Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  Is she doubting my loyalty? I thought in despair when the prince’s step approached. “There you are,” he said to me. “Have you explained? Yes, I can see. Good. I am in desperate need of more transfer tokens, and Andaun is gone.”

  Lasva said, “I take it you would like Emras to continue her duties with magery?”

  Ivandred said, “She could be of immeasurable value. The Herskalt—my tutor, I told you about him. He has cautioned me for years to spend more time at my studies, but I can seldom get the time. This scribe could take up where I left off.”

  “So shall it be,” Lasva said. “Emras, so shall it be.”

  I bowed, forgetting my Marloven salute in my overwhelming relief. Ivandred then dismissed me to rest before I began the hard work of making those tokens. As I retreated at last to my room, I wondered two things: where Sigradir Andaun was, and if he knew about the dyr.

  SIX

  OF SECRETS AND SYNCRETICS

  W

  hen I woke, my head ached, but there was a pervasive sense of relief that I identified as soon as I sat up. The king was dead! Did anyone mourn? Though I would never find that castle beautiful, it seemed less oppressive as I walked into the familiar rooms, knowing I would never again hear that disgusting rheumy cough or fear the threat of royal whim.

  A tray of biscuits sat on our table. I meant to eat one and then transfer to the Herskalt, but scarcely had I taken a bite when Lasva entered, her manner so like that of her younger days, my heart lifted. “There you are! Come, Emras. Let us continue our good habits. We shall begin as we mean to go on,” she exclaimed as we entered the practice chamber. “So long ago seem the days when we supped surrounded by flowers, midway through a ball!”

  She shut the door so that we were alone, and lowered her voice. “While you and I endured that long deathbed wait—and Danrid Yvanavar no doubt considered whether or not to kill us—Ivandred made certain that everyone else in the castle understood there would be a lawful change of government. They know their history. The first to die after a violent change of kings have usually been the servants of the old king.”

  I gasped as my nerves chilled all the way to my back teeth. “I never considered that.”

  “We wouldn’t,” she whispered. “In Colend, the monarch dies, and there is an orderly progression, with dignity and grace. Sometimes with true grief and sometimes with affectation of grief over anticipation of change. But here?” She snapped a fan open. “Our weapons! You know how the patterns come in pairs, and we have practiced them side by side?”

  I nodded in wonderment.

  “We have never tried them face to face. Let us experiment.”

  “How can a dance teach us to fight?”

  “We shall try this one thing. Slowly, Emras. We will begin with the simplest movements. On my count, now.”

  I fell automatically into place, my hands and arms beginning the familiar movement, but with Lasva facing me—her fan moving opposite mine—I faltered, distracted by the fact that her arm was in the way, she was too close. I fell back, confused. It felt much like learning to sing in part for the first time.

  “Ah-ye,” Lasva whispered. “It’s true. Look. Do the three first steps again. Forget about me. Just do them, very slowly, as slow as the drip of honey.”

  I raised my fan, stepped, swept, and there was Lasva’s arm, blocking the fan, and forcing it downward. My other hand came up in a block, and there was her fan in its pretty horizontal sweep at the level of my neck.

  The next step was the twirl, which avoided her block, then the shift from one foot to the other and the side-sweep—and there she was, stepping past me—this time I blocked a sweep from her.

  Amazed, I faltered again. We stared at each other. “It is,” she whispered, her eyes wide. “It’s a lesson not in dance, but in fighting. Come, let’s go through the entire pattern. Slow, now, on my beat.”

  After so many strange events, it was another strange experience to find Lasva attacking me, and myself warding her blows. We performed the entire pattern through three times, Lasva’s forehead puckered with concentration and then puzzlement.

  When we finished, she said, “Do you see it?”

  “I think I do, yet in true fighting you would not know exactly what your opponent is going to do next, would you?”

  “Perhaps you would, if you are experienced enough? Ivandred said something to me about how one first has to learn patterns, so that one does not have to think. Like, if I tell you to ready your pen, you know exactly what to do.”

