He was holding Lasva’s hands, whispering to her as she gazed at the far wall, her face rigid with concentration and, finally, extreme suffering—she, who had experienced so little physical duress. But pain lasted a very short time, and there was the new prince, a red, wriggling mite with a newborn’s misshapen head, his eyes so squinted it was a while before we saw their murky blue.
“Name,” she murmured, barely audible. “It is a boy. What shall be his name?”
“Do you have a preference?” Ivandred’s voice was low and tender.
This surprised me, for in Colend such things are discussed well in advance.
“There have been no men in my family for several generations,” she said. “And as for the famous names—Martande, Lael, Mathias—too many people now wear those names who I don’t particularly wish to remember. What about your family?”
He spoke so promptly it was clear he’d thought about it. “Kendred. Family name, but far enough back that there are no expectations. Obligations.”
“Kendred. I like the sound of that.” She shifted. “Go, and permit us to be tidied,” Lasva whispered.
Ivandred looked down at himself and smiled. “Not just you.”
Soon a fire stick was warming the clean, orderly room. The babe lay on a soft towel, and Lasva looked tired but content, her hair brushed and braided.
At her request, one of the runners brought in a shallow bowl filled with Sartoran steeped leaf, which gave off a refreshing scent. In Lasva’s hands was a small dish of green kinthus, which the healer had advised her to drink before attempting rest.
Lasva asked me to stay, once she’d been restored to order, the babe in her arms. Everyone else had been sent out.
When Ivandred returned, he wore fresh clothes, and his hands were red from scrubbing. I faded back as he approached the now-neat bedside, but in truth I doubt he would have noticed me if I’d stood on my head and barked like a dog. He knelt down, and reached toward one of those jerking, waving arms. He touched a small hand, the fingers outspread like the petals of starliss, and his eyes gleamed with tears.
“We should talk about Kendred’s Name Day party,” she said.
He glanced up, lips parted.
“We Colendi always celebrate the birth of a baby and acknowledge our Name Days with little gifts until coming of age, and notes thereafter, to remind our beloveds, I am glad you are here. I miss that custom and intend to institute it for Kendred.”
“I agree,” he said. “The Herskalt once told me that some of our strife might stem from how little family feel there is, when too many put off having heirs until they are old. My father… you know what happened. Let us have that tradition again.”
The babe let out a wail. Ivandred stilled.
The door opened and in came the Marloven nursemaid, a stout middle-aged woman with smooth fair hair. Marnda was on her heels.
“I will take him to the cry room, so you will not have to hear him,” the nursemaid said cheerily as she saluted Lasva and Ivandred. Then she reached to take the infant from Lasva’s arms, but Marnda darted around her, hands agitated. “We may begin as we are accustomed,” she said.
Lasva looked from one to the other in distress.
The nursemaid said as if to a small child, “We all begin with crying and wailing. It does no harm. The sooner we learn that life is lived to a schedule, the better.”
“In Colend,” Marnda stated, “infants are surrounded by love. How else do they learn trust? Schedules can wait upon walking and the Waste Spell.”
Ivandred said, “We all were left to cry until the bell. How else to learn discipline?”
Lasva’s eyes were enormous. “No,” she whispered.
The word shocked Marnda and me; the Marlovens scarcely noticed. Lasva closed her arms protectively around the baby. “We will avoid putting him in a room alone to cry. He is half Colendi! We can teach him a schedule—discipline—our way.”
Ivandred gazed at her, then at the infant. There was no sign of the extreme ambivalence that later I discovered he felt. At last he said, “He has ten years until he has to begin training for kingship. For now, do as you see fit.”
Marnda shot a triumphant look at the nursemaid, who saluted again and left. Ivandred retreated after her, and Marnda took over to instruct Lasva in how an infant must be fed.
The babe was soon settled and asleep, securely bundled in warm clothing, nestled against his mother. Marnda insisted that Lasva drink down the green kinthus. I could see by the way Lasva winced and moved her legs that the attendant soreness had set in.
“I do not want him unhappy,” Lasva said.
“He will not be,” Marnda responded firmly. “I know how to raise an infant. Cry room.” She signed Thorn Gate with emphatic movement. “He will have a civilized upbringing.” She marched out, head held high.
Lasva’s eyelids drifted. But she was not yet sleepy. “Emras. Come. Listen to his breathing. