by Melanie Rawn
“Right now it’s a tune nobody’s listening to, let alone singing together, let alone on key.”
“Interesting image. Compose a ballad about it, why don’t you?”
“I can’t. I’m a Minstrel who’ll never be a Bard if I live another thousand years. I hear the music—better than you!—but I’ll never contribute a single note. You and Sarra can. Not, however, if you’re busy screaming at each other.”
It was difficult to stay angry with someone who made sense. “Go on,” she said sullenly.
“Lenfell is laws and trade and magic and music and families and a hundred other things besides. We’re all part of it. Those people last night—when the Rising was declared, they realized they could make something different of their lives. But what have the other Shirs sent them? The same people they hated in the old government, and they knew the old government better than anyone. Why did that happen, Cailet?”
“You said it yourself, yesterday afternoon.”
“Better the bitch whose bite I know than one whose fangs I’ve never seen? It’s more than that. Sending them to Ryka Court keeps them the hell out of local affairs. If they’re here, they can’t meddle at home.”
“What does this have to do with—”
“Just listen, will you? Turns out Sarra was right. Once people see that things can be changed, they start wanting change. And they want it now. Which is a sword with about a hundred edges. It’s better that she learns—and learns fast—that what she wants, what the Rising wants, and what the people want can be completely different. She can deal with that.” He gave a brief laugh. “Great Geridon’s Balls she’ll have the time of her life sorting through it all. But it’ll tear her heart out if she has to fight you, too.”
“Last night was wrong, Collan. They were wrong to ask Mage Guardians to—”
“If she admits that, will you start talking to her again?”
“Not until she believes it. Don’t you see? Mageborns can’t even give the appearance of being connected to the government. Collan, it’s why they fought The Waste War!”
“And why Anniyas had to die. I know that. So does Sarra.”
“Then why doesn’t she understand?”
“If it’d been anyone but you, she probably would have.”
“Well, it was me. She’ll have to get over it.” She rose to pace the sunlit confines of her sitting room. “I won’t be used and I won’t be manipulated. Not by the council, not by anyone. Not even Sarra.”
“She needs you, Cai.”
“And not by you, either! You said what you came to say. I have work to do.”
“That’s my point, damn it! Neither of you will accomplish anything—much less anything that lasts—if you’re not working together!”
“Where I stand is where Captals have stood since the Mage Guardians were founded. And I’m not moving, Collan.”
“Fixed in stone, are you?” he snapped.
“Tell Sarra to back away. Because I won’t.”
“You’re sisters, truly told,” he said in disgust, turned on his heel, and strode out.
Very good, Captal. Another person you’ve driven away.
Her shoulders twitched as if to shrug off that thought—and Collan too, angry and detesting him for compelling her to think beyond her anger. But he’d made too much sense, damn him. Music. If Sarra and I are working on different songs, the least we can do is try to harmonize. Saints know the rest of them won’t even make the effort.
Sarra never did apologize. They never spoke of the matter of Mage Guardian independence from the government again. But Cailet delayed her departure until the new government was seated. It was too important an occasion for the Mage Captal not to lend her presence. And she began to see what Sarra had been fighting all these weeks. What she would continue to battle for years to come.
The Council Chamber had been scrubbed clean, as if to cleanse it of Anniyas’s taint. Tiles glistened. Windows sparkled. New crimson velvet upholstered all the chairs. The white marble wedge of the Council table shone. The banners of all extant Names hung stiff with starching from the walls. Yet the faintest smell of smoke clung to the air. On St. Sirrala’s Day with the declaration of the Rising, and again on St. Miryenne’s when the elections had been announced, a thin gray shroud had drifted across Ryka like a Wraithen host. Citrus polish, pine-oil soap, ammonia used on glass—neither these nor the airing given the Council chamber could disguise the scent of burning.
Cailet approved. It was grim reminder of the people the government was in theory elected to serve.