  I made The Peace, then asked, “Are we then going to commence striking one another with our fans?” I tried to keep doubt from my voice, but she laughed softly, one forearm pressed against her middle. “Right now your time is better spent with the magic lessons.”

  How my heart filled with joy! “May I begin, then?”

  Lasva smiled. “Go, Emras. When you return, I might ask to see you perform magic, if does not discommode you.”

  I found the Herskalt waiting for me.

  “The king is dead,” I said. “But you knew?”

  The Herskalt gave me that wry smile. “Ivandred was here last night.”

  I opened my hands. “Then why are we here? Why do we not meet in the castle?”

  “There remains the matter of the wards that you have yet to penetrate. Your assignment now begins in earnest, for in those protections are built lethal wards. All on the king’s orders, I hasten to add. Do not blame poor old Andaun. But those wards must be dismantled all the way to the fundamental spells, which are a snarl and patchwork that wastes magic. You are to establish a clean structure that will be all the stronger and remove all those personal wards against people who have been dead for centuries, as well as those against us living.”

  “Us? Where are these other mages?”

  The Herskalt laughed silently. “The Guild Chief of Sartor, for one. The king had poor Andaun discover who the strongest mages in the world were and ward every one of them.”

  “Yet my question still stands. I cannot be the only mage student. Would it not be much faster if someone with more experience attends to the task? Where are Sig—ah, Andaun-Sigradir’s own students?”

  “There are none.”

  “How can that be?”

  “A combination of reasons, beginning with the deep distrust Marlovens have for mages, or anyone they cannot vanquish with a sword. There’s the king’s distrust. Andaun lost the two he’d begun training; one was killed, the other disappeared. Then he became too old, and too bound up with the king’s frantic demands for safety, to begin training a new one. So when you appeared along with Ivandred, with your fast ability to learn….” He laughed again, no sound—a quick flash of teeth, the crinkle of eyes. “The royal runners can do some very limited, very basic spells, but there is only ever a single royal mage in this kingdom.”

  “Why are you not appointed?”

  “I first came to serve as Ivandred’s teacher. His studies, as I am sure you are aware, have been intermittent at best, and so I promised myself elsewhere. I come when I can, because I conceived a liking for Ivandred and sympathy for his position. Now there is you to keep me returning, for you are that rarity, a natural.”

  I gestured my thanks, warm with pleasure.

  “Ivandred was specific. He wants me to train you to replace Andaun. As tutor to the new royal mage, I am assigning you this crucially important task, which only you can perform, as I cannot enter Choreid Dhelerei. And it must be done from inside.”

  So I was not just to be a mage, but the royal mage! As I made a gesture of protest, he said, “You object? Or am I seeing trained scribal hypocrisy?”

  “Hypocrisy!” I repeated, far more disturbed by the accusation than about the putative position of royal mage.

  “I suspect you were about to tell me you could not possibly be a royal mage—that you scribes keep the purity of the First Rule, non-interference?”

  “We don’t interfere in governments,” I began, “and we certainly
don’t participate in wars.”

  “Have you ever paused to reflect on how animals do not recognize kingdom boundaries?” The Herskalt made The Peace, gently mocking. “Political boundaries are conditional. The Scribe Guild is supposed to ignore them, for example, but what Sartor is trying to foster is a kingdom in secret, its power the control of information.”

  “We don’t control information,” I began.

  “Scribes can be as dangerous as the most war-mongering, wild duke. More so, because he is outright in his intentions. You move secretly, you dress simply, you influence from behind the carefully cultivated façade of virtue. The scribes, together with the heralds, who were once scribes, have an international legal structure. They control information that kings desire. Within kingdoms, they handle the records of lives. Do you know what they do with that information? Do you really think that no one looks at numbers of marriages, births, and deaths; that policy is not formed on the details of lives—details culled by scribes and heralds?”

