Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  It was not a history of magic as taught to heralds.

  I had in my hands a book of magic.

  It had to be an instructor’s book, perhaps the very instructor that Kaura had mentioned knowing at Tif’s celebration. I’d assumed that my cousin would approach this person for recommendations. Instead, she had—somehow—got hold of this.

  I laid it on my knee as if it were more fragile than porcelain.

  I am not supposed to have this book.

  My first instinct was to wrap the book again and send it back to Tiflis with a carefully worded note explaining her error. But as I considered what I would have to say to her, I hesitated for three reasons. First, I did not want to offend my cousin, who had done her best to fulfill my request, probably at great cost. Second, I wondered if lessons for a beginning mage might furnish me more of the sort of knowledge I needed to know than a history of magic, suitably distanced as such things inevitably were. Third, and probably most important—though I thought it least important at the time: I was curious.

  I wrapped the book up again, and laid it at the bottom of my trunk. I would not make a hasty decision.

  The following days passed rapidly as I helped Lasva sort through her belongings, and I continued my research. She had burned all her rosebud carpets the night before we left for Sartor, which had shocked Marnda, but no one had dared say anything.

  Most of the rest of her things were given away. Courtiers adopted the cats—as much as cats are ever owned by humans. Let us say, the clean-boxes and the food were shifted to new locations and cat-windows refitted. Mostly, the cats vanished, though a few wandered through until the very last day.

  Heirlooms went back into storage. About other things Lasva said only, “Take it away.” Like Rontande’s painting of cats. I don’t know what the servants did with these, but I suspect they were sold as once having belonged to the princess.

  The only new things were those items she had ordered to take west as gifts. As her household shrank to packed trunks in bare, sunny rooms, she seemed to withdraw into herself.

  I did not discuss my secret book with anyone. My orders from the queen had been clear about not burdening Lasva, and I understood that the less Birdy knew about what I would be doing, the less the Marloven king would be able to winnow out if Birdy (in his place as stalking horse) might come to be questioned. Besides (I am trying to be honest in this record) I knew he would tell me to send it back as quickly as possible so that I might get a suitable history. Not that I’d been able to find any such suitable history.

  As for reconsidering my decision to keep it, I was too busy. Or so I reasoned. When it did intrude on my mind, I found myself arguing, not reasoning: I would learn just enough to understand, to see magic from the inside… what harm could it do? I would never use it. Knowledgeable, I could protect Lasva so much better, could I not?

  Lasva was also isolated. Here are some of the memories she later cherished:

  “This is the waltz,” she said. She’d brought Ivandred to her own suite for the lesson. Though it was smaller than the gallery, she did not want any reminders of waltzing with Jurac of Chwahirsland.

  Instead, the reminders of Kaidas were like the thorns hidden behind the rose blossoms. Here they had stood… no. And, there they had—no.

  She forced her attention to the dance steps, which he caught in a surprisingly short time. But the way he watched, with his eyes narrowed, his body so still before he moved, and then, when he did move, it was neatly, lightly, with controlled guestures mirroring hers all the way to the fingertips. It was strange to find her own style so adroitly copied.

  When she said, “Let us try it together,” her heartbeat quickened.

  She took his hand, surprised at the roughness on his palms. She placed the one at her waist, which he barely touched, and the other clasped her fingers, cool and light. The first step was awkward; she bumped into him, and her hand on his shoulder slid down his back to steady him, but he did not stumble or sway.

  He stilled.

  Then moved, slowly, matching her step, her dip, her turn. His clasp was cool but the internal heat flared again, and she welcomed it desperately, hungrily, craving to annihilate the memory of Kaidas’s body, taller, bigger in the bones. Smoother under the skin. Ivandred was built like a cat, but so muscular, his contours were ridged and molded, and she wondered what it would be like when they…

  But he did not seem to understand the signals inviting him into intimate space. Colendi enjoyed the subtleties of advance and retreat, the lingering eye, the inviting curl of private smile. Seduction was best done subliminally, never any word that later would be regretted, or worse, reported.

