by Melanie Rawn
Collan Rosvenir sagged bonelessly against the silver Pain Stake, eyes closed, seemingly asleep. She knew he was awake, though; she could feel it, as if he watched her with the rest of his senses. She smiled at his bent head.
“You’re an attractive man, Minstrel, even after a week and a day in here. Beginning to be a trifle scrawny, but that’s easily cured. How would you like a bath, a shave, and a good hot meal?”
He said nothing. Her father had told her that his silence—but for the agonized cries inevitable in the circumstances—was unique in the lore of the Pain Stake. But it was axiomatic that no one emerged from the albadon the same person who went in.
“I offer these things because Anniyas commanded my father to break you, and you’ve quite remarkably survived. This being the case, I intend to use you to break someone else.”
Still no response, not even a ripple through the naked muscles of his back—not even when she trailed a fingertip down his spine. A very fine back, she mused, and excellent shoulders marred only by the mark of slavery. The report from Renig had stated that he’d murdered the nauseating Scraller Pelleris, thereby doing everyone on Lenfell a favor.
“I’m Glenin Feiran, by the way. Would you like me to undo the bindings? I can, you know. I’m completely familiar with the way my father’s magic works. Between you and me,” she added, lowering her voice, playfully conspiratorial, “his is just a little bit predictable. But you’ll discover that mine is not.”
She flicked a polished fingernail against the silver to hear it ring. He didn’t flinch. His control was truly amazing.
“Don’t you want to know why you’ve lost your value? It’s very simple. I know who the new Captal is. I know where she is. And I know that Sarra Liwellan is with her.”
He straightened and his head lifted, very slowly. His eyes, set in dark bruises of pain and exhaustion, were disturbingly clear and startlingly blue. Lank, unwashed coppery curls fell over his brow. She brushed them back as she had Chava Allard’s clean, soft brown curls. He didn’t react. Her touch moved to his hollowed cheeks and sharp chin, nails raking lightly over the dense stubble of beard, lighter than his hair and glistening reddish-gold in the diffused light. Cleaned, combed, and properly dressed, he would be stunningly handsome.
“I know all about Renig, you see,” she told him, tracing the curves of muscle in his arm down to the elbow and back up again. “Up until that dimwitted Justice and even stupider clerk fell asleep, anyway. But that was enough. Was it you who killed Agva Annison? No, it would take a Mage to kill someone as powerful as she. But I’ll bet you accounted for a few of the Council Guards in the hallway, hmm?”
He went on staring at her in silence. She spoke even more softly as she skimmed a palm down his side, absently admiring the strong lines of him, the taut belly and lean thighs.
“The point is, I know about the little comedy over Mai Alvassy’s identity disk. I know who stole it and now wears it. And now I know that she’s with the Captal in Ambrai, at the Octagon Court. Once you’re presentable, you and I will be going there, too.” Taking a step back, she smiled almost fondly. “I’m sure Sarra will be glad to see you again.”
He spat in her face.
Blind impulse ruled her magic for the first time in her life. She gestured sharply and the Pain Stake ignited from shining silver to hot glowing flame. He shrieked once, head thrown back, body spasming so violently that his shoulders nearly dislocated.
Furious with herself, she terminated the spell. He slumped, hanging from his bound hands, unconscious.
When she lifted her arm to wipe the spittle with her sleeve, she found that she was shaking. No one had ever made her lose control like that before. She wanted to wake him up and punish him anew for this second crime.
And then she remembered her son. She pressed her hands to her belly, frightened. There was no quiver from him, no instinctive terror; instead, she had the oddest impression that he was smiling in his sleep. A pregnant woman’s fanciful imaginings. . . .
She left the albadon hurriedly, sealing it with her Wards this time, not her father’s, and waited until her heartbeats were steady before starting back up endless flights of stairs. Halfway up, she saw her father.
“Glenin—what have you done?” he demanded.
Shrugging: “I got rid of your Wards and set my own.”
“Remove them at once!”
