The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  He had done what he had done, and now he was dead. Betrayer of both Mageborn factions, taking what the Guardians taught and using it in the service of the Malerrisi—and then denying them the Captal’s death. She wanted to believe that he had done it for love of her, of the last of his daughters; certainly he had used the last of his strength and magic to heal her as best he could. He had been a Mage Guardian at the last, protecting the Captal. His daughter. Had he known about her years ago, he would have stayed. . . .

  But what had sent him to the Malerrisi instead?

  Pleasure/pain—

  She stared into the flames. Glenin had shown her what real power was. Chance, not choice, stood between Cailet and what had become of her father.

  He was dead. There was no victory here. Only loss. When it came her own time to stand before St. Veneklos. . . .

  The Judge was nothing more than a bookkeeper, entering debits in one column and credits in another, while Flerna the Weary added it all up on her Abacus.

  Cailet plucked a long, thin branch from the fire and flung it at her father’s corpse. Flames caught on the cloak, sputtered, found fuel, ignited.

  4

  Across the river, just within a little stand of fire-scarred trees, they gathered. Individual mists drifted from water to shore; hazy, insubstantial lights glowed faintly above trees before descending. They came together in silence while the latest—and possibly the last—of their kind built her father’s pyre.

  “Here assembled,” said a woman’s voice, low and musical, “in final evaluation of—” She paused, her tone losing its formality. “And there we have the real question, don’t we? The title we give him judges him. Captal Garvedian, you knew him best of us all.”

  “Excepting yourself, First Captal. You know all Mageborns. But I’ll speak after everyone else, if this is acceptable.”

  “Very well. Captal Rengirt?”

  “I don’t see that there’s any question. For seeding the destruction of the Wild Magic that was Anniyas, I absolve. Let him be known as Auvry Feiran, Mage Guardian.”

  A small quiver of tension: they had been approaching this moment for many years, waiting, watching, weighing motive and action and consequence. That the first judgment was to absolve startled some and intrigued others. A few were speechless with outrage.

  “Captal Shellin.”

  “For sparing the life of Bard Falundir, I absolve.”

  “Captal Bertolin.”

  “For hunting down and butchering Mage Guardians, I condemn. May he be known as a Malerrisi, and wander forever in the Dead White Forest.”

  And so the Names were spoken, some of them not heard on Lenfell in many Generations, and the judgments were given, and the reasons. For begetting Sarra and Cailet, absolved. For begetting and perverting Glenin, condemned. For causing countless deaths, condemned. For embracing the ways of the ancient enemy . . . for sparing Gorynel Desse . . . for sparing the Minstrel . . . for Ambrai . . . the Bards . . . the Healers . . . Roseguard . . . for deceit. . . for dishonor . . . for arrogance . . . for vilest ambition. . . .

  “Captal Adennos.”

  “First Captal, we all have reasons for condemnation. Valid reasons. But there is the girl.”

  Across the river, a slim, pale figure dove through dark shallows and surfaced to gaze up at the stars.

  “Exactly.” A woman’s serene agreement slid through the mist. “Cailet Ambrai, the new Captal, through whom our work will continue.”

  “Leninor, my dear, that’s just it. What of this new Captal? Her magic is unmatched by anyone now living. She was of my Making, who should know this better than I? But the legacy of her father—”

  “With respect,” said Bertolin, “do you seriously suggest that we spare Feiran for the girl’s sake alone? Do you ask us to forget his crimes?”

  “Will Cailet?” retorted Leninor Garvedian.

  “Tonight we deal with the father,” Stene reminded them. “The daughter’s time will come, as it came for us all.”

  Lusath Adennos said vigorously, “If we condemn the one, we equally sentence the other. Lifelong doubts could destroy her. She will have no faith in mercy if we show none.”

  The uneasy stirring among the Wraiths caused a few leaves to rustle as the girl emerged from the water and knelt beside her fire.

  “And justice?” Trevarin asked. “After all that he wrought—”

  Stene broke in. “Could she possibly have loved that monster who sired her?”

