“It struck me as odd that she would not look Ivandred’s way, nor he hers, unless this Danrid-Jarl forced their attention by speaking to both.”
“Yes,” Lasva whispered. “What else?”
“Oh, it is difficult to explain, as their mannerisms are so different. What can they mean?”
“Look past that to human characteristics.”
“But those are puzzling as well. I saw Haldren’s eyes a-sheen when he gained his promotion, at the very end. Was that joy or sorrow? I thought our lancers all expected to be promoted to the First Lancers.”
“The king chose to separate them to different companies.”
“So the king was not pleased with them?”
“Ah-ye! It… it’s…” Lasva stopped, and spread her hands. “All I truly understand is, the king is making certain that the First Lancers and Ivandred are kept completely separate in all ways. He even keeps us separate, at times, though at other times he has ordered us to produce an heir. Ivandred and I have decided that I will take the birth herb.”
“So… the scowl the king gave Ivandred at the end of the dancing. That was not from pain or from regret that he could not dance?”
“Did you not see, how they all danced around him?”
I thought of Ivandred moving so freely, with such casual strength and grace. How for the first time I had seen his face lifted in joy, even grinning. And how they all grinned back, the garden arch. Would not the king rejoice to see how much they love Ivandred? Another thought, more astonishing. “Does he not trust his own son?”
“No.” That word from a Colendi was shocking; she wanted to underscore the truth.
The next morning early, I’d just finished dressing when there was a peremptory rap on my door. I knew it would be a Marloven because we Colendi scratch, but I was startled to find Ivandred standing there in his fighting blacks, hair braided and looped for travel. “Scribe Emras. I have a request.”
My surprise turned to astonishment as I stepped back so that he could enter. The light from my tiny slit window harshened the juts of his cheekbones and eye sockets. Tension and exhaustion tautened his skin. He had looked better on our headlong gallop above Telyer.
He thrust the door shut. “First, I am trying to understand your position. Lasva does not know about your magic studies? Last night I asked when your scribes began their magic lessons, and she was surprised. Said that they are not taught magic.”
Swiftly I told him what I’d told the Herskalt, and to my immense relief he accepted that with a brief nod. “That was shrewd on the part of your queen. As a result, Andaun-Sigradir is not aware of your being a mage, so you are not warded.”
Gratitude flooded me with relief.
“I’m here with a request,” he said. “I need you to make me transfer tokens.”
My gratitude made me wish to serve. But there was also doubt, caused by that pervasive sense of danger. “That much magic performed, will the Sigradir not sense it?”
“Yes. Perform your spells outside the castle. You are Lasva’s first runner, which grants you Restday free.”
I made the Peace, then said, “I have never performed this task. I do not know how long it will take.”
“It’s lengthy,” he said grimly, touched two fingers to his heart then opened the door, and was gone with quick step.
I found Lasva in one of her chambers. This one was barren except for a little side table and embroidery tambours placed at either end of the room, each with cloth set in. She wore riding clothes of soft cotton-wool—trousers, overtunic, and an open robe over that. They were all undyed, and the neutral shade of cloth emphasized her russet coloring, the gold-glinting dark hair wound up in braids, and her blue eyes.
She was pouring out steeped leaf, which filled the air with a summery scent. “Ivandred has been sent by his father to follow Olavair all the way north,” she said, handing a cup to me.
“Why?” I asked, because we were alone.
“The king says it is necessary. Oh, Emras, it is all so complicated.” She finished her cup and picked up her fans. She’d had new ones made, I saw. They were black on one side and gold on the other.
“Strategy,” Lasva said as we progressed down the room in Altan fan form. “When I was young I never thought about such things, but listening to the king has taught me the concepts of strategy. He talks of war, but I?” She whirled, fan snapping out in a perfect flat arc, and glanced over her shoulder, smiling. “I translate what he says into terms of people. Ah-ye! My strategy is twofold: to keep the king happy, if I can. And two, to try to gain the allegiance of the women of this kingdom. They appear to think I have no wit, because I have no experience to match theirs,” Lasva went on. “Ivandred asked me to understand his people. He is a man of very few words. One might say that words cost him.”
“Cost?” I asked.
“Your observations about Tdiran Marlovair, or rather Tdiran Yvanavar: she wore the Yvanavar colors, though Ivandred calls her Marlovair. I think it is habit, and I think they have a history. I asked him last night, but all he said was, There is no use in talking about Tdiran Marlovair.” Her voice dropped low, unexpectedly hard. Then she tipped her head. “You perceive?”
“It is not the words, it is the tone,” I said.
“Ah-ye. He has difficulty putting words to what happens in his head and heart. It could be he has so long guarded his speech that words do not come easily. I sense there is more. As for Tdiran, I tried to speak with her, but she was reticent. They all were. They talked freely enough among themselves, but with me, it was like a girl’s first day at court. Everyone smiles at her but otherwise take no notice, for she can have no influence.”
When she reached the wall, Lasva began speeding up the pace. I was soon damp. It had been so long since I had practiced.