  She sensed a corresponding fire in Ivandred, but he did not see the signals, nor did he speak any lover’s words. In fact, he didn’t speak at all.

  So she made the mental retreat from intimacy. They had plenty of time. And anticipation was so much better than grief.

  Faces flashed by as she waltzed with Ivandred at the queen’s ball. Curious eyes, envious, laughing, puzzled, haughty, familiar faces all. Ananda, trying to catch Ivandred’s eye, then giving up and seducing the quite willing Prince Macael. Aunt Darva’s worried gaze. Little Farava, clasped in the arms of Rontande Altan, for once not sulky or pouty, but intent; so intent he looked like a man at last, rather than an aging youth.

  The first storm that carried a hint of autumn sent the brightly colored leaves swirling into the canals, which in Colend is called The Scattering of the Jewels. But she would not be there to hear the autumn songs about the first fire, the first hint of winter wind, the lowering arc of the sun, and always about drawing into the warm circle of loved ones.

  So she turned from that thought to the good memories again: the last hunt of the season, Ivandred’s pale hair windblown as he rode his silky-maned horse straight as an arrow shot from a bow, the glimpse of him riding easily next to the young buck as he leaned out and wound the garland around the nearest antler. He didn’t toss it, like the Colendi did. Riding back, he looked as if nothing happened. Admiring whispers rustled through the courtiers like wind through autumn trees.

  She felt nothing as her suite vanished around her. She felt nothing when Hatahra laughed and then gave a sudden sob. Just one, as Pollar showed everyone the royal babe’s first tooth. There was Alian—hard to think of her as a niece—waving her arms and trying to wriggle out of her nurse’s grasp, her embroidered and lace-edged gown entangled over sturdy, chubby, short limbs; strings of drool hanging down off her bran-colored nubbin of a chin as Pollar moved from person to person showing the tiny bud of a tooth. I should feel something, Lasva thought, touching the baby’s fat cheek.

  She felt nothing when her rooms were empty at last, and she took her last bath before the wedding.

  The wedding.

  It was no longer spoken of in future. It was now.

  There was the throne room, her sister, the consort, and her betrothed, distant as statues as she listened to their voices reciting the very old words. First his voice, husky, low, the strange accent, then her sister’s, firm, but with a tremble just once. And her own voice, high, clear, and remote as the stars.

  She walked out, his arm under hers. I am married.

  As she danced through the night, surrounded by people wearing every shade of blue, except for that central figure in black and gold, the few who knew her well realized just how much grace would leave the court when Lasva was gone. Two people, Darva and the queen, watched Lasva from opposite sides of the brilliantly lit ballroom built of translucent blue-veined marble. The blue cast, usually so cool and beautiful, seemed to shroud Lasva in sorrow as they recognized in her distant gaze, her absent smile, and in the hint of winter’s bite carried on the rising wind, that Princess Lasthavais the Rose was already gone.

  Ivandred, too, moved in a haze, mostly of exhaustion, for he was not used to late nights of dancing or card parties or performances. Marlovens do not sleep from dawn until almost noon, and then rest again in th
e afternoon. He forced himself to stay awake and aware.

  As they completed the ritual that seemed so foreign to him, and he took hands with his new wife, Ivandred tried again to envision her gentle manners and ribbons and web-soft, drifting clothes in his home of stone and steel.

  “Safety,” she had said.

  Marlovens prefer to depart on long journeys at dawn. The queen and consort walked out with us into the bleak bluish light, where the Marlovens, Prince Macael and his diminished entourage, and Birdy (or Stable Hand Birdy, as he was now known) waited with the princess’s carriage, which was the first of the three carriages containing servants and belongings.

  Bare-headed, Ivandred sat astride his horse as Hatahra and Lasva embraced one last, lingering time that made it clear neither expected to see the other again anytime soon—if ever. I climbed into the carriage in the backward seat, my travel bag gripped in my arms. The hours had rung, the days had passed, and the courier remained un-summoned, the note to Tiflis unwritten, the dangerous gift unreturned. Instead, it lay at the bottom of my carry-bag, wrapped in my second-best underrobe.

