The Ruins of Ambrai

by Melanie Rawn

  “That’s seventeen presents,” Sarra went on. “More or less, but there’s a lot of Birthingdays to make up for! This last one, though, this is from me alone.” She slid an envelope from the pocket of her bedrobe.

  “Sarra—it’s too much,” Cailet said.

  “She speaks!” Collan laughed. “Just this one more and a toast to your Name Saint, and then we’ll let you get some sleep.”

  “I’m not tired,” she said absently, turning the envelope over. The sealing wax was Liwellan blue, imprinted with that Name’s spread-wing Hawk—but the bird flew inside an octagon. “It’s not even Seventh in Bleynbradden. We got up early to use the Ladder.”

  “Well, it’s damned near Third here. Open it.”

  She did. The legal language made no sense to her. She turned a puzzled frown on Sarra, who smiled.

  “It’s a deed, Caisha. To a house.”

  “A house?”

  “Your house. You own it. It’s not big enough for a new Academy, but wherever you end up building, I wanted you to have a place of your very own.”

  “Near us,” Col added. “In Roseguard.”

  “My house.” She shook her head, not quite believing.

  “The Slegin properties are mine now,” Sarra said. “Six weeks ago the law was changed so a woman may give what she owns to whom she pleases—even a son.”

  “She tried to give Sleginhold to Riddon,” Col interrupted, “but he said it’s too far from The Waste. That was our first clue about him and Miram.”

  Sarra nodded. “I gave it to Maugir instead. Jeymi will have the farm on the Cantrashir border when he’s old enough. I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow. Happy Birthingday, love!”

  Collan found a bottle on the sideboard and poured three glasses. They drank to St. Caitiri the Fiery-Eyed—appropriately enough, the brandy set Cailet’s insides ablaze. She coughed, and Collan clapped her on the back.

  “We’ll postpone the serious drinking for tomorrow night. You’re coming to dinner, by the way. Don’t panic, it’ll just be the three of us.” And he gave Sarra a wink that Cailet didn’t understand.

  She searched her sister’s black eyes and warned, “If you’ve planned a surprise party, I’ll leave.”

  “Would I do that to you?”

  “If you thought you could get away with it, yes!”

  “Well, I know I can’t, so I didn’t.”

  “My doing, kitten,” said Col. “You may thank me profusely at your leisure. I threatened to make her life so miserable she’d be compelled to divorce me.”

  They left after Sarra promised to catch her up on all the latest tomorrow. Cailet suspected there was a whole day’s worth of news, with a thousand or so digressions into her sister’s projects. She had every faith that there wasn’t a single section of the legal code Sarra didn’t have a critical eye on or a dainty finger already in.

  Cailet sat in the middle of her gifts, touching one and then another—stunned, as Sarra had observed. Eighteen years old today. She’d been born as Ambrai was dying. She’d heard the city was to be rebuilt. But Col had said he and Sarra would live at Roseguard. How could Ambrai be brought back to life without an Ambrai to supervise? But Sarra had no official rights there. No one did, except possibly Glenin.

  She’d forgotten the Alvassys. The next day Sarra told her, in the course of the anticipated long, intricate conversation, that through their mutual great-grandmother—another Sarra Ambrai—Elin had the best claim.

  “And it’s fine with me. I don’t want it. I couldn’t live there again, Cai.”

  “I feel the same about Ostinhold. Are you sure about Roseguard, though?”

  “Oh, yes. Col and I are agreed. We looked it all over before we came here. The Slegin residence is pretty much a wreck and the Ladder burned, so we’ll just level it all and build everything new. As for the city itself . . . the main damage was portside. Your house is good solid brick—gutted, but structurally sound. Just tell me what you like by way of furniture and so on.”

  Cailet protested; Sarra laughed.

  “Dear heart, in case you hadn’t noticed, you’re a pauper. The Rilles haven’t a cutpiece to their Name. There’s only about a hundred of them left in the wilds of Tillinshir. And they’re as unimpressed that one of their Name is now Mage Captal as they were when Piergan Rille exalted himself by marrying Elinar Alvassy. Rather insulting, but very convenient. You won’t have a herd of ‘relations’ to deal with.”