  “Not a monster,” Captal Bekke retorted. “A Mage Guardian.”

  “Now, really, Caitirin!”

  “Peace,” said the First Captal, and they were all silent for a moment. “Leninor, you had something else to say?”

  “Always does,” someone muttered.

  “Damned right I do! You think me a fool, I know, for keeping watch over Collan all these years. But through him in the past weeks I’ve come to know Cailet. She’s a lonely child, sensitive, desperate for love—and sacrificing himself was a demonstration of a father’s love, pure and simple.”

  “‘Pure’?” Channe snorted. “Nothing about Auvry Feiran is ‘pure.’”

  “Except his love for his daughters,” Rengirt murmured.

  “All three of them,” Trevarin reminded them acidly.

  The First Captal sighed. “Go on, Leninor. Finish.”

  “Thank you. I was going to say that if we condemn her father, we’ll be turning her inside out. How could she feel that to love him is right? For she does love him, and not just for saving her life. He’s her father. That’s a relationship deeply discounted since the War, but we must deal with it here.”

  “Especially considering what she believes about her mother,” Bekke reminded them. “And I have a few choice words regarding that for your impossible Gorynel Desse, Leninor!”

  “Not hers, Caitirin,” Rengirt said slyly. “Her mother’s.”

  “As much as he was ever any woman’s,” Garvedian replied in kind.

  “We judged his uniquely difficult case weeks ago,” Stene said. “If you’re through gossiping, I suggest we return to the matter at hand. It appears to me that the major argument in favor is that Cailet Ambrai’s existence as Captal of Mage Guardians caused Auvry Feiran to exist as a Mage Guardian again.”

  “That’s how I see it,” Adennos agreed. “If we condemn the father she loves, what would it do to her ability to function as Captal?”

  “Of which mercy must be a component,” added Rengirt. “But mercy is not of the mind, but of the heart. And we would surely break her heart if we condemn.”

  Garroldin, who had spoken only to give her verdict, now said, “So for the sake of the daughter, you ask us to absolve the father. This is hard, First Captal. Very hard.”

  A long silence spun among them while they watched the girl fling a burning brand onto the pyre. At last there was a whispering in the air, almost a sigh, and the First Captal spoke once more.

  “Never in all the Generations have we been faced with such deeds committed by one who was once one of our own. I, who have witnessed it all, attest to this. Each of you has a valid point to make. Those of you who condemn, the most valid of all. So many crimes! So much magic used to destroy! We Captals have judged many Mages who were guilty of betrayal, murder, dishonor, arrogance, ambition, lies, willful use of magic for wickedness—and a hundred other things our ethic has condemned from the moment of our Founding. But this one man surpasses all. He was ours, yet he became Malerrisi. To many of you, I know, this is the most unforgivable crime of all. It betrays all that we are.”

  Those who had chosen to absolve drew closer together as if to unite in silent protest against a judgment they would never question aloud. The grasses rippled as if a breeze had bent their tips.

  “Yet we are met to judge, and that in itself is significant. Had Auvry Feiran remained as he made himself, we would not be here. He all but destroyed the
Mage Guardians, yet by siring and then saving Cailet, the Mage Guardians will live and become more powerful than ever. This is heavily in his favor.”

  The First Captal paused. “Still, it is the father we consider, not the daughter. Does the single act of self-sacrifice counter all the self-serving crimes? Is this one thing enough to justify mercy?”

  Across the water, the girl’s black eyes and white-gold hair were lit in crimson by the flames of her father’s pyre.

  “If it is not,” said the First Captal, “then we have no right to call ourselves Mage Guardians, much less Captals.”

  She was silent then, measuring the effect of her words on them all. When she judged the time to be correct—keeping before them the image of the girl trudging round-shouldered through the empty gardens—she spoke.

  “Malerrisi sacrifice their lives when ordered. This is the fundamental difference between us: that they are compelled, and we choose. Out of love, out of duty, out of anger and hate, yes, at times—but for reasons of our own. We will not have those reasons dictated to us.

