Melanie Rawn - Exiles 2 - The Mage Born Traitor

Part One

969-988

Wraiths

Chapter 1

Cailet Rille leaned back against her bedchamber door, grateful for the quiet—and the lock.

Too tired to call up any additional Wards to augment those permanently in place around her

Ryka Court quarters, she unbuttoned the high collar of her regimentals and wondered if she

should take a nice, long, soothing bath. No, too much effort. And if Tarise—who was right

across the hallway in Sarra's suite—heard the tub spigot running, she'd come in, Wards or

not, to "assist" Cailet's ablutions. According to Tarise, no Lady of Importance and Position

ever even trimmed her own nails.

Though Tarise Nalle was officially Sarra's personal maid (and auxiliary eyes and ears), she

had set herself the task of convincing Cailet that she, too, required a servant to attend all her

needs—an idea as alarming as it was amusing. There had been servants at Ostinhold while

Cailet was growing up, of course—dozens of them to clean the sprawling house and cook the

meals and wash and mend and clean some more. But everyone at Ostinhold made her own

bed, tidied her own room, dressed herself, and did her own hair (except First Daughter Geria,

whose first action on attaining her majority and a yearly allowance at eighteen was to hire a

maid). Sarra, having shared Tarise with Lady Agatine, was used to having things done for

her. She saw no reason—nor did Tarise—why Cailet should be made uncomfortable by

similar attentions.

She was, though. And not just because it felt silly to have someone wait on her. She said

nothing about the deeper reasons, the secret reasons, for wanting total privacy in her person

and personal belongings. Instead she told her sister that she was perfectly capable of keeping

her rooms neat, she'd been dressing herself since the age of two, and her hair was hopeless

anyway. Tarise's sharp references to the exalted status of Mage Captal fell on deaf ears. Cailet

wanted simply to forget her position most of the time, and the best way to do that was to be

alone as much as possible.

Or so she'd thought.

She prowled the bedroom, sourly cataloging luxuries that made her feel as if she lived in a

birdcage. Quite literally; sun-silvered oak furniture was inlaid with ebon-wood in patterns of

feathers, and fitted with golden goose heads as drawer pulls, cabinet handles, and finials on

the bedcurtain rods. Thick Cloister rugs intricately figured with a whole improbable aviary

splashed bright colors underfoot. The bathroom, visible through the open stained-glass door

(birds splashing in a sylvan pond), was a marvel of malachite and marble and gold-beaked

faucets. Birdcage it might be, but the view through beveled windows was of the gardens and

Council Lake beyond, and unequaled in all Ryka Court.

Cailet stubbornly preferred her Ostinhold bedroom— which no longer existed, except in

memory: bleached pine bedframe and clothes closet, cool stone floor, faded blue curtains

woven long ago by some Ostin husband or son, windows overlooking the courtyard's

cheerful chaos. At Ryka Court, the sight of Council Lake—so much water out in the

open—made her nervous.

She knew what Sarra would say with a smile and a shake of her head: "Waster!" Well, she

was. Bred an Ambrai in Ambraishir she might be, but she'd been born and raised in The

Waste. No matter that she hated the place. It was the only home she knew.

How good it would be to return there. To sit in her old room, snuggled into the sagging old

armchair, reading an adventure novel; to climb up the watchtower and gaze out on miles of

Saints-forsaken wilderness beyond the security of Ostinhold. To saddle her horse and ride out

completely alone. She liked being by herself. She'd been solitary as a child, partly through

choice and partly because she was a practically Nameless orphan and such things had been

very important back in the days of identity disks and Bloods and Tiers. Her new position as

Mage Captal guaranteed that she continued to be set apart. But the solitude she craved was

not to be found at Ryka Court. She could be anyplace—eating dinner in a tavern, shopping,

sitting on a park bench, strolling the windy shoreline—and people would recognize and

approach her. Most were respectful, wishing only to express admiration and gratitude. Some

wanted something from her: patronage of their Web's products, her influence to settle some

difficulty, a word to Sarra on their behalf. A few—and these she treasured—ventured the

hope that a Mage might visit their homes to meet a young

cousin/daughter/niece/grandson/friend who showed signs of being Mageborn.