  “But do they accept that I’m one of them?”

  “They’ve no objections. Census has all the right records—put there by Gorsha Desse just after you were born.” She smiled cynically. “The Liwellans and Rosvenirs are equally accommodating—and the records are equally reliable.”

  Sarra and Collan would rebuild Roseguard. Elin and Pier would do the same for Ambrai. Miram and Riddon would restore Ostinhold. In the midst of this flurry of construction—which would give the economies of three Shirs a healthy kick—Cailet would look for a place to build something brand new. She wouldn’t call it the Academy; she needed another name as well as another location. Sarra had ideas about that; Sarra had ideas about everything.

  “It’ll have to be the north coast of Brogdenguard, Cantrashir, or Tillin Lake. Oh, really, Cai, think about it! How did the Malerrisi keep prying magic out? A tower with iron all through it. What’s the biggest deposit of iron on Lenfell? Caitiri’s Hearth! With it between you and Seinshir, they’ll never get so much as a glimpse of what you’re doing.”

  Yes, Sarra had ideas about everything, and had thought them through with impressive thoroughness. Intellect and instinct, Cailet told herself; there was no one to match her sister for either.

  But when Sarra started in about voting public funds soon for purchasing the land and construction costs, Cailet balked. The ensuing argument lasted all afternoon and only Collan’s determination to ignore it made that evening’s family dinner bearable. Things were frosty between the sisters for days.

  “What you must understand,” Telomir Renne said to Cailet one morning, “is that she doesn’t think like a Mage Guardian. She thinks like an Ambrai, which is to say she’s ruthlessly practical, frighteningly efficient, and completely dedicated to getting her own way.”

  “What a surprise,” Cailet said dryly. “And you? What do you think like?”

  “You mean is my father’s influence in opposition to my government career? I’m only a Prentice, remember, and Warded. I know basic magic, but nothing fancy.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  He lost his smile. “My loyalties lie with Lenfell.” When Cailet nodded acceptance, he relaxed and went on, “My advice regarding Sarra is to wait and let Collan solve your problem for you. He’s one of the few people she really listens to. But don’t let it get around. Much of her authority here depends on how she’s perceived. Ryka Court can be extremely conservative that way.”

  Cailet didn’t understand, and said so. Telo enlightened her. Collan never attended meetings, proclaiming himself bored witless by the politics and legal wranglings that so fascinated Sarra. He busied himself with personal matters, earning a reputation as the ideal husband: conscientious, dutiful, solicitous of his Lady’s private peace. In other words, thoroughly domesticated.

  Cailet laughed so hard she choked. But she understood perfectly. Whatever ridiculously subservient pose Col had adopted, it was for the benefit of Ryka Court. No social fault must be found in Sarra or her husband—though it was deplored that he refused to wear a decent, modest coif over his coppery curls.

  “The very color of his hair is an offense,” Telo grinned. “But the only one he’s committed so far. And to avoid further offending the offendable before Sarra accomplishes the better part of her goals—”

  “—Col’s killing himself with his imitation of perfection. I’m glad I came back in time to watch! But Saints help us when he’s had enough, because he’ll do somethi
ng really outrageous to make up for it all!”

  “Oh, yes, he’s about as happy as a frog in fruit basket.” Telo grinned at Cailet’s blank look. “He’s got no use for it, doesn’t want to be there, and on the whole wishes he was anyplace else.”

  Collan kept in the background, but he was busy all the same. He dickered with artisans over contracts for the reconstruction of Roseguard. He went through every registered deed and account book of the Slegin Web. Declaring himself unable to live in a museum, he had Sarra’s assigned chambers at Ryka Court emptied of all furniture, rugs, tapestries, and decorations, and replaced the fuss with a few simple pieces both functional and beautiful. He met with some of the surviving Bards, Minstrels, and Musicians who had scattered across Lenfell like the Mages and Healers after Ambrai’s destruction, and started a fund with sums from his own illegal bank accounts for rebuilding Bard Hall.