  I’d decided that my very reluctance to return the gift was my strongest reason to keep it. By accepting the gift, I kept faith with my cousin and also with the queen. Yes, I was breaking the mages’ rules, but I trusted myself not to use for influence whatever knowledge I gained, much less for ill. I only wanted knowledge for the sake of knowledge, a laudable goal at any time but especially upon venturing into a new land and a new life.

  I watched the wind lift Ivandred’s pale hair as he looked down his assembled rows, baggage and remounts at the back, black and gold banners flagging on their lances.

  Hatahra raised a hand in farewell.

  The prince of Marloven Hesea struck his hand to his heart in salute to her, then turned Lasva’s way. She sat there, still and composed.

  Ivandred lifted his fist in the air.

  The Marlovens did not leave at the gallop, but at a quiet walk, falling in two by two behind our Colendi carriages until there was nothing left in the courtyard but a low cloud of dust settling swiftly in the cold wind that already smelled of winter, and three cats watching, twitch-tailed, from the roof.

  ONE

  OF FORESIGHT AND THE SERVING OF FOOD

  W

  e were shocked when we discovered that our princess was not going to travel the way princesses always traveled—in a sedate cortege, with outriders going ahead to requisition the finest inns and see that all was ready. The Marlovens did their best to accommodate us. They put together two of their tents just for Lasva, as befitted their idea of a princess, and they’d gathered fine embroidered cushions and hangings for it.

  That first night, as Lasva and we, her staff, crowded into the already-stuffy, cramped and unfamiliar space of the tent, wondering where to put our things as well as ourselves, it was clear from the sharp angles of elbows, the pitch of voices, how tired and irritated everyone was. We stood uneasily around the edge of the light cast by the lamp, no one daring to move lest she inadvertently cast a shadow over someone else. The violence inherent in that light disturbed some of us and excited others—you could see it in their shadow-emphasized features. Single source light is crude in its harsh and sudden revelations, emphasized by the rudeness of shadow.

  Lasva had her palms together in The Peace. “I want us to travel in harmony. If the Marlovens can endure this kind of travel, so can we.” There was nothing more to be said until we were in private.

  She retired behind one of the hangings that screened off the back of the tent, then reappeared and handed me her gold scrollcase. “Will you take charge of this, Emras? Tell me at once if my sister writes, as always.”

  I bowed my assent. She let the cloth fall and vanished from sight but not from hearing. Seneschal Marnda motioned the staff and me outside.

  I hesitated, not certain if I should follow, for my orders came directly from Lasva. Until now, the chain of responsibility had been clear. I was still Lasva’s scribe, even if in secret. I was not a serving maid under the seneschal, except in seeming.

  Marnda beckoned again, a firm gesture that left me a choice between obeying (thereby setting a precedent I might come to regret), or causing resentment in her.

  I picked up my cloak and followed.

  In darkness we trampled over the rough ground as occasional drops of rain splattered us. I gritted my teeth when my slippers stuck in muck. Soft exclamations escaped the dressers, barely seen in the uncertain, flickering light of the cooks’ fire and the bobbing torches carried by what we would soon learn were inside perimeter guards. These guards protected us from attack, but it seemed to us that their true purpose was to shoo wandering Colendi back inside the circle, much like a shepherd chasing errant sheep.

  When we’d gone a distance from tents or fire, Marnda stopped, and we gathered around her in the deepening nightfall. Marnda issued orders to the dressers for who would sleep where, when, what their duties that night would be, and then sent them off one by one.

  Then we were alone. “That gold case should be mine, Scribe.” Her voice quivered with emotion. “The queen was specific. Her highness must become accustomed to the new life as soon as possible. That means, no letters from home should disturb the princess’s repose, unless she expresses the desire to see them. We already know that the queen will not write, unless there is some great cause.”