But all of them, no matter how they tried to hide it (and some didn't bother), were shocked to

find her so young.

They'd just have to get used to it, she told herself. And if they didn't—well, time was a sure

cure for youth. Eventually she might attain as many years as she felt weighing her down

now. She couldn't remember ever having felt so tired. There was something vaguely amusing

about that. Not yet nineteen, and she felt older than Gorynel Desse was when he died.

Crossing to the gigantic bed (she'd tried without success to have a smaller one substituted for

this silk-hung monstrosity), she lay down and kicked off her boots. Several deep breaths later,

while staring at the coffered ceiling (also gilded, with birds lurking amid polished timbers),

she began consciously untensing from the toes up. No one had taught her the technique—no

one now living, anyway. Like everything else she had absorbed from three dead Mage

Guardians and a beloved Ladder Rat, it worked perfectly.

Except on the stubborn knots in her shoulders that had been there since word came that on

St. Chevasto's Day a certain cottage in Sheve Dark had burned to the ground. A little

message from her eldest sister Glenin, of course; just a little reminder that the Malerrisi could

still reach out from the castle in Seinshir. These last days of the old year, worry had taken up

residence in Cailet's body and mind; waking, dreaming, in company or in solitude—though

the Mage Captal was rarely permitted to be by herself.

She'd needed Falundir's cottage, damn it. When Collan had suggested a sojourn there, peace

had stolen gently over her spirit. She hadn't even chafed at the winter storms that made

taking ship from Ryka impossible; the cottage had been there forever, it would wait for her.

Word had been sent to Sleginhold to have the place made ready; probably that was how

Glenin had found out. Even in her self-imposed exile, she retained her sources of information.

Which meant there were Malerrisi still at large. No one would ever know what they were

unless they openly worked magic.

Sarra had been upset and Collan downright shaken by news of the fire. Falundir only

shrugged, giving Cailet a look of rueful compassion. He of all people knew what it was to

need a place to heal in solitude. To assess the damage, to let go of what had been lost. To work

out what was possible for the future.

But the urgencies of politics made Cailet's needs unimportant. Sarra sympathized, but, truly

told, she was the most insistent of those who had schemes for the Mage Guardians and their

Captal. There were certain things only Mages could advise about, or do, or explain, or

whatever. For Sarra, simple logic dictated that her sister the Captal thus advise, do, explain,

or whatever. Full of plans and proposals was Sarra, especially for the "whatever" part—even

though it had been impressed upon her that neither Cailet nor the Mages would ever work

hand-in-hand with the Council.

Collan, mercifully, let Cailet alone. When she wanted company, he had the grace to just sit

and talk—about music, books, his adventures as an itinerant Minstrel, anything but politics.

Still, every so often Sarra would infect him with a scheme, and Cailet was too polite not to

listen when he told her about it. As a grown woman, she had every right to order him to shut

up; as a grown man, he had no right to take offense. As Mage Captal, she could decide what

was worth hearing and what wasn't, and let people know it in no uncertain terms. But as

herself, scarcely out of childhood, she had yet too much respect for her elders of both sexes to

tell any of them to go away and leave her alone. And Collan Rosvenir was the very last man

on Lenfell to bend his head in submission to any woman's command—even Sarra's.

"Cailet? Are you hiding in there again?"

A childish denial sprang to her lips—"I'm not hiding!" She bit it back. She didn't lower the

Wards; Sarra invariably just ignored them. Cailet wasn't sure if it was determination that got

her through, or if family were immune to family-cast spells. But she didn't have the nerve to

make the Wards Sarra-proof. She could have; the knowledge was in her. Saints, so easy, even

though she still didn't understand how it all worked. Did knowledge really count if you'd

never really learned it?

