Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  Kivic slid in, got his caffeo, and it was easy enough to find an isolated corner so he could slip powdered sleepweed into the porcelain pot. He hailed a passing page. The armed heralds weren’t even there any more—the queen herself had sent them the day before to guard her consort on his ride east.

  “Here, Nereith said that this is to go to the princess’s suite,” he said.

  The girl rolled her eyes. “But she isn’t here.”

  Kivic smiled his charming smile and shrugged. “Orders.”

  The girl sighed, giving an irritated shake of her shoulders, but she took the tray. Everything had gone crazy, it seemed, but she was obedient, and so she carried the tray upstairs, and scratched at the princess’s outer door. And to her surprise the door opened and Poppy, the princess’s page, appeared. She looked down at the tray, hesitating.

  “Nereith sent it,” said the palace page.

  With a shrug Poppy bore the tray inside, then closed and locked the door. She brought it to Lasthavais’s inner parlor, where the princess was immersed in the book about Ivandred’s ancestor.

  “Caffeo, from Nereith,” Poppy said, when she looked up.

  “I didn’t order it, but now that I smell it, it seems a good idea,” Lasva said, smiling. “Thank you.”

  She took a sip. Was the chocolate not quite sweetened? It had a bitter edge. She poured the cup back and swirled the pot around, poured more, and drank that. A little better, though some of that taste remained. Enough so that the desire for it went away after one cup.

  But one cup was enough. The handsomely written words on the page flickered and swam, and a huge yawn forced her jaw open.

  She rose. The sound of her moving brought Poppy running. “I think I will retire,” Lasva said. “You needn’t wait. Is that the bell for the Hour of Spice? Go, have your meal, and on your way back, please ask my sister’s people if there is any news.”

  Poppy curtseyed, delighted to be ordered to listen to whispers. She locked the door and sped downstairs, not realizing until much later that her mistress’s thoughtfulness had saved her life.

  Kivic used a heavy dose of sleepweed on the four remaining of the upstairs dressers, via cups of caffeo with distilled liquor to mask the taste. Three of them were glad enough to break duty rules and take a refresher. One, though, lectured Kivic on daring to approach her during duty, and with liquor in the caffeo—she could smell it! Still smiling his cheery smile he cut her remonstrance short, strangling her with a lot less finesse than he’d used on Torsu. He did not enjoy being lectured by these Colendi fools he would never see again.

  As he’d done with the previous three, he dragged her body to one of the brocade-covered tables that lined the halls, and left it underneath. The others would waken to considerable surprise and aching heads. This one would have to be found.

  Kivic climbed over one of the balconies in the empty consort suite and made his way to Lasthavais’s chambers. The windows were unlocked, open to the air. He found no more servants. As well. There would be no chance of getting them to drink sleep potions, and he hadn’t looked forward to killing little Poppy or some other young page, all of whom were both friendly and harmless.

  The princess lay on her bed alone, deeply asleep.

  He looked down at her face. He had never been this close to her. Even in sleep the curve of her lips was entrancing, her coloring warm, her brow intelligent. What would be her reaction if she opened her eyes?

  It was strange. He was alone with the princess half the continent seemed to want—more, if the news about the Marloven fellow was true. He ran his hands lightly over her peachy-rose gown, exquisitely stitched in a floating, gleaming fabric unheard of in Chwahirsland, where the women dressed sturdily against the ever-present cold. Her curves, after all, were just female curves. The pleasure in touching her was too mild to be termed pleasure; for that to ignite, there must be the pleasure of her response. Interesting.

  But not interesting enough to linger. So he searched her with quick efficiency for hidden pockets and transfer tokens, or magical scrollcases. Nothing. She had expected to be alone.

  Beautiful she was, supposedly with will to match wit to wit. What would her life be like with Jurac Sonscarna and his somber moods?

  Kivic laughed soundlessly, located the wardrobe, and pulled out a summer cloak with which he wrapped her up.