  “I will not do so now, giving reasons why you must choose to absolve Auvry Feiran. Our horror of him and the Malerrisi First Lord he served unbalanced Lenfell’s magic as surely as did their use of magic for their own dread purposes all these years. We have feared them and hated them—and thereby contributed to the unbalance. I suggest to you now that we can no longer afford to hate. The power Cailet feels must be as clean as Viranka’s Rain, as pure as Caitiri’s Fire, as strong as Lirance’s Wind. Only we can do this for her. Only we can choose not to condemn him. Not just for her sake, but for our own. Yet, most importantly, because in the end Auvry Feiran is deserving.”

  At length, and after much resistance gradually overcome, the Wraiths gathered as one. And with one voice they spoke: “We are agreed, First Captal.”

  She spread their offered magic to embrace them all—not just the Captals, but the Generations of Mage Guardians. Including the one they accepted again as one of their own.

  “For the life and heart of Cailet Ambrai. For the sake of his turning from the paths of our ancient enemy. For the sake of ourselves, Mage Captals, in mercy and in humility—we absolve. Let Auvry Feiran join with us at last, not as Prentice but as Mage Guardian, Warrior Mage, Captal’s Warder.”

  5

  “Cai!”

  Collan turned as Sarra cried out joyfully, and watched her fling herself into her sister’s arms. Sisters, he thought again in amazement. Why hadn’t anybody seen it before? They looked so much alike—

  He snorted. They looked nothing at all alike. Dainty, curvaceous Sarra; lanky, long-legged Cailet. Both were blondes, but Sarra’s hair was a cascade of bright gold and Cailet’s was short, straight, and sun-bleached almost white. One face was all harmonious curves; the other, all angles. The proud grace of a Lady of Blood was completely different from a Waster’s lithe suppleness—or a Mage’s self-possession.

  The only real resemblance was in the eyes, he decided: large, luminous, beautiful black eyes.

  But not so luminous in Cailet’s weary face, Collan noted with a frown. The elder sister’s radiance only emphasized the younger’s exhaustion. The smile Cailet gave Sarra held little of the sweetness Col cherished. She hadn’t looked this bad even when acknowledging that Taig Ostin was dead. It was the difference between a child whose heart had been broken and a woman whose spirit had been crushed. As she accepted a cup of wine from Riddon Slegin, Collan saw in her eyes a grim determination to devote herself to St. Kiy the Forgetful and get very, very drunk.

  Which was probably for the best, he thought, and rejoined the party. But he kept an eye on her and before an hour had gone by was more worried than ever.

  She had settled on a lower step with her back to a charred column, a large cup in her hand regularly refilled by whoever happened to be making the rounds with the bucket. She was pleasant enough to those who approached her, smiling and jesting, even laughing. But while others danced, she sat alone. While others sang, she stayed quiet. At last, incapable of enduring the look in her eyes any longer, Collan paused to refill his own cup—figuring he was going to need it—and turned to where Cailet sat.

  She was gone. And when he turned again, Sarra, too, had vanished.

  6

  They left the courtyard bonfire far behind. Though it had been Sarra’s choice to seek privacy, it was Cailet who chose their path through the gardens, a roundabout tour of tangled glades and wild-growing meadows that would eventually lead to the river.

  “Wait a minute, Cai. Let’s sit for a while.”

  She turned, and the little Mage Globe at her shoulder paused with her. The small dark flashes of blue-violet disturbed her and should have warned Sarra. No pure white light here, no glowing sphere worthy of a true Captal.

  They found a stone bench and sat side by side. Sarra alighted gracefully as a bird; Cailet sprawled long legs and stared at her boots. Sarra had not sensed the Ward, nor felt anything physically wrong; her work had passed its first test. She reminded herself she’d have to be careful to avoid embraces until she was fully healed and the pain was gone. And when she walked arm-in-arm with Sarra or Collan—no one else must or would get close enough—they would have to be on her right. Little things, just for a week or so until the last twinges had passed. Small cautions to hide the greater illusion—which, from Sarra’s lack of reaction, felt solid enough. Real enough.