"Come in, Sarra," she said, and sat up.

Even though she was now quite visibly pregnant, Sarra's movements were as graceful as ever.

She walked to a nearby chair and sank into its green velvet depths with a sigh. Cailet knew

immediately that for once she hadn't spent the day in meetings: her clothes were too casual,

wide-legged black silk trousers and a loose matching tunic embroidered with a rainbow of

tiny flowers. Sarra's clothes were always elegant, her hair was always tidy, and she always

looked beautiful—even pregnant. Sarra did everything with grace and style. Sarra was, in

fact, perfect. And for this, for just an instant, Cailet cordially detested her. The next moment,

though, she smiled. Had Sarra really been perfect, Collan would never have married her.

Sarra smiled back. "Have you thought any more about what I said?"

"No," Cailet replied with a deliberately cheerful grin.

"You don't even know which idea I'm talking about!"

"And I don't want to know either. Whatever it is, right now I'm not interested. I think—" She

broke off as Sarra turned slightly green. "Are you all right?"

"Give me a minute." Sweat pearled her brow and upper lip. She wiped it away, grimacing.

"Damn Elomar! He said this would stop once I was past my tenth week. And that was six

weeks ago!"

"Are you going to throw up again?" Cailet asked warily, ready to help her to a sink.

"No. I haven't eaten anything all day, there's nothing to throw up. Oh, don't you start! I get

enough cosseting from Col and Tarise!"

"Well, you should be cosseted," Cailet told her firmly. "And once we get you back to

Roseguard, you will be. You'll be living in my house, remember, while the Residence is being

finished, so you won't have any choice."

"Just what I always wanted—to be waited on hand and foot all fifteen hours of the day!"

"But you grew up that way, you should be used to all the luxuries."

Sarra laughed. "Caisha, 'luxury' is an evening alone with my husband!"

She smiled to acknowledge the truth of it, then said, "No, I meant all the things you had at

Roseguard. All the wealth, and elegant living. Things like that. We live pretty well at Ryka

Court, but it doesn't belong to us. Do you miss having beautiful things of your own?"

"I'm too amazed that we are living to worry about the way we live. But once we get

Roseguard rebuilt, and finish decorating your house—"

"I still can't believe you did that for me," Cailet said shyly. "A whole house of my own…"

"I wish you'd let me give you more. But you'll love having a place that belongs to you. You're

right, I do miss that. Roseguard was so lovely…"

"And Ambrai."

Sarra was quiet for a moment. "I loved the Octagon Court. It was my home. But I wasn't First

Daughter, so it never would've belonged to me, and I knew it. Now it belongs to Elin

Alvassy—and that suits me fine."

"Ostinhold's the only home I ever knew. I miss it, but it was never any part of it mine."

"When I think of what you should have had—it's not fair," Sarra said. "You grew up in that

dust pit, while I had everything."

"Except your Name. But it doesn't matter. We both turned out to be the right bait in the end."

When her sister looked startled, she arched a brow. "Hadn't you guessed? We were meant to

come to their attention, draw them out, push them into making a mistake. It just didn't turn

out the way Gorsha planned." She shrugged and lay back down, staring at the wooden

ceiling timbers. "Nothing ever turns out the way it's planned."

Sarra said nothing for a moment, then murmured, "I'm sorry we couldn't find another place

for you, Cai. Falundir's cottage would've been so perfect."

"Another place for me to hide?"

"I've never heard you sound so bitter."

"I've been doing a lot of thinking lately."

"Too much. And perhaps not enough."

Cailet turned her head to stare. "You've been playing politics too long. You're talking in two

directions at once."

"And you've been sulking too long. Don't think I haven't noticed. You shut yourself up in here

whenever you think you can get away with it."

Cailet rolled to her feet. "Why don't you leave me alone? Why can't anybody just leave me

alone?"