She paused to catch her breath and toss the hair from her eyes. “You didn’t even come close to breaking him, you know. He’s as sane as the moment you put him in there. You should’ve let me handle it. But that’s beside the point now. The new Captal and the blonde girl you dreamed about are the same, and she’s in Ambrai with Sarra Liwellan—whose head is still owed me, by the way.”
He went very still, something she hadn’t seen him do in a long time. Then he actually backed up a step, the only clumsy movement she had ever seen him make. She saw it without satisfaction, but without regret, either.
“How do you know this?” he asked, voice almost steady.
“A combination of things—including young Chava’s experience tonight and a very interesting letter I received yesterday from Renig. I’ll explain later. But not to Anniyas.”
Gray-green eyes narrowed. “Whatever you know, you can’t keep it from her.”
“Truly told? Perhaps you’d like to hear the rest of what I know! She plans to destroy the Captal all by herself, did you realize that? She sees it as her right—Warden of the Loom! Don’t look so shocked. Didn’t you guess? That self-important idiot in Seinshir is no more the First Lord than Garon is! Poor Garon, such a disappointment—”
“Glenin—”
“Oh, there’s more.” She mounted the stairs, closing in on him. “She sees my son as hers, not mine—the son Garon was supposed to be and wasn’t. Who do you think gave the order that killed my First Daughter? She doesn’t want a daughter, she wants a son to replace Garon! She’ll take my son when he’s born—and then she’ll have no more use for me!”
“No, you must be mistaken, she’d never—”
“By the Weaver, don’t you even begin to understand her after all these years? She’ll kill me, Father! Who’s to stop her? You? A Prentice Mage against the First Lord?”
“The bargain,” he stammered. “Your safety—your position—”
“If I hadn’t turned up so powerful, maybe your bargain would’ve held. But I’m a threat, and my son will be a threat unless she takes him as her own. They’ll let her do it. They won’t shed any tears over me, Father—not with my son safely born and my little pattern so successfully woven, so neatly tied off, the threads cut nice and clean! If she kills a Mage Captal with nothing but her own magic, which of the Lords would dare oppose her? She won’t just be Warden of the Great Loom—she’ll own it!”
She was level with him now. She put both hands on his chest to feel his racing heart and said softly, “Guess what, Father? I don’t want to die.”
“You can’t believe this.” He was almost pleading. “Glensha, it’s not possible, Anniyas wouldn’t—our bargain—”
“How can you still think like a Mage Guardian, with their definition of honor? You did your part, she’ll do hers—is that it? You butchered Ambrai for her, found your fellow Mages for her so Vassa Doriaz and his sadistic kind could kill them—” She took the next step and turned to face him. How odd; she should still be looking up slightly to meet his eyes, yet she found she must look down. He seemed to have shrunken in on himself—like an old man, she thought in sudden pain, the dark wings of his brows below the coif’s silver edging thickly grayed now. This autumn he would be sixty years old. “You taught me how to find them, too, after I learned the Code of Malerris.”
“I—I thought it would prove to her—I’m sorry—”
“Father, I love you, but you are such a fool. Do you think I minded? I did it gladly, but not for Anniyas. I did it for you.”
�
�Glensha. . . .”
She put her hands on his shoulders, felt them quiver as if palsied. “You fulfilled your part of the bargain. Once all the Mages are dead, Anniyas won’t need you, either. Whatever she said, whatever she promised you, it’s not going to happen. With the Mages and the Captal dead, she’ll have no enemies left—except those who made bargains like yours, who did most of the killing for her. The Fifth Lord is dead. Doriaz was the only one with any power, we both know that. The others can’t and won’t oppose her. Why should she honor her promises? Who’ll hold her to them? You and I and my son are the only threats remaining in all the world. She’ll kill us and take him as Garon’s replacement.” Digging her fingers into his shaking muscles, she whispered fiercely, “We’re not going to die and she won’t have my son!”
Auvry Feiran was silent for a long time, head bent. At last he nodded. “Yes. I understand. What do you want me to do, Glenin? What can I do?”
