by Melanie Rawn
“You!”
“Me,” he repeated grimly. “And if you don’t say ‘yes,’ I can change your mind in about five seconds!”
“You might as well agree, Sarra,” said a voice from the nearby darkness—and Cailet appeared out of the ragged shadows, grinning. “You will eventually. No sense arguing with a man whose mind’s made up. Spare yourself the trouble.”
“He’s the trouble,” she snapped. “He’d be nothing but trouble from the day I married him!”
“You’re not such a bargain yourself, First Daughter!”
Cailet held up a hand for quiet. “Let us take our lesson from the blue-beak hawk,” she intoned like a votary at evening liturgy, black eyes dancing. “It is the male’s duty to construct the nest. He exhausts himself gathering twigs and moss. He tears his very down-feathers to build a warm, snug, attractive—”
“Is there a point to this?” Sarra demanded.
“Yes. It’s not domni blue-beak with the prettiest nest who wins the notice of all the lady blue-beaks. He’s too tired to chirp, let alone sing, and he looks just awful with all those feathers plucked out. It’s the handsome, noisy, lazy one who didn’t pick up so much as a pine needle who gets the girls.”
Collan was shaking with repressed laughter. Sarra wanted to slap him. “Lesson being,” she said frostily, “that a woman who chooses a man without first inspecting his nest deserves what she gets.”
Cailet nodded gleefully. “Of course—because his diligent brothers are too tired to defend what they built, and so he can walk right on into the finest nest! Sarra, you deserve Collan. Handsome, noisy—and no nest in sight! No, really, if all you want is a husband to keep house and raise your children—”
“That sounds perfect.” But she was beginning to see the humor in spite of herself. “Handsome and noisy, eh? Well, a good-looking man is usually self-confident, and you’re right about that—I can’t see myself with a mouse. As for noisy, he doesn’t say anything seriously stupid more than a few times a day. The rest of his noise is actually pleasant with the lute to back it up. Besides, I’ve got my own nest—or will, once everything’s settled down.”
“Excellent!” Cailet turned to Collan. “So how do you feel about beautiful, noisy, rich women?”
He grinned and shook his head. “Nice try, kitten, but she’s going to have to ask me right and proper.”
“Well?” Cailet prompted. “Sarra?”
“Go away, little sister.” She gave Cailet a playful shove.
“Aw, can’t I watch?”
“No.”
Laughing, Cailet obeyed. When Sarra and Collan were alone and she was gazing up into his eyes, the music and the singing seemed to fade away. In a book, she would have dismissed it as romantic drivel. But it really did happen. She felt as if no one else in the world existed but the two of them.
Which was not the proper attitude for a woman who was about to make substantial changes in that world. But she knew suddenly that this feeling of sweet isolation would become essential to her: contrary and conniving as he was, noisy and nestless and arrogant with no good reason to be, yet when she was with him all else meant nothing. The world would have much of her—but she would have him.
“I’m waiting,” he said.
Suddenly she started to laugh.
“What’s so damned funny?”
“Us! We’ll drive each other insane. We’ll fight and call each other names and be the scandal of all Lenfell.”
“Is that your ‘right and proper’ proposal?”
“No, this is.” She twined her arms around his neck, fingers toying with coppery curls as she gazed up into very blue eyes. “Minstrel, dear, will you husband me?”
“What do you think, First Daughter?”
“I think you’d better say yes or I’ll get my sister the Mage Captal to magic it out of you!”
“Magic enough right here,” he said, and kissed her.
It occurred to her to think—before she stopped thinking entirely—that there was a definite charm to a noisy man who knew when to shut up.
8
Shamelessly eavesdropping from the shadows, Cailet sighed her satisfaction. One thing taken care of, anyway.
There were a thousand others awaiting her, and—aside from her personal delight in their happiness—she knew she’d need both Sarra and Collan at their full powers, undistracted by emotional conflict. She trusted them to keep the sweeter distractions of new love to a minimum. Neither would be able to hide what they felt, but she knew both well enough to know they’d save its more eloquent expression for when there was time enough to enjoy it.