  Then he trod to the doors to unlatch the locks, and there were two of Jurac’s men, wearing lamentably ill-fitting House servant garb that Kivic had smuggled out the previous week.

  They took up station, watching in all directions, and there was Jurac himself. He alone did not wear servant garb, but there was no one to see him as he looked around appreciatively, and then at Kivic’s open-handed gesture went to claim his bride.

  She never even stirred as Jurac picked her up. In silence he stood holding her against him, at last, at last, the subtle scent in her hair making him almost dizzy.

  “Let’s go.” he said to the waiting men.

  FIVE

  OF A BLACK COAT

  D

  istant bells rang the midday hour as Kaidas and his little troop stopped for something to eat. The stable hand went to scout fresh mounts. Stupid with too many nights of shorted sleep and then one night with no sleep at all, Kaidas sat over his wine-fish and lemon-touched butter beans as he tried to force his tired mind to examine the reasons for his increasing uneasiness, that sense he was too late. Why did his mind keep circling round that conversation with Carola in the baroness’s bedroom? If he could recapture the chain of logic—Jurac—courtship—the possibility that Chwahir had slipped over the passes one by one while everyone was paying attention to the outer two passes….

  What if Jurac was already in Colend? If half the court was busy galloping east toward Alarcansa, and the rest were turning their faces westward in expectation of an attack from two fronts…

  “Here’s your caffeo, my lord,” said his valet.

  Kaidas drank it off, his eyes stinging against the scald on his tongue. Good. He gasped, fighting the pain. At least it cleared his head.

  Assuming Jurac wanted Lasva, and not the city, then he wouldn’t need an army. All he needed were a few people, who would wait—

  “North.”

  Two of the men said, “What?”

  Neas came stomping in, a wide grin slashed across his sun-browned face. “Horses ready, your grace. Royal city isn’t far now.”

  Kaidas realized he’d given voice to his thought. He shook his head. “We either waste time talking, or we go north and sit on the quickest road to the middle pass, and intercept him going either to the city, or from it, if he’s already been there.” And just waiting for Lasva to arrive home from Sartor.

  Neas crashed his mighty fist onto the massive oaken table, making all the dishes jump. “Let’s go!” the man roared.

  They ran out. The rain was steadily increasing. Good, Kaidas thought, veering between weariness and exhilaration as he mounted up. If it slows us up, it will slow the Chwahir, will it not?

  Jurac had never actually carried anyone before. It seemed to take forever to get out of the palace, not because they’d be seen. Royal privacy was absolute, which was why I’d only seen the back garden behind the royal suite—the very route Jurac was taking—after the senior scribe had gained permission for our Fifteen test.

  So the problem for the Chwahir was not being seen, but the slowness of Jurac’s progress, as he had to stop frequently and rest.

  In spite of the many pauses to rest, by the time they were proceeding through the tangled growth hiding the rubble marking the old palace, his shoulders and wrists ached, and his breath came short and fast. He regretted having given over the old courtyard drills he’d had to do as a boy. Kingship meant inspections of parades, not parading. It also meant hours of magic study on top of other demands, leaving little time for sweating at target practice.

  But he was not going to let anyone else touch her.

  So he hitched her up once a
gain, shifting the burden, grateful that Kivic had thought of the sleepweed. Carrying an awake woman who might be struggling—

  He veered away from that thought, and resisted the impulse to grip her tighter. Let him get her to Narad, and make her a queen, and give her anything she asked for. Then she would change her mind. Yes, that was the way to think.

  He forced himself to walk faster. Though they were well beyond the palace, they were in no wise safe. What if some fool ran up to that room to see if she wanted her ribbons changed? He wasn’t afraid of a fight—would welcome it, preferably with some of those strutting, drawling windbags whose sneering insults behind fluttering fans he’d been forced to ignore years ago—but he knew that slaughter of her countrymen wouldn’t help his cause with Lasthavais.