"Because you're the only Mage Captal we've got, and like it or not, that means you have

power and responsibilities and—"

"I don't want them."

"Too bad." Sarra folded her arms over the curve of her belly and glared. "What if you'd

grown up in Ambrai? Would you have told Mother and Lady Allynis to leave you alone?"

"No, I would've told Father! At least he loved me!" She swung away from the shock on her

sister's face. "Mother didn't want me, she wouldn't even look at me when I was born! But

Father gave his life for me. He'd understand that I hate being on display and I hate having

power and responsibility and all I want is to be left alone!"

Sarra rose slowly to her feet. "You didn't know him at all. Everything you say you hate, he

loved and wanted more of. That's why he betrayed us."

"He didn't betray me."

"Maybe not at the last," she conceded. "But everything you hope to accomplish, everything

you believe in—"

"Everything I was told to believe. Don't you see that what Gorsha did to me is as

manipulative as if he'd been a Lord of Malerris? He Made me Captal—you and he decided

for me, without ever asking what I wanted!"

"There was no one else," Sarra said quietly.

"No one you'd accept—or who could be more useful to you!"

Sarra's complexion changed again, this time to a pinched pallor of anger. "Don't you

understand? Even now, after all this time?"

Cailet calmed herself and tried to explain, "I'm sorry. I don't mean it the way it sounds. It's

just—Sarra, I don't understand how it all happened. I can't see the purpose of it. You, me,

Glenin, the way it all came together—or came apart, I'm not even sure which— sometimes I

catch a glimpse, but it's gone before I can make sense of it. And I have to know."

"You can't just accept it, and go on?"

"That's the whole point! What do I do now? Don't say I can do what I want—that's an option

I don't have and never will."

"But you can choose any path you want!"

"As long as it provides more Mage Guardians to take the places of all those who died.

Thousands of them, Sara. Thousands." She circled the bed to take her sister's hands. "I envy

you so much. You're so sure of yourself. What you want to do and what you ought to do are

pretty much the same. It's the way you're put together inside. But what am I? I've never been

just Cailet, just myself— not even when I was little. All those Wards set against my magic—"

She stopped, knowing she could talk until next Midwinter Moon and not make herself clear.

Collan would understand. He, too, had been Warded; he, too, wondered what facets of

himself had been lost or changed or imposed on him by those Wards. But Collan had lived

longer with himself as he was; he'd be thirty-two (or thereabouts; he had no idea what his true

Birthingday was) on the first day of the new year, and he had long since become used to

himself, comfortable with what he had become—Wards or no Wards. Cailet suddenly

wanted to be his age, to have the first of adulthood behind her with all its difficult searchings

and failures and new definitions of who she was.

"You're so sure of yourself," she repeated softly.

"Don't you believe it, little sister," Sarra retorted.

"But I have to believe it. Otherwise I've got nothing to work toward."

Black eyes widened. "Don't tell me you see me as—"

Cailet smiled at Sarra's astonishment, then gave a sigh and a shrug. "Well, who else should I

look up to? Glenin?"

"If you have to have an example before you, you could've chosen a much better one than me,

Caisha."

"I don't think so. But do you see what I'm talking about? I know I have to find other

Mageborns and replenish the Guardians, but what about me! What happens in my life? Can I

even have a life, apart from being Mage Captal?"

Again Sarra was quiet for a time—a new aspect of her, this thoughtful silence, perhaps a

result of the inward-turning of a pregnant woman, but more likely a sign of growing

maturity. Slowly, she said, "As an Ambrai, your life would have been Ambrai. Firstborn,

Secondborn, Thirdborn, we all would have had special duties. You and I could have chosen

for ourselves more than Glenin, of course, but—" She shook her head, golden hair gleaming

in the sun through tall windows. "Ambrai is lost to us. It belongs to Elin now. So you'd think

we'd be free to make our own lives as we wished. We can't. I fight for every hour I spend with

my husband. I plot and scheme for every moment I can escape my duties."