Yet instead of the few days or a week Cailet had anticipated and hoped for, she was allowed only a few hours. At scarcely Seventh of a beautiful spring morning, after very little sleep, and with a throbbing wine-head and an endless dull ache in her side, she learned that Ostinhold had been burned and Malerris Castle had vanished.
Warrior Mage Senn Mikleine brought the first news. Last night he and ten others had gone to Bard Hall, and thence to Longriding. From Lady Lilen’s house there he had Folded their path to within five miles of Ostinhold: billowing smoke told all.
Numb and dry-eyed, Cailet had barely heard him out before Aifalun Escovor and Enis Girre begged a moment of her time. The elderly Scholars had separately attempted to contact various Mages through a difficult and esoteric spell that sometimes worked and sometimes didn’t. But they had managed to reach old friends in Neele, Domburr Castle, Dinn, and Havenport.
Girre had received an image in return from a fellow Scholar outside Dinn: Malerris Castle—or, rather, its absence from Seinshir.
Cailet frowned. “Destroyed? Down to the foundations, not just a few buildings wrecked for show?”
“No, Captal, gone. Vanished.” He spread his gnarled old hands wide. “The waterfall is there, but the Castle above it is gone as if it had never been.”
“Warded,” Cailet said softly.
The old man nodded. “My thought precisely.”
If not Glenin’s work, then at Glenin’s order. Cailet went down to the river where she could see the ruined Academy, marveling at the power it must take to make an entire castle seem to disappear. Lords of Malerris did such things, acting together in the kind of Net that Mage Guardians resisted. If she wanted to break those Wards, she would have to do it alone.
It took an hour of steady thought and thorough review of the Bequest to decide she would not squander her strength. All she need do was set her own trap Wards on all the known Ladders to Malerris Castle. Any Malerrisi attempting to use one of those Ladders would be kept immobile until Cailet or another Mage arrived.
Boats would still bring in supplies, but that was acceptable; she didn’t want her sister to starve to death. As for leaving the island to advance new schemes . . . no, not for a long while yet. Last night Flera Firennos said that one reason the Rising had waited so long was for a list of all Malerrisi and their whereabouts. This had been provided only a few days ago by a Rising agent within the Castle itself, and would be given to the Captal as soon as possible.
Many if not most of the Malerrisi had come into the open early this year to assist in the location, capture, and very often the killing of Mage Guardians. They were known now. They might infiltrate in small ways henceforth, but they would never again seat their own as high officials, Ministers, Justices—or First Councillor.
Cailet knew, in the way of Sarra’s knowing, that every Lord who was able would return to the Castle as surely as if Summoned. She also knew that the Invisibility was Glenin’s way of taunting her. All that was really necessary was to prevent anyone from entering; the additional flourish was mockery meant to grate on the Captal’s nerves.
The Captal was unmoved. She stared unseeing at the wreckage across the river, thinking of something Glenin had said: she and her son would be waiting. The Malerrisi might make small forays, but would not emer
ge in strength until the boy was old enough to lead them at his mother’s side.
Cailet hadn’t told Sarra about their nephew. She would not, until he made his presence felt. She had no doubt that he would.
Ironic that her work and Glenin’s would be identical: training Mageborns. This led to the realization that this if nothing else would bring the Malerrisi out into the larger world. Cailet would have to find such children before Glenin did.
How many were already at Malerris Castle? A few hundred? Close to a thousand? In twenty years, a new Generation could be bred—as Glenin had planned to breed Cailet and Sarra.
She could do nothing about children born at Malerris Castle. But she’d find the others all across Lenfell, damned if she wouldn’t.
One she knew about and had hoped to teach was dead now at Ostinhold. It was called unlucky to be born during Equinox or Solstice, with no Saint to watch over the birthing, and worst of all to be born on the very days of the Quarters, like Sela’s son. Cailet wondered bitterly if any folklore applied to a child conceived on the Wraithenday.
Glenin had a son of her own. Cailet wrestled with terrible envy. In a curious way, she had thought of Sela Trayos’s boy as her own son, linked to her by magic if not by blood.