She and Sarra—on cordial terms again, more or less—sat together in the front row, twenty feet from the Speakers Circle. Collan was on Sarra’s right, inspecting his fingernails in an ostentatious show of genuine boredom. Falundir was at Cailet’s left. The other Mages and a great many friends were scattered around the hall. Elomar and Lusira were absent: finally married at Snow Sparrow, ordered by the Captal to vanish for two weeks (“Have fun. There’ll be plenty of work for you later!”).
It had all been rehearsed. Ministers, members of the Assembly, and officials of the Shirs marched up to denounce Anniyas and move to dissolve the old machinery of government. No speech lasted more than three minutes—brevity had been decreed and there were only so many ways of saying the same thing—although everyone looked as if they wished to state each grievance in precise, long-winded detail. Such recitals had been forbidden, not only because of time but because no one wanted opening rounds in power plays to begin just yet. Currently, power translated into reparations for damages—real or imagined—done to towns, cities, Shirs, or Webs during Anniyas’s rule.
“Everyone’s after the same thing,” Sarra had fumed. “Money! They all seem to think we’re drowning in cutpieces!”
“Well, you are, anyway,” Col observed blithely, which earned him a scathing lecture that upset him not at all. In fact, he gave back as good as he got. Watching the fireworks, Cailet began to understand that Collan actively courted such tirades. If she yelled at him until her anger was exhausted, she could face everyone else with cool self-possession. Cailet also suspected each reveled in the blunt honesty of the other’s temper—and that their apologies were made at night, in bed.
Now, as Cailet listened to the calculated outrage of one of the old Assembly members from Sheve, she shifted restlessly in her seat. The black velvet regimentals—not her beautiful silk gifts from Sarra and Col, but a set more appropriate to the chill of Midwinter Moon—had been a mistake. Hundreds packed the Council Chamber, with next to no ventilation. She surreptitiously wiped sweat from her forehead. Saints, she was tired. She’d been half a year chasing around Lenfell with only a brief break at Wildfire for her Birthingday. The youngest Captal in Guardian history felt older than Flera Firennos.
She knew that her duty for the present was to see and be seen by everyone. But while she was growing more comfortable with the role of Captal, she was no Lady of the Ambrai Blood. All the social graces Sarra possessed in abundance were a bad fit when Cailet tried them on. Ryka Court shredded her nerves. Sarra could sympathize but never really understand. Col, however, had given Cailet an interesting view of things last night.
“She loves this stuff. It’s in her blood—no pun intended. She’s an expert at working people around using every trick in the book and then some. She uses all the sweet-talk to persuade somebody else to shovel the shit out of her way. I guess she figures that anybody fool enough to fall for those big eyes and deep dimples deserves what she gives ’em.”
“Including you?”
“Very funny. The really odd thing is she’s an idealist. It’s not blind ignorant faith anymore. What she’s seen at Ryka would make a cynic out of a Saint. But her belief in what’s right just keeps getting stronger.”
“People see that in her,” Cailet mused. “I’ve watched them while she’s busy charming them into doing something they don’t necessarily want to do.
But she can get people to do what they ought to and like it.”
Perhaps one day she’d learn how to do the same. But for now, despite all her practice in the arts of polite chat and charming persuasion during the last half-year, maintaining her balance was a strain. Especially today, with Auvry Feiran mentioned so often in the long catalog of horrors.
Last to speak was the Mayor of Ryka Court. Finally it was over. Cailet wondered how her sister had kept the same grave, attentive expression through it all. She was the quintessential Blooded First Daughter and Cailet had serious doubts that a Waster like herself could possibly be the sister of so grand and marvelous a person.
But as Granon Isidir moved from the Council table to the Speakers Circle, Sarra turned her head slightly, caught Cailet’s eye, and proved herself human with a wink and a subtle elbow in the ribs.
“Here it comes,” she whispered.
Assembly representatives and delegations from individual Shirs being unanimous in calling for an end to the present form of government, Councillor Isidir now asked for a voice vote. The answer roared back. When the tumult quieted, his calm, cool accents rang out once more.