So she did understand, at least part of it. Clasping the small, cool hands, Cailet said, "Sarra,

doesn't it make you feel used?"

"No. Useful. You look at it as a curse. I see it as a gift. How many people are allowed to

accomplish even a portion of what we have?"

"Gifts don't come with price tags attached," Cailet reminded her.

"I'm willing to pay."

Her proud determination sent a shudder through Cailet. "You've paid all your life, Sasha. I

haven't. I don't know if I want to."

Sarra frowned. "If you're not willing, then your life will be a bitter one."

"How can it ever be my life?"

Lips thin with exasperation, Sarra broke away and turned for the door. "I was right—you

haven't thought nearly enough. When you have, let me know. Hide in here and sulk. It won't

do you any good. The world's still out there—and, as you say, nothing ever turns out the way

we plan."

Chapter 2

Ryka Court seemed more populous than ever—or perhaps Cailet was simply growing more

intolerant of crowds. Every hall and corridor and chamber was stuffed with members of the

Council and the Assembly, with Ministers of this-that-and-the-other, with administrators and

aides and assistants—and at least six functionaries attendant upon each.

Cailet's three rooms—reception salon, cozy office, and bedchamber-with-a-view—were a

sanctuary of sorts. But Sarra was right, she couldn't stay in them all the time. Whenever she

emerged, whether as Mage Captal for a meeting or social event, or as a citizen of Lenfell with

private business of her own, all her movements were fodder for the gossips. And they said the

most absurd things.

"Why did I buy toys for the baby at this shop instead of that one?" she fumed to Collan one

afternoon. She'd invaded Sarra's rooms by a side entry after seeing a knot of people in the

hall outside her own door. "What's the deep inner significance of my choosing to have lunch

at this tavern instead of that? What secrets am I hiding when I'm silent during a conference?"

"Well, you could always tell them the truth." He poured another cider for her and brandy for

himself. "You found a cute stuffed animal, you like the beer, and you were quiet because the

conference was boring you senseless."

"They'd never believe me. Everything I do has some ulterior motive, some mystical meaning."

She accepted the cider and flopped onto a sofa. "I'm the Captal, and there's amazement

enough for them. They haven't had one around for twenty years. But not only am I the

Captal, I defeated Anniyas single-handed without breaking a sweat, magically speaking. I

must be omnipotent, invincible, able to move mountains and change rivers in their courses—"

Collan pulled an aggrieved face. "I was there, too— with Anniyas, I mean, though I can't

vouch for the other stuff. Don't I even get mentioned?"

"Stop laughing at me!" But she had to grin back at him. He was good for her, this

Minstrel-turned-Blooded Lady's Lord. "They'd rather believe all those stupid speculations, no

matter how ridiculous."

He gave a cynical snort. "Of such lies are legends made, kitten. You might as well sit back

and enjoy it."

"I don't want to be a legend. What they're saying about me has nothing to do with me."

Collan yawned elaborately. "You think the majority of people who get songs written about

them would recognize themselves in the lyrics?"

She stared at him with genuine alarm. "Col, you wouldn't—"

"Oh, not me. I'm a lowly Minstrel, not a true Bard. And Falundir doesn't have time right now.

He's in the middle of his opera—don't worry, it's not about you," he added, laughing again at

her panic. "No, it'll be those eloquent heralds of popular culture, those masterminds of

melody, those paragons of poetry—the barroom balladeers, in case you didn't recognize the

colorful descriptives—who'll render your spectacular tale in song."

Cailet tucked her bare feet under her, scrunching into a corner of the couch. The level of

liquor in the bottle probably had a direct connection to his eloquence. "How drunk are you at

this hour of the afternoon?"