She told herself there would be other children. None hers, but. . . there were at least a dozen right now, young Prentice Mages who had learned their craft from their elders but who would never be Listed Guardians unless an Academy was reestablished.
Only the Captal could do that. She understood now what her father had told her, that she would soon discover what her work must be.
But she would not accomplish it here in Ambrai. She needed a new place, safely remote, where every stranger would be remarked upon. There she would educate Mageborns—while her sister did the same.
If only Glenin had listened. . . .
9
It was the best possible luck for a woman to take a husband on her own Birthingday. So, on the third day of First Flowers when Sarra Ambrai turned twenty-three years old, she married Collan Rosvenir.
Cailet stood witness for the Mage Guardians, for she could not stand with Sarra as family. That position was filled by Riddon and Maugir Slegin. Biron Maurgen and Miram Ostin were there not only because Sarra valued them for themselves, but in memory of their brothers.
Falundir and—of all people—Imilial Gorrst gave Collan in marriage. He asked the Bard first, and then, because Falundir could not speak the proper responses, approached Imi with an eloquent plea ruined by a wink. She told him he was hideously cruel to break her heart by husbanding another woman and then asking her not only to watch but to help officiate, but agreed because at least she’d be giving him to the one woman—other than herself—who’d appreciate him.
Elin and Pier Alvassy, Elomar Adennos and Lusira Garvedian, and Telomir Renne formed the rest of the company. They gathered in the little shrine of Imili and Miramili at the far end of the gardens, where Generations of Ambrai women had taken husbands. The altar furnishings—Miramili’s ceremonial golden bell and Imili’s flower basket woven of gold wire—were long gone. But the altar was strewn with wildflowers, and Miram provided a little silver bell she wore as a charm around her neck, so the Saints were adequately represented.
Sarra’s hastily assembled bridal array was a slim and simple bright green gown provided by Telomir—who, with Riddon and Miram, sewed frantically all night to get it ready. She was crowned with flowers as was appropriate to her name, her Saint, the week, and the ceremony.
Collan sneezed the instant he walked into the shrine, and throughout the ceremony his nose twitched alarmingly. Otherwise he looked magnificent. His Bardic blue trousers, longvest, and coif were Falundir’s gift. As they walked to the shrine, Cailet had murmured wryly to the Bard how amazing it was that such fine new clothes had been available at such short notice—and such a perfect fit, too. Falundir smiled, nodded, and looked smug.
The others wore what finery they could borrow. Cailet was in her makeshift Captal’s regimentals, Miram’s clean silvery scarf once more around her waist. The severe black was enlivened by a garland of woven flowers draped about her shoulders, like those worn by everyone except Sarra and Col.
All the proper words were spoken, all the hallowed phrases that promised enduring love, constant honor, faithful duty, absolute fidelity, and complete obedience. (Col almost succeeded in hiding annoyance at this last—no marriage was legal without it—but Cailet saw yet another law being rewritten in Sarra’s eyes.) Sarra then vowed to care for, cherish, and provide for her husband.
Collan took from the altar a chain of flowers he’d woven last night: white roses for love, twining ivy for marriage, lemon blossoms for faithfulness. This he placed around Sarra’s shoulders before bending his head so she could gift him with her own flowers.
She reached up suddenly and snatched off his coif. “Your first duty is to obey me, husband—and I order you never to wear one of these again!” And she placed her crown of flowers on his bare head.
His reply was lost in an explosive sneeze. Everyone burst out laughing as the crown slipped sideways. Grinning like a fool, the crown at a rakish angle, he stomped a boot on the hated coif as if to nail it to the floor.
Thus were they wed. Later, after many toasts and much kissing and embracing and laughter, they went alone to the riverbank and with silent whispered wishes threw the flower chain and the flower crown into the water.
He drew her into the shelter of his arm as they watched the river. “What did you ask for?”
“Nothing very grand,” she confessed. “Just a chance to be happy.”
“Saints, what a relief! I thought for sure you’d wish peace and plenty for all Lenfell, a new government, and a hundred other things that’re nothing to do with us.”