“Let it be recorded. Let it be law.”
Cheers, applause; sighs of relief that it was finally over; murmurs about the food and drink in the Malachite Hall that would precede the formal swearing-in; the rustle of garments as people prepared to rise and leave.
“Mage Captal Cailet Rille.”
She nearly jumped out of her seat. On one side of her, Sarra gave a start of surprise; on the other, Falundir tensed. What do they want me for? Cailet thought, dreading the answer, and stood.
“Please come forward, Captal. The final matter concerns you.”
They’ve found out! was her first panicky reaction, quickly damped down. Impossible. Those who know, we trust absolutely. But Glenin—oh, Saints, she told them somehow—they know about Sarra and me—
She kept her strides supple and her face neutral as she approached the Circle. All eyes were on her. All attention centered on one unprepossessing girl who wore Captal’s regimentals to which she knew she had no right.
Isidir resumed his seat at the triangular table. “Before the assembled Shirs, we will hear the details of the deaths of Avira Anniyas and Auvry Feiran.”
Recent lessons in the hard school of public demeanor and dangerous secrets, supplemented by her sister’s example kept her from making a complete fool of herself. She smoothed her expression and rested her hands on the railing. She sought Sarra’s eyes. Why didn’t you warn me? she wanted to shout, but her sister was as bewildered as she. All this had been presented in a written report weeks ago. Why bring it up again?
Let them ask. I won’t volunteer a damned thing.
Only three people were at the huge table: Flera Firennos, Granon Isidir, and Irien Dombur. As members of the former Council elected to the new, they alone still held their seats. Until the installation of the Assembly and Council this evening, they were Lenfell’s government.
Councillor Firennos cleared her throat and said, “It was suggested this morning that an official account should be entered into the Archive.”
And that, Cailet knew, was all the apology she would ever get.
“Please tell us in your own words what happened.”
My heart got torn open. I’m still bleeding, damn you—
“After Summoning the First Councillor, I confronted her.”
“In an attempt to do what?” This from Dombur, who had used his Name’s massive financial resources to organize the systematic ruination of trade—risking nothing but money, and certainly not his position or his life. Of the three Councillors, Sarra considered him the least likely Rising sympathizer, but there he sat all the same. Cailet felt a warrior’s scorn for someone who had let others hazard all the dangers while keeping himself perfectly safe.
A Warrior? Me? And she realized all at once why she had never shared the sense of victory. She had never fought a battle of any kind. She’d sliced into a few Council Guards in Renig. She’d called up a few Mage Globes, worked a few spells. She hadn’t pitted herself against Anniyas or the Malerrisi for years on end, with each day a battle simply to maintain secrecy.
I didn’t even fight Glenin. Not really. To win, you have to fight. I never have.
Until now . . . ?
She dragged her mind back to Dombur’s question. What had she wanted to do? What had she meant by confronting Anniyas?
Damned if she knew anymore.
“My—my purpose was to convince her that it was hopeless and she should surrender power before more people died.”
“Surrender to you?”
First Lord to Mage Captal.
“To the Rising.”
“How did she die?” Flera Firennos asked softly.
The Wraiths took her. How do I prove that?
“She was unused to working magic after so many years, and was caught in her own spells.”
“How?” Dombur insisted.
“I don’t know.” Collan can dress me in all the right clothes and the rest of you can term me Captal, but that doesn’t make me a Mage!
“So you can’t say for certain?” His eyes were avid, his lips tight and harsh. “You can’t prove she’s dead, or Auvry Feiran either?”
“Sarra Liwellan and her husband Collan Rosvenir saw Anniyas die. They’ve given depositions to this effect. As have I.”
“What about Glenin Feiran?”
She and her son are at Malerris Castle—something else I can’t prove. And I can’t prove what she did to me, either. If she’d clawed out my eyes or done to me what Anniyas did to Falundir, I’d be crippled enough to prove what happened. But I won’t show you the wound she did give me. And the other wounds . . . you’ll never see those, either.