"Not very. Look, Cai, people believe what makes them comfortable believing. If you don't

give them what they want, they'll make it up." He paused to admire the honeyed glow of

sunlight through the brandy. "I'm supposed to have millions stashed in banks all over North

Lenfell. And because I'm a husband with control of my own money, I'm a target for every

fool's pet scheme." He snorted. "Yesterday it was an iron mine in Kenrokeshir. Iron? In

Kenrokeshir? How stupid do they think I am?"

"Stupid enough to marry someone even stupider," Sarra said, plodding into the room. She

lowered herself into a chair as if more than her pregnancy weighed her down. "Congratulate

me. I just managed to insult one third of the Assembly, annoy another third, and the only

reason the remaining third isn't insulted or annoyed is because they're at the horse races. No,

I don't want to discuss it. I'll only get furious all over again, and I'm too tired. Somebody talk

about something pleasant."

"If you ask me, it's talking that's the problem around here," Collan said—and flung a pillow

at Cailet.

Unprepared, she took it right in the face. Retaliation was obligatory; she hadn't grown up in

the rambunctious Ostin household for nothing. Soon there was a full-scale war going between

herself and Collan, while Sarra pretended to cower in her chair, laughing herself completely

out of breath.

"Waster, you're history!" Collan roared from behind his chair, lobbing more pillows.

"Lute-plucking scum!" Cailet yelled back. Feathers began to fly, most of them in Col's

direction, which she considered only right and proper.

"No fair!" he cried, as indignant as any eight-year-old, and sneezed. "Magic's against the

rules!"

Not bothering to correct his impression, Cailet launched another pillow. "Rules?" she scoffed.

"In a pillow fight?"

That was how Tarise found them: the Mage Captal and Lord Rosvenir battering each other

while the Councillor for Sheve lay in her chair giggling helplessly, all three of them adrift in

feathers. For a moment Tarise looked sorely tempted to join in, then grimaced with regret and

announced the arrival of Irien Dombur.

"Oh, send him away," Sarra said, plucking feathers from her clothes.

"Urgent business," Tarise replied apologetically. "About as far as I can send him is your

reception room. Here, let me help you get cleaned up."

"He wants to see all of us?"

"He does. Sorry."

Ten minutes later Cailet accompanied Sarra into the reception chamber, Collan a polite pace

behind them. She felt his fingers hurriedly remove a few last feathers from her hair and

repressed an inappropriate giggle. From Sarra's expression, no one would have guessed that

only a few moments ago she'd been crowing with laughter. Yes, a Rosvenir was definitely

good medicine for whatever ailed an Ambrai. Collan's calculated insanity seemed to have

restored Sarra; she looked alert and relaxed, though mirth sparkled still in her black eyes.

Murmured greetings were exchanged, Col did his duty by serving drinks, and Irien Dombur

made small talk about the dreadful rainy weather for the required length of time before

stating his purpose in coming here.

"Simply put, there are rooms in Ryka Court we can't get into. All of them belong—or I should

say used to belong—to former First Councillor Anniyas."

"Terrific," Collan muttered.

"Comparisons of the architectural renderings with the physical reality do not match. And

these places are Warded, as confirmed by your own Mage Guardian, Captal."

"You expected them not to be?" Col asked; even though Dombur was a Councillor, Collan

could get away with being rude to him man-to-man, and took advantage of it every chance

he got.

"Of course not." The Councillor favored him with a sharp glance from the piercing

sapphire-colored eyes typical of the Dombur Name. "Anniyas lived in those rooms. Naturally

they would be Warded." Addressing Cailet again, Dombur went on, "We know several things

about the Wards. They repel any attempt to cancel them or even to determine their exact

nature. Brute force is unavailing against walls we know to be those of secret chambers— and

of course we have no intention of destroying them or what they might contain."

"They weren't set by amateurs, in other words," Cailet commented. She knew about the

Wards; Viko Garvedian had told her several days ago there was something odd about

Anniyas's chambers. Though there'd been time to investigate, she hadn't. Anything to do with

Melanie Rawn - Exiles 2 - The Mage Born Traitor

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