Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  After we’d eaten, Lasva summoned us.

  All her staff crowded into the main tent. Damp heat rose off us, pervading the air with the pungent aroma of grimy human beings as we tried to fold inward and make ourselves inconspicuous, so strong was a lifetime’s habit.

  Then Lasva said, “Prince Ivandred has some troubling news. It appears that there might be…” She hesitated, hands clasping together.

  I stared at her. How could I not have noticed how thin she had become? It was because of the shrouding of warm clothing we usually wore. But now she stood there in silk shirt and an overrobe the dressers had shortened and made into a tunic, and long riding trousers. These clothes had fit her when we commenced riding, but hung now from her straight-backed form.

  “Trouble,” Ivandred said, when the pause had lengthened into silence. “We believe trouble awaits. Treaty breakers. There might be fighting before we cross the border, which is a day or two ahead.”

  My heart rapped against my ribs. Nifta’s breath hissed in. Belimas covered her face briefly with her hands.

  “Belimas,” Lasva murmured.

  The dresser yanked her fingers down, her body trembling.

  Lasva clasped Belimas’s stiff fingers. “Prince Ivandred has two transfer tokens that can get two people safely to Darchelde, his family’s castle. From there, his aunt can send you to their capital.” She glanced over her shoulder at him, and on his slight nod, said, “It seems that further transfers are risky, as they could be warded. I do not know exactly what that means.”

  But I did. I understood those spells—though I would never have dared put them together. I also knew the difference between a general transfer, and the safer, specific transfers bound into the expensive tokens. They were difficult to make, for each must be unique. But they could get the user past wards placed to prevent transfer, or the far nastier ones that forced one to shift to another Destination.

  Belimas shuddered, and Nifta said in a strange voice, subdued, but anger sharpened the sibilants, “Are we here for you to choose whom to take with you, your highness?”

  “I am not transferring,” Lasva said. “I hoped you would decide among you who will avail themselves of this opportunity.”

  As her gaze touched each of us, my instinctive reaction was to encourage her to look Anhar’s way. This impulse caught me by surprise. Of all the staff, I liked Anhar and Pelis the most. But I was aware of an unworthy feeling of jealousy when Lasva asked Anhar to read, and the rare times I was able to speak to Birdy — however briefly — Anhar always seemed to be there.

  Marnda stated in an angry, trembling voice, “At least I know my duty, if no one else does. I will stay by the Princess’s side, whatever happens.”

  Belimas was startled by Lasva’s statement. “But if there is danger—you must be kept safe, your highness.”

  Lasva smiled at her. “Thank you, Belimas. Thank you for your generous thought. But I believe my place is at Prince Ivandred’s side. Though there is little I can do to help—in fact, nothing—melende requires me to stay and learn what must be learned.

  “I’ve made my choice,” Lasva said. “There would be no blame.”

  Belimas wept silently. Nifta’s gaze flickered between us all, angrily, warily.

  Lasva extended her hands, one to Belimas, the other to Nifta. “Once my things are sent to the capital. I will not need a hair dresser on this ride, nor someone to choose fabrics for my wardrobe. May I rely on you two to unpack and make my new chambers ready for our arrival?”

  “Yes,” Nifta whispered, fingering her ruddy braid with grimy fingernails—she who had always been so fastidious, even fussy.

  Belimas bowed, still too overcome for speech. Lasva had given them escape and purpose. Marnda looked on, her head held high, bitterness crimping her mouth to a pucker.

  Pelis, Anhar, and I helped the chosen two with a last sort-and-pack. They each clutched a transfer token tightly to their chests and vanished, along with another load of the princess’s things; the magic transfer rippled through the air, blue-gold at the edges of vision, smelling faintly of burnt paper, feeling like the touch of metal before a thunderstorm.

  Pelis made the Thorn Gate gesture after them, dropping her hand quickly to her side when she saw Lasva coming toward us.

  “The prince wishes to explain our situation.”

  We crowded back into that stuffy tent where we were joined by Prince Ivandred.

  He always seemed so cool, so distant, as if a film of ice existed between him and the rest of the world. But now the ice was gone, his manner hurried. He snapped open a map and knelt down to spread it on the low table, his pale braid silvery against his black coat in the lantern light.

  “Here is Halia,” he said. “Halia,” to us, had always been the oddly shaped acorn on the map, stuck to the left side of the great southern continent that spread halfway around the world. “We used to be united under one peaceful government.”

  His gaze shifted from Lasva to me, his pupils so huge his eyes looked black, reflecting the lantern lights. “You saw it, in my ancestor’s record. It did not last.” His callused fingers bisected the map with quick, slashing lines. “There were a couple of centuries of bad government under the Olavairs, who now claim their own kingdom up in the north. My great-grandfather reunited the heartland of Hesea with lands here in the south, the most important being Jayad Hesea. ‘Jayad’ means plains, you understand, so we usually say, ‘the Jayad.’ It is where the Jevairs hail from. Telyer Heyas was once a part of our kingdom but is currently an ally. There are some who would like to see either domain turn against us, and it is those ill-wishers we may have to face at the border, which is just beyond the Or Arei.”

  Or was river, we translated to ourselves.

  “The only way into our territory is across a great bridge. If there is trouble, we will find it there,” he said.

  “I could swoon over that fine linen. Linen woven with cotton! Who would have thought? When it is wet, it does not squeak,” Pelis said to me the next day, when we camped early. She wiped her hair back, hand streaked with mud. The days were long behind us when we would have been ashamed to be seen so.

  We were grateful to stop in daylight, in a secluded little valley between two great slant-layered stone cliffs forced apart by an ancient stream. Trees and grass had grown among the old tumble of stones, making a comfortable camp. The sun even shone, and the breeze carried the last lingering scents of grass and wild sage.

  Anhar laughed as she snapped out her bedroll, then she bent back, hands flat against the back of her hips as she tried to stretch her spine. “Imagine thinking this a fine place. A year ago I would not have come here even for a picnic with my sister.”

  Pelis smiled, casting a self-conscious look over her shoulder in Lnand’s direction. Usually Lnand looked back, but today the Marlovens were subdued. The intensity of their focus was on one another, not on us. They set up camp very swiftly, then moved off in groups as they usually did. We never questioned any of it. We were grateful that the order had come to light a fire and prepare a hot meal.

  By the time I’d finished going through the princess’s gold case (three letters, answered then burned) and washing out my riding stockings, I could see that something was amiss from the way the three Marlovens on cook duty talked in head-bent, earnest converse.

  “Emras,” Marnda scolded. “Here we find you, quite at your ease, yet everyone else has work and to spare. It appears that the only flour the outrider could obtain is wheat, and they are uncertain about the proportions required by wheat. You may teach them how to make our bread.” This last she said in careful Marloven.

  I turned to the three Marloven cooks, all young men who looked exactly alike to my eyes. I scarcely knew any of the men by sight or name, except for Haldren Marlovair, Ivandred’s second in command, who was generally agreed among the women to be the handsomest of all the Marlovens. Prince Ivandred, while attractive, was too sharp of bone in his face, too square. Haldren had that perfe
ct balance of bones and features so prized in Colend: the broad forehead and the tapering jaw that gave a hint of heart.

  “We tried making this bread once before,” the lead cook said with a sweep of his hand, palm outward as though pushing something away. “Very bad.”

  “I suspect you used the wrong starter. Your rye must use a sourdough starter.” I did not say that starter breads were only made on Colend’s borders where wheat did not grow easily. I followed him to their cook site, then knelt down and carefully uncapped little stoneware spice jars in order to sniff (very few of those) and looked into bags. From another lifetime ago came the voice of the court’s second breadmaker: unless you are the queen, you don’t make what pleases you, you make what you believe will please them.

  Would that be a rule for any aspect of life? I wondered as I measured the crock of butter with my eye. Courtiers say what they think will please those who say what they please….