  “Seneschal Marnda, you know my orders from the queen.” I made The Peace, though she probably could see as little of me as I saw of her. “And you just heard the orders from the princess. ‘Always’ means I summarize any letters not from the queen, and the princess dictates an answer if she does not wish to answer herself.”

  After a painfully long silence, Marnda said, “Then you must read whatever comes, but do not summarize unless she asks. If a week goes by and she does not ask, then answer them in her name, on the queen’s orders to me.”

  “But I did not hear those orders. And my doing that seems a breach of the scribes’ First Rule.”

  “But you can break that Rule when ordered. Scribe Emras, the queen said—these are her words—that the sooner our princess turns her heart west, the sooner she will again be happy.”

  “Yes. The queen said that to me as well.”

  “So this is how I interpret Queen Hatahra’s orders: do not let her highness see any letters from home that will cause her pain. She must not experience reminders that might keep her heart back in Alsais, so if you find that you are unable to answer those letters, I am putting myself forward to carry out that duty.”

  “I am her scribe. I will do it.”

  I trudged back to the tent, sick at heart. The tent was not empty—from the sound of low voices I could tell that Lasva and Ivandred sat behind the hanging. He asked a series of questions about her comfort, what could he do, what could they do, and she returned polite answers. Without the distraction of seeing them, I could hear from their tones how they spoke past one another in their effort to be accommodating. He in that outdated, stiff Sartoran became more specific and she more vague, garlanded with more words of gratitude, but I sensed her tension mounting from the very gentleness of her tone.

  He left, bidding her a good night.

  That set the rhythm of our days. And I do mean days. The Marlovens did not stop even for Restday. Anyone who has traveled rapidly (the Marlovens wanted to get home by winter) without being able to stay in hostelries (the Marlovens did not like foreign inns) would understand at once how rare and precious are a few moments alone.

  As fine as a tent is, in theory, what you have in reality is a canvas enclosure of stale air that does not shut out cold, damp, or noise. The only bearable place was near the brazier, then your front cooked as your back chilled. Colendi are accustomed to closing off the intimate details of life behind doors. Privacy was the privilege of birth: the higher your birth, the more doors between you and the world. The powerful chose when they would be seen, but even we who served had recourse to a se
mblance of privacy, and we each had our own sleeping space, tiny as it might be.

  Living almost on top of one another in tents, then bumped up against each other in carriages, we were forced into continual intimate proximity. It did not help that there was no staff to attend to our needs. We either had to do for ourselves, or rely on each other. Anhar offered to attend to our nails as best she could, and Pelis to repair our clothes. However, Belimas, the hair dresser, refused to touch anyone else’s head but Lasva’s because (she said) our hair was disgusting as we could not bathe every day. I was glad that I’d cut my hair short again, but the others were miserable until they learned to finger their hair into simple braids, at least.

  Belimas, in her hatred of the journey, was not content to stop there. She and Anhar quarreled interminably in short, hissing whispers. At first I did not hear any particulars, but one night, I was there when Belimas scolded Anhar, calling her a moon-faced hummer and an oaf for deliberate shadow-trespasses.

  Anhar? My incredulity caused me to look her way, and I saw in her tight lips, her downward gaze, that this accusation was not new. But there were none of the angry little signs of someone who has been caught doing wrong. Just the opposite.

  I said, “I believe the campfire is at fault.” When Belimas turned my way, looking as surprised as if a tree had spoken, I addressed her. “As you can see, the shadows are uneven. Anyone might find a shadow forming after she placed her foot.” I made The Peace.

  Belimas flushed, but she returned The Peace in a stiff manner.

  After that I was listening, and as the miserable journey wheeled its way west, I became aware that Anhar tried to keep a distance from Belimas, but there was no distance to be kept. And Belimas was always on the watch — the way Anhar folded her bedding, or offered to trudge through the mud to take meals to the stable hands who could not leave the horses for long, or even the way she climbed into the carriage — as though by catching Anhar in error she could justify her own wretchedness.