She stroked his cheeks, then framed his face with both hands and coaxed him to look up at her. “We’ll do it together. As we’ve always done.”
“Yes,” he said again. “Together, Glensha.”
29
The Ladymoon was on the other side of the world, yet she seemed to gaze upon Cailet in her dream. Unsmiling, unmerciful, the cool pallid face looked down with imperious command.
Now.
She woke with the word on her lips. Elomar had given her something to make her sleep, but she felt unrested, bruised, sick, jittery with tension. Her body ached, her heart bled, her mind too stunned by Taig’s death to form coherent thought beyond that one word, springing from the depths of her magic.
Now.
She lay back on a soft, thick Cloister carpet and stared at the blackness of the ceiling. After a time she shut her eyes. The Ladymoon appeared as she had in the dream, her tiny companion cowering nearby. One great full circle of light, one small quivering speck. Cailet knew which one she felt like.
Now.
And then a new word: Tonight.
Full moon tonight, Cailet told herself, trying to work it through her tired mind. First night of First Flowers . . . Sarra’s Birthingday a few nights after. . . .
Magic whispered inside her. She was too weary to listen. If Gorsha had anything to tell her, he’d make it plain enough. She had no strength to ask.
Now. Tonight.
Taig . . . her heart contracted again, grief distilling from her very blood. It would be so until her heart was dry and she died from the loss of blood.
Now. Tonight.
Full moon. Strong, white-silver light spilling over the world, sharpening the shadows of dark places not even she could reach. The darknesses only magic could reach. Strong magic, white-silver as a Captal’s should be, reaching for the knife-edged shadow that was Anniyas.
Her magic. Hers. She felt it as a slim white candle unlit, silken white wings folded close, white-silver bells unsounded—for the flame and the flight and the chiming would be too powerful and too beautiful to be survived.
Miryenne’s Candle. Rilla’s Wings. Miramili’s Bell.
Caitiri’s Fire.
Her fire. Her magic.
Now, tonight.
The candle lit with her fire, igniting the silken wings to white flames. As they spread and swept the wind behind them across the sky, she heard the lustrous ringing of the Summoner’s bell.
Now, Anniyas. Here. Tonight.
When Elomar touched her shoulder an hour later to waken her, she saw the lit candle he held, and smiled.
30
“Fabulous!” Elsvet Doyannis exclaimed in the doorway of the Malachite Hall, handing her cloak to her husband to be placed with the other ladies’ wraps. “Glenin, my pet, you’ve absolutely outdone yourself! People will talk about this for years!”
“Generations,” said Auvry Feiran as he bowed to Elsvet. “You’re looking especially lovely this afternoon, Lady.”
She simpered and smoothed the folds of her gown. Glenin thought it singularly ugly: every conceivable shade of green and blue swirls with golden ships riding the waves. Her headdress was a confusion of green lace, blue feathers, and gold stars bobbing at the ends of a dozen gold wires, set atop a towering arrangement of braids—the half of which Glenin knew to be false.
Her husband, poor thing, wore a longvest of the same material as Elsvet’s dress. His coif was blue patterned with gold stars—like a face floating in an absurd rendering of the night sky.
“Ravishing,” Glenin cooed. “I’m glad you’re the first ones here so I can relax a few minutes with old friends before the whole herd gallops in!”
“Does Garon suspect?”
“He thinks we’re spending the day with just family. But of course you are almost family, darling. Quick, before the others arrive, come give me your opinion of the flowers. Too many? Too few?”
She knew the flowers were perfect. Sprigs of Miramili’s Bells peeked from sprays of luxuriant ivy and delicate rosebuds, all white and green to match the malachite floor and marble tables. The messages of the flowers—to those versed in the lore—were for her unborn son, not her husband: Bells to celebrate him, ivy to pledge fidelity, white rosebuds for purest love coming into flower.