“They are to do with us—but not right this moment. What did you wish?”
“I’m ambitious,” he told her wryly. “I want one whole uninterrupted night alone with you. Oh, and a good lute.”
She laughed. “You’re right, the first does seem pretty impossible! But I can do something about the second.”
“What?”
“Senn Mikleine came back from Longriding with your lute.” She snuggled closer. “I’d like to spend at least a few minutes of our uninterrupted night alone hearing you sing to me. You never have, you know.”
“My lute,” he said, stunned. Then he wrapped his arms around her. “All the songs—they’re all for you, the rest of my life.”
“Did you find that in a song somewhere, or make it up just for me?”
“How can I make love to a woman who doesn’t trust a single word I say?”
“Keep talking, Minstrel. Convince me.”
He did.
10
The next day, Cailet went to Ostinhold. She took Miram with her, and Biron Maurgen, and those Mages who had started to form her unofficial Captal’s Warders: Elo, Lusira, Imi, Senn Mikleine, and Granon Bekke. Though she needed no protection now, she did need their experience and their counsel. And their silently offered comfort as they approached the smoldering debris of Ostinhold.
A search was pointless. Nothing could have lived through such fires. There was no telling whether or not anyone had escaped. Cailet cast a single glance at Miram, who shook her head and muttered, “I’ve seen enough.”
Biron led them up the North Road to Maurgen Hundred. They arrived just after dark. The lights of the five domed houses blazed defiantly beyond a perimeter fence sentried by armed ranch hands. One of them recognized Biron and signaled the others to lower their swords—but not to open the gates.
“Y’r pardon, Domni, but who’d be these others with you?”
Cailet squinted into the torchlit night. “Kellos Wentrin, isn’t it? I thought I recognized that Tillinshir accent.”
He squinted back and caught his breath. “Domna Cailet?”
“Mage Captal,”
said Biron. “Let us in, Kellos. Is Lady Sefana here?”
“Mage—?” Wentrin shook himself and gestured for his fellows to unlock and open the gates. “Aye, Domni, not just Lady Sefana but Lady Lilen as well.”
Miram gave an incoherent cry and ran through the gates.
Cailet and the others hung back. “What about the rest of Ostinhold?” Biron asked. “We were just there, we saw what the Legion did. Anyone else escape?”
“Nigh on three thousand—which’s to say everyone’d already scattered. Some few, they did linger, for Lady Lilen wouldn’t leave, and some of them died helping her own escaping.”
“What about their visitors?” Imilial asked. “There was an elderly Mage—”
“I wouldn’t be knowing, Domna. But I do know for a certain fact that Geria Ostin’s is the fault of it. You go on up to the main house, they can tell you.”
Imi burst into tears at the sight of her father. He hugged her close with the arm that wasn’t in a sling and told her not to be such a lackwit, he was far too crotchety to die. Miram stood in the middle of a knot comprised of her mother, her sisters Tevis and Lindren, and Terrill, her only remaining brother. All but Lady Lilen were weeping. On seeing Cailet, she eased away and held out her arms. Cailet accepted the embrace in silence. Lilen drew back to search her eyes, then nodded quiet understanding.
“You are now who you were meant to be,” she whispered for Cailet’s ears alone. “But I hope you’ll always be my Cailet, too.”
“Lilen—” For the first time she spoke her foster-mother’s name without Lady in front of it. “I’m so sorry. Taig—”
“Hush. Miram told me. We’ll speak of him later, we two. And of Gorsha, and my Alin and his Val.”
Sefana Maurgen—not yet fifty, without a single gray strand in her raven hair, and widowed in the same accident that had killed Lilen’s husband—limped into the entry hall to herd everyone to a dining room lit by a score of blue candles. Her twin daughters, Riena and Jennis, brought in laden plates and huge pitchers of scalding coffee sweetened with cinnamon sugar. Cailet had often guested at Lady Sefana’s table, but never more gratefully than now; she’d eaten nothing since breakfast that morning and it had been a weary journey from Longriding—even for a Mage Captal who could spell twenty-five miles into walking as if they were only one.