She increased the pace until our arms were swinging. At the end of the form she leaped, whirled, and struck her fan across one of the tambours. Its fabric ripped cleanly, straight across. She snapped her fan shut and laughed soundlessly at me. “You seem surprised! Yet it was you who first demonstrated the cut.”
She bent to the tambour and frowned. “Not as clean as I’d like. The strike wasn’t strong enough at the start, so I put more effort into the middle, causing this sawing effect. I will work on that.”
I saw then that her fan had real steel at the tips instead of the wooden cat-ears. Seeing the direction of my glance, she held the fans out. “Ivandred had them waiting for me,” she said.
“How much fabric do you spoil, or do you not do this every day?”
“Oh, I end with the grand slash each morning. It feels so satisfying, though I do not know why. And when I am summoned to attend on the king, I mend it again. It gives me something to do with my hands, and he sees it as frivolous and harmless. Satin-stitch, chain-stitch, interlock, feather.” Her forefinger tapped at the cloth, and I saw the tiny, even stitches. “He has seen me sewing nearly every day, but has yet to ask what it is. So much of the world is hidden to him. He seems to value only that which has to do with force.”
We set the fans aside as she said, “I will order you a set.”
I made the Peace then left, anxious to get going before anyone could stop me with demands. I’d decided that Restday would be my time to visit the Herskalt.
Then I thought, why should I be limited to daytime? There was no doubt a lesson awaiting me in that chamber, which had lain there for weeks. If the Herskalt was asleep, or busy with his teaching, or elsewhere, I could leave a note asking for lessons in making transfer tokens, and in the meantime I could experiment.
But I hoped he rose early, as I’d decided to transfer well before dawn.
I was ready for another attempt at the real magic.
TWO
OF THE SNAP OF A FAN
“H
ere you are in blue again,” the Herskalt said, looking amused. “The runners wear blue.” My face heated. “Of course you know that.”
His amusement deepened briefly, b
ut he didn’t say anything.
“Perhaps you know why they chose blue? It being the color mages wore in Sartor for centuries. Also scribes. We were taught that scribes and mages were once conjoined, though each says its practitioners were first. Is there a connection, according to what you mages have been taught?”
The Herskalt motioned with his hand. “You have to look much further back.”
“To?”
“To the beginnings. Colors symbolized power. Blue was the power of the mind, contrasting with crimson, the power of the sword. From there developed the usual overlapping, often conflicting infinitude typical of human endeavor, translated out into a rainbow of symbolic colors.”
“You make it sound like everything in life is about power,” I said.
“Many would agree,” he replied. “Judging from her actions so far, your Lasva appears to comprehend, if only by instinct, that the birth of lasting power arises not in one’s own mind, but in the minds of others. I refer to the way she endeavors to beguile the king.”
How did he know that? Ivandred must communicate with his old tutor, or maybe they had friends in common.
I said, “I don’t understand. Will you explain?”
“If you were to go to Colend right now, mark off a territory, and declare yourself queen, what would happen?”
“People would laugh at me. And perhaps Queen Hatahra would summon me to explain myself.”
“Yet it was no different when Martande Lirendi dealt with the Chwahir threat, then looked around and decided that since he was doing the work of a king anyway, why should it all go to Sartor’s glory? Why not to his own? Most of his friends lauded the idea and dedicated themselves to making it happen. It is said that the smartest and most ambitious persons in Sartor’s court followed him and became dukes and barons.”
I pressed my hands together, not certain how to answer. My instinct rebelled at this airy dismissal of our great, visionary king, then I thought, This is a test.
The Herskalt touched the book I had brought back, and it vanished with a glint of light and a brief stirring of air.
“It’s the same with anything,” he went on in his reasonable tone. “A poet declares his work will be lauded universally. If others like it, they laud it. If they don’t, they despise him for his temerity, they defame his poem, and he’s forgotten as soon as the laughter dies away.”
“How do you know people’s motivations?” I said. “Do you use that magical object? I should like to master that,” I said, referring to the disc that had allowed me to inhabit others’ perspectives.
His chin lifted as though he was mildly pleased. “You need far more discipline before you can use the dyr to look at the past through others’ eyes.”
“Dye-r-r-r, dy-re,” I repeated, trying to get the “eye” sound matched to the “r” at the back of the throat in a single syllable, the way he articulated it. I wanted to split the “eye” into two syllables, die-ur. “That is what the thing is called?”
“It’s the traditional term. So: have you a subject you wish to study, or shall I assign you one?”
“Ivandred wishes me to make him transfer tokens.”
The Herskalt’s brows lifted. “Ah, excellent plan. He never seems to have time to practice much less complete exacting projects such as transfer tokens. So. How would you begin?”
I told him what I’d been thinking, and he taught me a way that was far better than the laborious method I’d put together. I learned more about the connections between spells in the doing, and then I used one of my own tokens to transfer, as I was not certain of my strength after all that work.
I’d set the Destination for the narrow hallway outside my room, which was rarely used by anyone but me. As soon as the transfer reaction faded I was aware that something was wrong. I turned around in a circle, then noticed that all the doors were open, including my own. I went into my room and hid the two transfer tokens I had made under my bedding. Then I went out. I heard Lasva’s voice through the open door to her outer chamber.