  At a nod his men spread out as they slogged through the overgrown gardens, churning up the rich red soil that was so very scarce north of the mountains, until at last they spied the woodland whose cover he’d counted on to hide his small force. He breathed in the sharp smell of the evergreens that reminded him so relentlessly of home. It was the leafy trees, with their startling orange and gold and red leaves, that were so strange. Not enough sun penetrated Chwahirsland for any but the hardiest to grow. Evergreens he had in plenty.

  Mixed with the scent of crushed needle-mat was the smell of his own sweat (pouring down his back, despite the rain) and crushed flowers. The world seemed unreal and made him want to laugh.

  “Fence ahead,” a man cried.

  Excellent. That wall marked the last of the palace grounds, beyond which was scrub forest. And relative safety.

  Jurac had a new thought, and turned to find Kivic’s snub, cheery face not far behind. Kivic had shed his Colendi servant tunic and wore plain, dark clothing. “I take it you cannot return?”

  Kivic smiled mischievously. “Afraid not. You wanted speed. Once they figure out she’s gone, it won’t take them long to think of me.”

  Ivandred kept an eye on Lord Davaud, who rode at their speed without complaint. When his riding companion’s face had grayed to nearly the color of his hair, Ivandred whistled for the duty runner. “Give the Colendi a willow stick.”

  Davaud was concentrating so hard on staying in his saddle he was startled when a horse drew near, and a young Marloven appeared. Davaud looked in surprise at a rain-washed face with feminine lines to the neck. Was that a young woman? The warrior held out what looked like a twig or a strip of something.

  Ivandred said, “It’s treated. Medicinal. Chew it.”

  Davaud bit down. The bitterness caused his tongue to pucker and his nose to burn, but he kept grimly at it, and the reward was a gradual but steady easing of the pain radiating out from his hips and thighs—causing him to reflect on what kind of life was led by these boys… these…. He couldn’t accustom himself to the thought of women warriors, though he knew history was full of them, including in Colend.

  What kind of lives did warriors—of either gender—lead, to have need of medicine that you could chew on the road?

  A familiar jut of hilly land brought him back to the present. “We’re close. The palace is a short ride that way.” He pointed to the southwest.

  Ivandred raised his hand, and the cavalcade halted. “Lead,” he suggested, indicating Davaud take the forward position.

  “I’ve never actually approached the palace from the back. Let me have a look from that hillock right there, to orient myself.” Davaud pointed to his right, where a cluster of wild hickory and young oak grew in profusion above a little waterfall.

  He urged his horse up a path adjacent to the fall, while Ivandred had his riders gear up and change horses.

  “Do we fight to kill?” Haldren asked, in Marloven.

  Ivandred considered, while watching the old Colendi lord up on the hillock. Lord Davaud was smart enough to keep himself screened behind shrubbery as he peered around.

  “Not our quarrel,” he said. “No honor, either, if there are fewer of them than us, which is probably the case if they’re doing a covert grab-and-run.”

  Haldren flicked out a hand in assent. Abductions of women were known in Marloven history, though not recently. They’d happened back in the days when the kingdom was splintering under the terrible Olavair kings. Right around then the old baby-betrothal custom was also breaking down. Sometimes the brides planned the abductions themselves—those were the only successful ones. The other kind tended to end in disaster, sometimes with the bride killing the groom, other times torching off a war between entire clans.

  “Fight to disable, unless they threaten her,” Ivandred said finally. “If there’s any danger to the princess, they’re yours.”

  Tdan asked, “If we’re outnumbered?”

  “Anything more than double, go for the kill, and you can take trophies.”

  Fierce joy rippled through the two columns, but no sound was made, not on a reconnaissance pause.

  Davaud made his way back down and said, “I spotted the palace roofs that way. So we must cross this stream, and go over yon hill. I believe we will catch up with the old road that runs to the wall at the edge of the palace ground.”

  Ivandred motioned to his two scouts. “Ride ahead, and watch for a sign,” he said.

  They took off, Davaud and Ivandred following more slowly.