The tables were perfect, too. Plates of frail white porcelain edged in silver; napkins also white, but rather than boring linen or silk she had chosen squares of lace edged in silver. They sprouted cleverly from the largest of the four glasses at each place. Knives, forks, spoons, and other utensils were, like the dishes and crystal, borrowed from the Council. Instead of one candle, there were twelve at each table, circling the flowers like tall, slender blades of spring grass springing up from white flower-shaped holders. At the bottom of each candle was an intricate silver bow, trailing ribbons that wove across the green tables to frame each plate. The scissors in their green-and-gray pouches rested beneath the candles.
“Why, I’ve seen this tired old service a hundred times,” Elsvet remarked sweetly. “But you’ve made it look quite fresh. What interesting candles. Have you tested the refraction on the crystal?”
“I can hardly expect rainbows in a room this size!” Glenin laughed. “I contented myself with colors I could control.” Thinking that once she was free to use her magic, she’d do what her father sometimes did when they ate alone, and make the candlelight dance. “You’re over here,” she went on. “Forgive me for putting you with Our Lady of the Manure Pit!”
Elsvet giggled girlishly at the nickname everyone used for the Minister of Agriculture. “Oh, don’t worry, darling. We’ll do just fine.”
“Thank you, pet.” Glenin smiled, aware that pregnancy had not kept Elsvet from seducing the Minister’s great-nephew, who was the old woman’s escort.
Others began to arrive. Glenin greeted each as if she’d been pining for them all week. After a moment’s chat with Glenin, Auvry Feiran stepped forward to guide each woman to her table—husband, son, cousin, nephew, or lover trailing along behind. In the brief intervals between guests, Glenin sipped ice water from a goblet held ready by a servant. What she really wanted was a good strong Cantrashir red, but she would need to be clearheaded tonight.
It was Anniyas’s task to bring her son to his surprise party. As the clock at St. Miramili’s rang Half-Ninth, Glenin could imagine the scene in her chambers. Garon would choose something plain—for him—as it was only a family party; Anniyas would beg him to wear one of his gorgeous new suits. He’d smile, and as he changed clothes would mention that Glenin especially liked the lime-green longvest with the overlay of beige lace. And Anniyas would acquire one of those fixed smiles that came over her these days when Garon spoke Glenin’s name.
Glenin’s own clothes were both fashionable and blessedly comfortable. A thigh-length white silk tunic was loosely belted in gray over a green velvet underdress, all thinly embroidered in silver. Her hair fell free down her back from a coronet of twisted silver and green ribbons kn
otted in back with white roses. Her only jewels were pearl earrings that had been her wedding gift from her father: perfect spheres of dark gray iridescence, like a smoky rainbow.
She counted two hundred guests, then two hundred thirty. No one had refused her invitation, even though it had come at scandalously short notice. Two hundred fifty-six . . . two hundred seventy-two . . . St. Miramili’s rang the quarter during a flurry of late arrivals. At last all seats were filled but the four she, Garon, her father, and his mother would occupy. The noise was terrific. Guests chattered like chickens in a coop, the string orchestra sawed and plucked away, servants raced to fill wine goblets, and light from the afternoon sun glinted off crystal and silver and jewels.
It was time at last. Glenin signaled to the chief butler of Ryka Court, who ordered his minions and the musicians to silence. Auvry took his seat. Excited anticipation flickered through the hush of the Malachite Hall. Glenin waited by the main doors, heart fluttering. Not for nervousness; for pleasure at what she would announce this day.
Through the slightest crack in the great doors she heard Anniyas’s voice, loud to warn Glenin that all must be silent or the surprise would be spoiled. “Sweetest boy, this is the only place in this beehive likely to be empty, and I do so want to spend just a little time alone with you on your Birthingday. It was just us two the day you were born, you know. Just us, and so happy. . . .”
That was for Glenin, too. She gritted her teeth and nodded to the chief butler. He flung the doors open, and Glenin smiled her most brilliant smile, and everyone began to sing—kept more or less in tune by the musicians.
Bright was the hour, glad was the day
When you were born—so we all say!
Happy your mother in birthing a boy
And thankful your Lady for bringing her joy!