“… can’t find her? Where could she possibly be?”
I stopped in the doorway and made a full bow. “You sought me, your highness?” I said in our home language, though she preferred us to speak in Marloven.
Lasva whirled around, her hands out in that tense Bird on the Wing. “There you are! Where did you go?”
My body flashed with heat as I offered her a lie. “I went out to learn my way around, as I am always lost. But I lost myself yet again.”
Lasva clasped her hands together. “They have no street signs here. To confuse an invader, I am told.”
“I crave your pardon, your highness.”
“Ah-ye! You are here, and today is Restday, and I did say you had it free. It’s just that the king desires us all to join him at noon for the ceremony. I wanted to make sure we all knew that.”
She turned around again, her blue gaze going from Marnda to me and back. “I also have another question: Where is my scrollcase? I could not find it in view upon your desk, Emras.”
I glanced Marnda’s way. The seneschal clasped her hands in the Peace. “I requested she give it to me upon her arrival, your highness, so that I might deal myself with the correspondence.”
“So there has been correspondence?” Lasva asked. “But why have you dealt with it, Marnda?”
“It was on the orders of her majesty, your royal sister,” Marnda said, making a full bow over her crossed arms. She spoke from that position. “Your royal sister instructed me to do what I could to turn your eyes west as soon as might be.”
“So there were letters? I ask because Darva did promise to write. Whatever the others might have said, I relied upon her, at least.” Lasva lifted her head. Her eyes were wide, so wide I could see light reflected in her pupils though I stood some distance away. Her color was high, her mouth tight—a new expression, difficult to define, it was so different from the Lasva I knew. “Though I never asked, did I, Emras? I gave you my scrollcase, and then I never asked.”
Another turn, and she clasped her hands. “I should have liked to have made that decision for myself. Were the letters answered or just disposed of?”
I said, “I answered them, until my arrival here.”
“I answered the New Year’s letters,” Marnda said.
“Did you save them?” Lasva’s gaze switched between us.
This direct question forced the probability of a blunt negative. I could see it disturbed Marnda as much as it did me.
Even so, neither of us could bring ourselves to say “no” to our princess. “I believed it was according to the queen’s will to burn them, lest they fall into…” Marnda halted there. Into the wrong hands was an absurdity she could not speak. What would be the wrong hands for Lasva’s letters from people in faraway Colend, about the trivialities of court?
“I would like to hear what you remember of them.” Lasva turned my way. “You, I know, can be trusted to recall those that passed under your eyes, as well as the words you wrote in response over my name.”
Marnda and I both made the full court obeisance, though she’d asked us to use Marloven custom. The event demanded no less.
“We shall begin with Emras, then, as she had the scrollcase the longest. Until the king’s summons.” She paused. “Emras, I understand that you were under my sister’s orders. But why did you not tell me? I would have agreed. You must know I would have agreed.”
The intensity of her unwavering gaze unnerved me, and I bowed my head. “You sailed the river below Willow Gate. I could not bear to hurt you the more.”
“From that am I to understand Kaidas was frequently mentioned in those letters? Especially if Ananda troubled herself to write. I admit that I lived at Willow Gate for much of the autumn, so… yes, I think I can understand your dilemma, Emras. I think I can here.” She touched her forehead. “But not here.” She touched her heart. “I told you when we first met. I want there to be truth between us. So tell me now. Are there any other secre
ts that you keep from me for my own good?”
If I told her the queen’s orders, then I must tell her the rest—that I studied magic. This knowledge would have to be hidden from the king who so distrusted his own son that Ivandred was, in his turn, made to hide his own knowledge.
The desire to protect her was as strong as my hunger to gain more knowledge. And so, yet again, I lied. “You have them all,” I said. After the rude words left my lips, I recognized how much time had passed between her question and my response. I had taken too long to consider my answer, and she knew it.
Lasva said, “Then please begin. We can practice the while.”
Memorization being long habit, I recited all the letters. I even tried to match a little of the voice of the individual correspondents, if I knew them. I strove to please her, to entertain, to demonstrate that my loyalties were true, even if my word had not been.
She listened without speaking as we performed the Altan fan form side by side, her profile giving no clue to her thoughts. I’d reached the letters received during our ship journey when the summons came, and we had to put away our fans.
Though it was Restday, and though she’d said she would try to spare me the tedium of those long attendances on the king by relying on her Marloven runners who were used to him, she did not lift her hand to dismiss me. Nor did she summon anyone else as we walked out of her chambers and down the long hall to where the king sat on his cushion, hemming and huffing against whatever disturbed his breathing passages.
She gracefully laid hand to heart.
“Well, here you are,” the king said, coughing. “Now. The jarls are gone, and many were the fair words about your hosting. What are you going to do with your time, eh? Eh?”
She addressed the king by his full title, using Colend’s court accent to make a caress of his name. “Should you like a tapestry to be made? I note many places where one might grace your walls.”
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