  “Information that betters lives.”

  “Information about defense. About offense. Your King Martande the Scribe got ahead because the smart and creative people who felt stultified in Sartor fled to him. He also saw that princes and dukes become interested in legal structure to support and sustain them as soon as the question of inheritance comes up. His kingdom was born not as a result of that fight with the Chwahir. That would have remained a battle, with a statue at the famous site and a few ballads and tapestries. The kingdom was born in recognition of his claim, and in making laws to legitimize that claim, he insured against a series of warrior dukes fighting one another to be king after his death. Everyone in power wanted Colend to survive.” The Herskalt leaned forward. “Emras, what I am trying to tell you is that influence is not all bad. You do, however, need to be aware of what you are doing.”

  “But I have never…”

  He opened his hand toward my foot. “Your toe ring. You seem to have forgotten it. Assuming that your Sartoran friends could transfer in a flood of magical spies—which the border transfer wards specifically prevent—how would that not be interference?”

  “I did not see it this way.”

  “Of course not. Emras, do not distress yourself. Ivandred does not want a political royal mage. Far from it. You are very well suited to the position because you consciously maintain a political distance. I only ask that you understand that with power, ignorance is not an acceptable excuse. You must learn as much as you can, but you must be very careful. Think through your actions.”

  “I agree with that.” I took a deep breath. “As I am called to serve, and I have the ability, I will do what I am asked. There remains my original orders, to seek signs of Norsunder, and it seems logical to begin my search in Andaun-Sigradir’s tower.”

  The Herskalt gave a voiceless laugh. “Andaun is no more Norsundrian than you are. He was constrained to do what he did by his master’s obsessive fears. The Sartoran Mage Council has been pointing accusatory fingers at the Marlovens for generations, accusing them of magical alliance with Norsunder and castigating Marloven culture as a recruiting ground, because the Marloven kings wanted the Council safely warded beyond the border where they couldn’t interfere.”

  “That is a comfort to hear. Do you know where he is so that I may interview him? Ask if I may copy his books, and learn what he’s done, to enable me to be more effective?”

  “He’s not just gone from the castle, he’s gone from the kingdom.” The Herskalt gestured, hands turned upward. “Ivandred told me that the poor old man was gone before the next watch bell, once he heard about the king’s death. I do not know the particulars of his late interactions with the king, but no doubt they were sufficiently dire. So.” The Herskalt touched one of the magic books on the table. “There is no danger from the king or his former mage, but there is still danger from hidden traps. You cannot be complacent. Remember, because I am warded from entering Choreid Dhelerei by any means—even walking in—I cannot be there to help you.”

  “I will proceed with caution,” I said.

  “Return to your duties, Scribe Emras. Both of us have much to do.”

  For the first time, I transferred back to the royal castle in Choreid Dhelerei with a sense of anticipation without equal dread, to find someone utterly unexpected standing in the middle of the staff chamber.

  “Birdy!” I exclaimed. I was about to proudly proclaim my astonishing new status—as if by speaking it aloud I could make it more real—but halted, disconcerted by his wary stance, his unsmiling mouth.

  “I asked permission of the princess—the queen.” He was speaking in Kifelian. “To say my farewells.”

  “Farewells?” I repeated witlessly.

  He looked aside, at the closed door, then back at me, his mouth thin. “Lasva is sending me away. I am returning to Colend with Belimas, who asked to be sent back. I am not being given a choice, it seems: the Marlovens have enough stable hands, and Lasva says that she can write to her sister herself.”

  He took a step backward toward the door. I followed, instinctively desiring to close the distance between us. “What happened?” I asked, my wits entirely flown. “I don’t understand.”

  He passed a hand over his face. “This isn’t working,” he mumbled into his palm. “Lasva is angry because of the queen’s secret orders.” Birdy met my gaze, his sober, the tenderness that I thought an inescapable part of him utterly absent. “But that is not what upsets me most. I did not know what to think or to say when Ivandred said he would send us by magic—using tokens you made for him. Emras, why didn’t you tell me?”