  He also had a little book made, stuffed with words. A slim silver pointer was attached to it by a chain. With this, Falundir could communicate again. A second book, in Col’s own hand, was of all the major and minor scales. With it, Falundir could compose again.

  So it was that Ryka Court’s celebration of the Equinox featured a new song cycle by the finest Bard in ten Generations, performed by ten of Falundir’s old comrades led by Collan Rosvenir. Reaction was spectacular—and every woman present that evening cursed Sarra Liwellan for having seen him first.

  Collan also spent much time and quite a bit of his own money trying to find Tamsa Trayos and her little brother. They had been traced to a town in the foothills of the Wraithen Mountains where some of the Ostinhold refugees had fled. There the trail ended. In the confusion of nearly a thousand homeless, frightened people, a little girl and a newborn baby were easily lost.

  Collan offered a reward and hired people to search. Weeks passed. Then news came, the worst possible news. The woman caring for Tamsa had died of a fever. Taken in by a childless woman in a village near Maidil’s Mirror, Tamsa died a few weeks later of the same illness. Her identity was certain only because Velvet had still been with her—fully grown now, with a litter of lion-maned kittens.

  Of the infant boy, no trace was found.

  Sharing Collan’s grief—and his guilt—Cailet reminded him that if the boy lived, they’d find out eventually. He would be found one day during the regular tours by Mage Guardians in search of children coming into their magic. Col nodded and tried to smile, but he was as little comforted by this as she. He owed the duty of friendship to Verald Jescarin, to take care of his children; she, the duty of a Captal. Tamsa was lost to them. Perhaps her brother was not. They could only wait. Col would administer Sela’s Roseguard property in trust; Cailet would keep careful watch in a dozen years for Sela’s Mageborn son.

  The matter of Valirion Maurgen’s son ended much more happily. Rina Firennos, having no husband’s dower to ease the burden of providing for her ever-growing brood, gladly traded Val’s son for Sarra’s cash. When Lady Sefana officially adopted him, she petitioned successfully to change his Name from Firennos to Maurgen. Aidan had been at the Hundred since Allflower, and his doting grandmother avowed him the very image of her dead son.

  Of yet another son, Cailet thought much and said nothing. If her guess was correct—taking into account a prior miscarriage and possible dates of conception—he should be autumn-born. If she had expected to sense the birth, she was disappointed; Applefall, Harvest, and Wolfkill passed without a quiver. Cailet only shrugged. Eventually she’d learn the truth about this boy, too.

  From Applefall to Snow Sparrow she traveled again, mainly to set Wards on several known Ladders to Malerris Castle. Other Mages were sent to do likewise, until at last Cailet felt reasonably assured of security. She paid no attention to the broadsheets, and even though her position required attendance at countless meetings and dinners, she listened to no gossip. The government’s doings were the government’s business. She had enough to do being Captal.

  Then it was Candleweek, the Feast of Miryenne the Guardian, who with Rilla the Guide was the Mages’ patron Saint. Cailet, back at Ryka Court, had intended to keep the holiday privately with the Mages. Politics dictated otherwise.

  That afternoon, election results were announced. Campaigns for Assembly and Council had occurred in all Shirs that autumn. All seats were fiercely contested. Balloting was the second day of Diamond Mirror, the week of Maurget Quickfingers—patron of politicians and tax collectors, among others. It was the traditional polling day for every office from Council to Shir to village, for yearly taxes were due then and everyone had to be in town anyway.

  Sarra had been astounded that so many elected officials met in her travels through the years were secretly involved in the Rising. Three Councillors, dozens in the Assembly, Mayors, Justices—and many more had managed to distance themselves from Anniyas. Sarra’s own election to the Council for Sheve was a foregone conclusion: people knew her, liked her, and trusted her for herself, not just as Agatine Slegin’s chosen heir. As for the rest of the seats, everyone expected entirely new faces in the Assembly and Council. Sarra confided to Cailet that she wasn’t so sure. Her doubts proved valid: many who won this time were the very same people who had won last time, in 950. Though many local officials had been killed in the Rising, the new Assembly and Council would look very like the old.