  The ingredients and the flat steel pans dictated quick-breads with plenty of butter beaten in. I was aware of Birdy watching intently as my fingers worked through the well-remembered tasks. Presently the comforting smell of baking bread rose.

  It came out flaky and light. I served it and stood back to observe the result.

  “Why this worm shape?” one of the Marlovens murmured softly.

  “To hide the lack of flavor?”

  “Silly peacocks.” A chuckle.

  Though the Marlovens were disappointed—and I was disappointed by their disappointment—we Colendi cherished every melting bite.

  “Oh, the aromas of home,” Birdy whispered to me in passing, his juggling silks arcing high up in long ovals.

  He turned—and I turned just to see him. Our eyes met, and we laughed again, but though my gaze stayed on him, his moved past me, and his mouth curved in a different sort of humor. I glanced back, and there was Anhar, giving him the same smile.

  Then he moved on, the silken bags in motion.

  Ivandred had gone off twice to confer with Haldren and the newly returned scout, Retrend Senelac, who was the youngest of the lancers. He was slim in build as are most youths, but as a Marloven lancer, he was too disciplined to be weedy. Whenever there was laughter among them, one was certain to see Retrend’s bright red head.

  Ivandred came back from his conference, his step quick. “Lasva,” he said. “Would you read some of that poetry?”

  Lasva’s chin lifted, betraying her surprise. “I would and gladly, but I must confess that Anhar or Emras are the better readers. Too often I stop to consider a phrase or word, and I cannot change my voice.”

  Ivandred assented and Anhar, nearest the book, took it up and began to read. Though he was still, I sensed that Ivandred’s attention divided from the way his gaze would cut left or right in response to a quiet step, even the thunk of a horse shifting its stance by clopping down a hoof.

  The truth is, my attention was also divided. Anhar seemed to share Birdy’s friendship, which I had thought exclusively my own, because of our past—our shared knowledge—our shared humor. Now she was performing a duty I had thought exclusively mine.

  The next poem was written in Sartoran, and Anhar handed the book to me, murmuring that her accent was not good enough for performance.

  I took over the reading, and when I reached the end, the impulse was there to offer to translate it. At a sign of assent from Ivandred, I did so, though I was aware of discomfort. I knew the impulse came from the wish to show up Anhar’s lack of knowledge. I am no better than Tiflis when we were young, I thought as Ivandred looked up, the firelight ruddy on his tense face. “The patient willow. Is that a symbol for a man who cannot raise the staff?”

  “Raise…” Lasva repeated, but when Retrend muffled a snicker into his arm she gathered the meaning, and she too laughed softly, which seemed to set the Marlovens a little more at ease, judging from the shiftings, the exchanged smiles. “Ah,” she said. “To a Colendi, the willow symbolizes a grieving lover.”

  A couple of the Marlovens whispered, and Ivandred leaned forward. “Why would someone make a song about such a person?”

  I laid the book on my knee as Lasva said, “Do you not have tragic songs?”

  “Many. But they are about heroes falling in battle. Or a lover is killed, but the song finishes with vengeance or triumph.” At our mute surprise, he said, “Some ballads about feuds are comical.”

  Haldren flashed a quick, surprisingly shy grin. “There must be twenty ballads about Marlovair against Senelac.”

  Retrend snickered again, the firelight glinting in his ruddy braids. “Fifty.”

  Ivandred laughed, a soft sound. “But we have no songs about someone who sits under a tree to mourn.” He opened his hands, palms up. “Different ways, we have.”

  Lasva touched her fingertips in the gesture of Harmonious Assent. “Sometimes the lover is a symbol for an issue in court. Now it is my turn for a question.” At Ivandred’s open handed gesture, she continued. “In Colend, as you saw, when we travel we display our family symbols on plaques. You carry your symbols on flags. They are very fine,” she added, gesturing in heart mode, “when the wind is true. But most of the time, wind is… wind. And that makes it difficult to see the flag symbols. So, why flags?”

