Melanie Rawn - Exiles 2 - The Mage Born Traitor.pdf

(1357 KB) Pobierz
168388646 UNPDF
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
 

Plik z chomika:

Inne pliki z tego folderu:

Inne foldery tego chomika:

Zgłoś jeśli naruszono regulamin