  Undeniably real were the worry and determination in her sister’s eyes. All the details, everything that was said and done and felt: Sarra would demand to know it all. Now. Tonight. . . .

  Forestalling the inevitable a bit longer, Cailet said, “I heard Collan singing a little while ago.”

  “Probably the first time ‘The Long Sun’ has ever been sung all the way through. Cailet—”

  “He played some of it on board ship to Pinderon that time, before Lady Lilen stopped him.” She thought of Ostinhold then, and the Ryka Legion, and shunted images aside. It was Sarra she must deal with right now. Sarra who had to understand, before life could keep going.

  Sarra had pulled a disgusted face. “Yes, that was one of his more spectacular stupidities. I’m going to have a lovely time of it, I can tell.” She paused, then took Cailet’s hand. “If you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

  She didn’t, but it had to be said. “Simple, really. Glenin came. So did Father. She left. He died.”

  “D-died?” Sarra breathed.

  “I’m sorry—I forgot you didn’t know. He died saving me from her magic.” When Sarra bit both lips between her teeth and looked away, Cailet tried to keep the challenge from her voice as she said, “Don’t you believe me?”

  “I’m sure it must have seemed that way to you.”

  “That’s how it happened.”

  “But why would he do such a thing? He was a Lord of Malerris.”

  “And my father, too, not just Glenin’s. Father of the Mage Captal. Mark it up to early training if you like. He was one of us before he was one of them.”

  Sarra said nothing for a long minute. Then: “I didn’t steal this time for us just to cause you more pain.”

  “I know.”

  Slender fingers raked back shimmering hair. “Maybe we should’ve waited until tomorrow.”

  “It’s probably best spoken in darkness.”

  “Was it that bad? Is that why you sound so bitter?”

  “Mostly I’m just tired, Sarra. Sad. I never knew him, except for those few minutes. You never wanted to talk about him or—or Mother.”

  “You didn’t ask. You didn’t say you wanted to hear about them.”

  “It would’ve hurt you. But I have to ask now. You have memories I need. I saw something of what he must’ve been once. I need to know about him.”

  “Now that he’s dead.” A little shiver ran through her. “I can’t believe it, Caisha. Since I was five years old I’ve been afraid of him—and now he�
��s gone. Why did it have to happen this way? Why did we have to lose him?”

  “I think . . . I think he lost himself,” she replied slowly. “But he came back. He was a Mage Guardian again, Sarra, he came back.”

  “As you say,” she replied, unable to hide the doubt in her eyes.

  Glenin is still lost, even though she’s been theirs all her life. Does she think of me as her shadow, all empty and dark and hollow—no, I won’t remember, I won’t—but if she ever does that to me again I’ll die—

  “Caisha? What’s wrong, love?”

  She groped her way from the threatening emptiness and clung to her other sister’s hand. “I just feel that I should’ve done something—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. None of it was your fault.”

  Cailet made herself smile and say, “Yes, big sister.”

  “That’s better. Which reminds me, I still owe you an hour or two of yelling for sending Col and me to sleep like that.”

  “Why? You looked perfect together. Sorry I couldn’t provide a real bed, but—” She laughed as Sarra blushed. “Oh, thank all the Saints that you’re exactly like I thought you’d be!”

  “What? You didn’t even know me until a few weeks ago!”

  “Oh, I’ve had you figured out for a long time,” she teased. “Last year when you went to Ryka Court for the vote on your inheritance, the teacher talked about you in school. We sat there making faces behind our hands. So young, so beautiful, such manners, such elegance, so much the model of dedication and service, everything a Blooded Lady ought to be.”

  Sarra grinned. “Oh, and I’m like that, am I?”

  “Not in the least. I’d met you in Pinderon, remember! And I made sure everybody knew what a scheming, arrogant little Blood you were, how you tried to have that poor Minstrel arrested—why are you laughing?”

  “‘Poor Minstrel,’ my ass! The next day he insulted me, kidnapped me, hit me, and left me in the middle of the road thirty miles from nowhere! And what do you mean, arrogant and scheming?”