  Collan shrugged. “Throw the thieving scoundrels out—except for my thieving scoundrel. At least I know how she steals, and how much.”

  Not even Sarra had anticipated Ryka’s reaction to the election results.

  On the night Flera Firennos, Granon Isidir, and Irien Dombur declared the Rising in the Malachite Hall, rioting had broken out across the city. As had happened in Renig, Neele, and elsewhere, years of rage simply boiled over. People destroyed the property—and, if they could, the lives—of those known to be tied to Anniyas. Frantic, helpless, and with no armed force to quell the riot, the Rising had been three days calming the city.

  The first night of Candleweek, after election results were announced, Ryka marched again. What had the Rising accomplished if so many of the voices heard for years in obedience to Anniyas would be heard again in what was supposed to be a new government?

  There was no Council Guard, no Ryka Legion, nothing standing between the lawfully—if unpopularly in Ryka—elected representatives and the enraged mob. There were only the Mages.

  An appeal was made to the Captal. She and fifty-six Mages climbed to the top of the bell tower at St. Miramili’s. From there they could see the length of the main avenue: a river of bright torches and angry faces.

  Suddenly those in front toppled to the ground. In successive groups, one after the other, they stumbled and staggered and fell. Screams turned to cries that they only slept and were not dead. Had anyone bothered to count, they would have learned that exactly fifty-seven collapsed at any one time. After only a minute or two, the fallen shook themselves groggily and asked what happened. And then screams began once more, for they all realized it was magic, wielded against them by Mageborns. They fled. And though later most admitted the Captal’s wisdom and the benevolence of her magic—no one affected by the spell suffered more than a few bruises—they learned that night to fear her.

  Cailet was furious. For the first time in her life she lost control of her temper entirely, with Sarra as its target.

  “You used us! We are not an arm of your government and we will not jump at your beck and call!”

  “Cailet, people were dying! We had no choice!”

  “No, we were just the easiest choice! Get the Mages to do it, so none of you fine Councillors need to dirty your hands!”

  “That’s not true! You know it isn’t! How dare you!”

  “Don’t come over all Blooded Lady with me, Sarra!”

  “Then stop behaving like the almighty Mage Captal!”

  “I am the Mage Captal,” she snapped, shaking with rage. “And I’m leaving, with every sin
gle Mage! You don’t own us! We’re not your pet magicians to perform on cue! If you can’t win acceptance for the new government, maybe you’d better hire back the Council Guard! They can protect you from the people you say you want to help!”

  The next morning Collan came alone to Cailet’s chambers.

  “You’re hell on my marriage, you know that? Sarra yelled at me all night.”

  “If you’re here with anything other than a full apology, get out.”

  “There’s a limited version.”

  “Knowing Sarra, extremely limited. I do not accept.”

  Shrugging as if he’d expected it, he went to the sideboard picked up a twig of fat golden grapes. “Funny thing. Nobody expected last night to happen. But they should have.”

  Cailet returned her attention to the list of newly found Mageborns on the writing desk before her.

  Col went right on talking. “There’s all sorts of explanations about some people being genuinely angry, some taking advantage of the situation, and some just getting caught up in it. But in a lot of ways it’s good that it happened.”

  Nineteen people died before we stopped it! She bit her lips shut and went on scribbling notes beside each name.

  “Everybody talks about changing this and fixing that and doing some other damned thing for the good of all Lenfell. But nobody really knows what Lenfell is. To Sarra, it’s a legal code. To Irien Dombur, a gigantic market. To you—” He paused.

  She turned in her chair to face him. “Yes?” she asked coldly.

  He popped another grape into his mouth, chewed it, swallowed, and said, “Lenfell is Mageborns. They’re all you really see.”

  “And I suppose to you all the world’s a tavern taproom shoulder-deep in wealthy patrons, with the biggest Bard’s Cup ever seen!”

  If she’d thought to make him angry, she failed. “You’re not a fool or a child,” he said, “so don’t act like either.”

  “Well, then? What’s Lenfell to you?”