  Lasva was dreaming of swimming in Lake Skya. Marnda kept calling for her to come out, that winter was coming, and Lasva obediently tried to swim her way, but the lake shore kept receding, the waters gradually getting deeper and darker, and she was cold, and tired, and—

  And heard rasping breathing above her, not her own. And voices, talking softly, but not in Kifelian. Her neck hurt, and her legs from the knees down tingled as if she’d been kneeling too long. She was being carried, and the voices were speaking Chwahir.

  Instinct to panic, to fight for freedom, flared through her, but she controlled it. Better to stay as she was, listen, and learn. She was in enemy hands, that was obvious, though how or why was unclear. But she was quite sure if they knew she was awake, she would lose the only advantage she had: surprise. She lifted one eyelid—to discover that her face was covered by cloth. Very well, then. Steady, steady, listen.

  Jurac felt Lasthavais stir and her muscles tighten. He looked down, but her face was hidden. She relaxed again, and relief pooled inside him.

  Queen Hatahra scowled. The Hour of the Lily had long passed—five hours past midday! Her sister was late and had not even sent a page. Hatahra had not thought Lasva capable of such discourtesy.

  Hatahra had whiled away the hour by watching her daughter, who waved her arms and made noises that were endlessly fascinating. But now she was hungry.

  Hatahra looked over the baby’s head to the duty page. “Will you find out if my sister has been detained?”

  When the girl was gone, Hatahra picked up the latest message from the heralds who were on watch below the eastern pass.

  The Duchess of Alarcansa is traveling north, having so far raised a force of—

  “Noooooo!” The scream ripped through the halls, echoing everywhere.

  Hatahra whirled, grabbing her baby up tightly against her. The two remaining armed heralds opened the door and looked out, then at each other, then back at the queen for orders, their hands gripping the hilts of their rapiers.

  The royal page stumbled in, her face greenish white. “Sindra is dead!” She wrung her hands.

  “What?”

  Everyone exclaimed in questions. Hatahra rapped out: “Silence!”

  The page forced words past her chattering teeth. “The hall. Empty. Her tray-table, the cover crooked. I, I straightened it, and my foot felt something ’neath. I looked, and it was her. H-her face, all purple—” She broke down again, weeping into her hands.

  Hatahra turned to the herald guards. “Guard the babe.” She motioned to Pollar, the head nursery maid, to take Alian, and waited until they had gone through the nursery door. Then she shut it, locked it, and yanked the bell-pull.

&nbs
p; Servants came running, some to the summons, others to report finding another dresser shoved under a table, snoring deeply.

  Hatahra herself led the investigation, terrified of finding her sister’s dead body. Yet too stunned, she had to observe, to comprehend, before she could conjecture why and what it meant.

  It did not take long. Lasthavais’s locked door was swiftly opened, to disclose an empty room. The queen turned to her servants. “You will say nothing. To anyone. But guard every door. I will send the entire staff of heralds on a search.”

  The Marloven scouts sped over a rise thick with silver-leafed aspen, their forms dark shadows flickering between pale trunks.

  Davaud and Ivandred halted.

  “Horsemen waiting over that rise to the north. Ranged for someone coming up the cart path from the south. About to join them, looks like. Not sure of the numbers. We heard voices beyond the wall, in a wood. The two groups’ll meet fairly quick.”

  “Terrain wood?”

  “Yes. Rough, rocky—ancient ruins, looks like.”

  Ivandred motioned, dividing his small force. “No lances or bows. Swords only.”

  One group to attack from the south, making all the noise possible, the others to close in from the north. A scout went with each party as guide, and they rode out.

  Chwahir do not fight on horseback for a number of reasons, including the fact that their kingdom is mostly too rocky. They heard the thunder of horse hooves just before they saw a tight wedge of yellow-haired warriors on horseback soar over a jumble of rock and a fallen tree trunk, and then everyone was fighting.

  Lasva chose that moment to jam her elbows out, in the exact movement the fan instructor had taught her. Taken by surprise, Jurac dropped her with a squelch into the mud.