“I don’t know where Glenin Feiran is,” Cailet lied.
“Anniyas is dead,” Councillor Isidir said impatiently. “And Auvry Feiran. What’s your point, Irien?”
Annoyed, Dombur shook his head. “A pity neither survived long enough to face justice. Captal, what did you do with the bodies?”
Now she understood. “I threw Anniyas’s body into the river.”
“And Feiran’s?”
“His, I burned.”
Mutters of outrage coursed through the Council Chamber. Auvry Feiran had been given honorable burning—and, of all places, in the city he’d destroyed. Sacred cleansing fire for the Butcher of Ambrai. No one but Sarra had known of the disposition of their father’s body. Cailet kept defiance from her voice but knew it shone in her eyes.
“His, I burned,” she repeated. “I built a pyre beside the Brai River and watched him burn to ashes.”
Dombur said heavily, “I find it difficult to reconcile your great service to Lenfell and your office as Captal with giving honors to a Lord of Malerris, Lenfell’s most heinous—”
He didn’t finish. Sarra was on her feet, her voice an icy knife. “Is the Mage Captal on trial here?”
Granon Isidir blinked. “Not at all, Lady!”
Dombur scowled at him. “We wish merely to ascertain her reasons for not bringing the corpses before us.” He turned to Cailet. “May we hear those reasons now, Captal?”
Because you would’ve forgotten civilization and humanity and your own souls in order to take your vengeance, even on his hollow bones. I couldn’t let that happen—not for his sake, or mine, or Sarra’s. Or even yours.
Because he was my father and a Mage Guardian, and whatever he became, he was my father and a Mage Guardian at the end of his life.
Because . . . Glenin showed me what Malerrisi power can be. I know what it is to be empty and crave to be filled—even with that. I understand why he turned to them. I honored him with burning because . . . because it could have been me.
Cailet assumed the stance of Mage Captals in countless formal portraits: head high, shoulders straigh
t, one thumb hooked into the sash and the other hand lifted in the ancient sign of Mage-Right.
The gesture carried the weight of Generations of magic. What a Mage Captal decided was nobody else’s business.
Not quite magic enough, though. Flera Firennos bit her lower lip, deeply troubled. “We understand your reference. But you should have brought the corpse before us, so all could witness that he was dead.”
“I was witness,” Cailet replied, and for the first time she consciously called on her Ambrai Blood, projecting the arrogance Sarra could use to such excellent effect. And none of them, not at the Council table nor in the crowded hall, could meet her gaze.
Only Sarra, with her fierce, proud black eyes: Show them what an Ambrai is made of, little sister.
“Is this all the answer we can expect, Captal?” Dombur made one last try.
“It is.”
“I see.” He paused. “What was done with the ashes?”
He wouldn’t give up. Cailet wanted to ask what he’d do if he had them—make a pile of them on the great wedge of the table and burn them all over again?
She’d had enough. More than enough. If they didn’t like what she’d done, they could do without her. Their pet magician had had enough.
“The wind took his ashes,” she said coldly. “I believe it was a northerly that day, so you might look downriver or out to sea.” She nodded slightly, more to indicate this idiocy was at an end than to show respect for those who had instigated it. Then she walked with long, stiff strides from the Council Chamber, making her way with blind instinctive need through the halls toward the scent of fresh air and green, growing things.
Yet once she was in the gardens, she was ashamed of what she’d done. She was no Lady of Ambrai, not the way Sarra was, wise in the uses of Blood privilege for the good of all Lenfell. What Cailet had done was to draw on countless generations of Ambrai arrogance. And she was no Mage Captal, either, to have conjured up legends that way, lending the weight of worthier Captals and their truths to lies that were important only to her.
She couldn’t even share in the Rising’s victory. The one time she could have fought a battle, should have fought, she had been betrayed by her own emotions. Glenin had seized her like a silverback cat pouncing on a galazhi, and the only reason Cailet wasn’t dead of it was that her father had fought her battle for her.