  Ivandred smiled as his people whispered briefly to one another. “Flags make the wind visible when we ride fast,” he said. “When people see them, they think that the king or commander is lord of the riders, the animals, the ground, and the sky. Lord of the wind. It is… a symbol of power.” He tapped his head.

  His smile faded. “You will see them flying on the morrow.”

  SEVEN

  OF BANNERS IN THE WIND

  T

  he next afternoon, under steel-colored skies, we topped the last ridge, and gained our first glimpse of the long river valley called the Jayad. A few twists and turns through rocky spires and outcroppings brought us low enough to spot the mighty bridge over the Or Arei, a cluster of slanted clay-tile rooftops around the near foot. The river was far too wide to cross by horse and too swift-moving for barges, after all the recent rains. “See the bridge?” Lnand’s voice lightened. “Beyond that lies our homeland.”

  We reined in shortly thereafter, screened by an ancient hedgerow growing wild alongside a rough trail that was once a road.

  Ivandred trotted alone to where Retrend waited. The two dismounted and walked up the roadside to peer through the tangled, thorny branches at the moldering remains of a castle not too far from the mighty bridge.

  Below the bridge rose a pall of dust.

  Ivandred called for Tesar, who guided her horse out of position.

  “They’re wearing Jevair green,” Ivandred said to her. “Are they Jevair?”

  The horse shifted its weight as Ivandred passed a spy glass to her, and she peered just past my ear. Everyone waited, then she handed it back.

  “It might be our spring-green, after several seasons in the sun.” Tesar’s tone was also uncertain.

  Lasva gestured in Deference mode. “We know nothing of military matters, as I am certain you are aware, but my staff knows a great deal about matters of cloth dyes and fading. Might Pelis take a look?”

  All the Marlovens turned her way, looking as surprised as if a rock had spoken—or a peacock had taken up a sword, as Ivandred turned his palm up.

  Pelis took the spyglass and stared through it longer than the situation warranted, but we could guess from her stiff manner and her red face that she was making absolutely certain.

  Lnand muttered something. Pelis made a Deference, then lowered the glass. “I wish we had Nifta with us, for she is the most knowledgeable about fabrics.” She grasped the ends of her brown braids then said, “But I know something, too. At this distance, and with the light behind them, I am not going to state conviction, but I think that is fresh dye.”

  “Those battle tunics are a different shade,” Haldren said. “Are you certain it’s not sun-fading?”

  “The difference in shade is
due to a difference in fabric. From the hang, I would guess you are seeing three different weaves, which will take dye variously. But it is fresh. I would say the green was mixed with dye made from sun thistle petals, and recently at that.”

  “A ruse, then,” Ivandred said. “Retrend? How close did you get?”

  “Not close enough to hear.”

  “We will dismount. Rest the horses. Wait until night.”

  Fnor rode up. “I smell snow,” she said, fist striking over her heart.

  Ivandred lifted his head, studying the clear sky. “We will ride just as the sun sets.”

  He walked with Lasva up a goat trail to sit under a tree, but once she was comfortable, he went off with Fnor and a black-coated Marloven to confer.

  Lasva beckoned to me. At the other end of our column, Birdy’s voice rose briefly as he and those caring for the animals got busy watering, checking shoes, and swapping the baggage onto fresher horses.

  Marnda halted when she found Pelis sitting on a rock, her sewing in her lap, needle poised, her tired face inward seeing, and began scolding in that fretful voice that had become habit.

  I passed them to join Lasva on a mossy natural bench below a tangle of firs. She rested her back against an old stone with weatherworn carving on it, her wrist bone a pronounced knob.

  “Sometimes,” she whispered. “I think about walking through the ballroom just before dawn. The air smelled of snuffed beeswax candles, and the empty space carried that curious resonance after music has been played.”

  She paused, and I waited.

  She didn’t speak again.

  The shadows were slanting halfway up the cliff behind us when Haldren and another Marloven passed down the line, handing out oily twists of rough hemp. Tesar put hers inside her coat. Lnand did the same.