was Guardian trained, wasn’t he?”
“An excellent point, and one I’ve been considering myself. He should have felt the Summons. He says he didn’t. So either he’s much less powerful than he would have us believe, or he’s a liar.”
“He lived here, didn’t he? At the Octagon Court.”
“When he was Maichen Ambrai’s husband, yes.”
“It must’ve been beautiful here once. Before he destroyed it. But it doesn’t look in such bad shape to me. Mother says he spared most of it for Lady Glenin, so one day she could—”
“Do not ever refer to that woman as ‘Lady.’”
“I’m sorry. I forgot. It’s just that Mother calls her that.”
“Flattering her to her face is one thing, but referring to her with full Malerrisi honors in private is another. Stop chattering and use your magic. You’re young and strong—find me the Captal. Concentrate!”
Cailet sent an incoherent prayer of thanks to St. Miryenne that she’d already canceled both Globe and Ward. But she wondered who had locked the storeroom doors and was now in hiding from the father-and-son Malerrisi.
“I’m sorry, Father, I can’t feel anything. Mother might—she says I get my sensitivity to other magic from her, and she’s much better at it than I am.”
“I don’t understand,” the man muttered. “It was so strong on the way here from the Academy—”
“What’s that?” the boy gasped.
In that instant Cailet felt Taig let her go and heard his boots tramp emphatically down the stairs. In a loud, angry voice he said, “I am the Captal, and you’ll follow my orders!”
27
Don’t notice me, don’t look this way, I have no magic for you to feel, my Wards are subtle, you can’t feel them, you won’t even know I’m here. . . .
Sarra kept up the litany for what seemed hours after the footsteps faded into the darkness. Then she took off boots and socks and tiptoed to unlock the door and set Elomar free.
He bent his long form to whisper in her ear. “How many?”
“I heard two. Stay here. Protect Miram and Riddon. They’re not Mageborn.” When she felt him tense up, she added, “I know the Octagon Court. You don’t.”
“Sarra—”
“Stay put, Elo! I don’t need you and they do!” She hurried away, feet already aching with the cold of the marble floor. She’d known that unlocking the door would cause a time-wasting argument, but if things went wrong, nobody knew where Elo and Riddon and Miram were to set them free. She ran now, memory guiding her true along the corridor to another set of stairs. She concentrated on breathing as softly as possible—a formidable accomplishment, considering that the race up two flights of steps set her heart to galloping like a terrified galazhi’s. Some part of her was frightened. But mostly she was just plain furious.
At exactly whom, she wasn’t quite sure. At the Malerrisi, for finding them; at Cailet, for wanting to see their ancestral home; at herself, for agreeing; at Collan, for getting himself captured and not being here when she needed him. Which was ludicrously unfair. She couldn’t help it. Damn it all, I suppose I’ll have to marry the stupid fool just to keep him out of trouble.
This prize bit of insanity warned her that she was on the edge of hysteria. So at the second floor she stopped long enough to catch her breath before she crept down the long hallway toward the Double Spiral.
She couldn’t see a thing. She stayed to the center of the corridor, knowing that all the statue stands, display tables and cases, and gigantic flower jars had been arranged along the walls. There were no windows, thank the Saints, and so no broken glass, and the ceiling tiles hadn’t fallen. But just the same she kept stubbing her toes on toppled half-burned furniture, stifling curses and wishing her Ambrai ancestors hadn’t been such avid collectors.
Cailet and Taig would use the Double Spiral to come downstairs. She knew it with simple logic; they knew of no other way. There was an even chance that they and the Malerrisi would use opposite sides. Her instincts, however, had been silent since the first stomach-lurching alarm that there were people present who must not find them.
Must not find Cailet.
All at once light sprang to life around the corner just ahead of her. She flattened herself to a wall, inching forward to the intersection. The light was reddish, like a miniature sunset. Mage Globe, she thought, but not Cailet’s. Hers are almost pure white.
She heard voices: indistinct, still over a hundred feet of corridor away. Poking her head around the corner, she saw the glow more clearly but could hear no better.
Then Taig practically yelled his arrogant assertion that he was the Captal.
The next minute
or so was a blur of shouts and running steps. Horrified, Sarra ran down the hallway to one of Great-Grandmother Sarra’s five-foot flower vases, incredibly intact and providing a convenient shadow. Just her size, too.
She could hear everything now.
“You? Impossible!”
“Try getting through my Wards, and find out!”
So Cailet was working the magic while Taig worked the bluff.
“There’s been no magic in the Ostin Blood since—”
Taig laughed. “Are you stupid Malerrisi still trying to breed true for magic? Don’t you know that was outlawed Generations ago? Besides, it can’t be done. Magic happens as it pleases. Auvry Feiran is proof enough of that!”
“You cannot be the new Captal. You’ve never used magic in any of your missions for the Rising.”
“Anniyas isn’t all that public about her skills, either.”
An outraged gasp; another bark of laughter from Taig.
“Oh, it’s not a lucky guess, Malerrisi. The Rising isn’t made up of imbeciles. We found out about her long ago. And as Mage Captal, I know such things without having to be told. Now, unless you want to stand here all night, I suggest you use the Ladder at the bottom of these stairs and go back to Ryka Court—where I’m sure you’ll have a wonderful time explaining to Anniyas how you warned the Captal that the Malerrisi know where he is, while at the same time failing to capture or kill him.”
“I have another idea. You and I will go to Ryka. I’ll let the girl leave unhindered—”
“With your son running around loose? I heard his voice, Malerrisi, even if he ran away when he heard mine. Hunting down a defenseless girl would be about the extent of his courage. Call out to him, tell him to get out of here by the Ladder. Then let the girl go, and I’ll come with you.”
“Taig, no!”
Sarra flinched at Cailet’s anguished cry—the same agony she had been unable to voice until Collan was gone.