  His voice was raw with grief and betrayal, and I felt the impact as strongly as any physical blow. “The magic was a secret,” I said, utterly inadequately.

  Birdy made an impatient gesture, as though to strike the words out of the air. “I was there when you received your orders,” he said. “And I can understand what made you keep the secret while we were traveling. But you could have whispered to me on the ride. Or when we talked every day, Emras. Every day, we met down at the baths, and talked about everything. I thought we talked about everything, for you picked the topics, I made sure of that. How could you possibly think I would be incapable of protecting this secret? If you didn’t trust Anhar, why didn’t you ask to take me aside? She would have understood. She has always understood. Always deferred. She knows quite well that all the Colendi think her a lesser being because one of her parents was a Chwahir.” His voice cracked.

  “Ah-yedi, that is not at all—” I exclaimed, my hands out in shadow-warding. “It was never that. Never! I kept my secret to protect us all. You, too. Even Anhar! Think what would have happened if the king had heard a single word!”

  He looked aside. “I did not consider that,” he said as quickly as I had—as if he, too, willed the gap closed between us. “Yes. That makes sense. Yet you could have asked me.” He made that impatient gesture again and flicked his hand up in Thorn Gate. “Enough argument, even with myself. Let it be past.” He drew an unsteady breath.

  I could not forebear speaking, though I was horribly aware of that day when he left for Chwahirsland. “Will you write to me, Birdy?” My eyes stung with tears.

  “Yes,” he breathed, his expression softening when he saw my tears. “Yes. I already told Anhar I would write to her. Every day. But…” He looked away. Then back. “I was going to buy her a scrollcase, which would cost half a year’s pay. But you can make them. Will you make one for Anhar?”

  “Of course I will,” I promised, and his face eased.

  It was then that Anhar burst in, too distraught for politeness. They hurled themselves into one another’s arms and kissed fervently, roughly. I looked on, my breathing as ragged as theirs, but my emotions were grief and loss—and a little disgust at those moist, sticky noises.

  He broke off, and when Anhar, always so quiet, could not suppress a sob, he left. She sank onto a cushion, her hands over her face. “Why did you do it?” she keened.
“Why did you lie to him?”

  “I didn’t. I couldn’t tell him. It might have gotten us all killed. He knows that.” I knelt beside her. “Do you want to go back with him? I could speak to Lasva.”

  “And do what?” Her mouth was bitter. “Back to the world of people humming under their breath, and making plans between two in my hearing?” She dropped her hands. “I hate this place. But I know when I’m better off.”

  She ran out.

  Ivandred stroked Lasva’s eyebrow with a gentle thumb, then the line of her jaw. “I would do anything to see you happy,” he whispered.

  “Your wish makes me happy,” she returned.

  “You say that, yet I see here and here you are angry.” He touched the taut flesh on her temple and the tight muscle along the pure line of her jaw. “Give it to me,” he said.

  They had fallen into a pattern. A lifetime of careful training required this ritual. She was conscious of the necessity as she said, “I am not angry with you.”

  “I know what to do with anger,” he said. “Give it to me.”

  She raised her hands and put them against his chest. She watched the flick of his eyelids at her touch, the twitch of his lips, and she pushed. And had to step back, because she could not shift him.

  Why should his strength be so alluring? She did not question. It just was. She pushed harder, and once more stepped back. So she pushed again, harder, a shove.

  “Give it to me,” he said and took hold of her wrists.

  She used the Altan fan twirl and twisted them from his grasp, then struck at his hands, in play and not quite play. Once again he took her by the wrists, a firmer grip, and she freed herself more violently, and this time she dealt him a ringing slap. His head turned sharply, the red marks of her fingers imprinting the line of his cheekbone. Her fingers stung, and he smiled. “Better. But not good enough.”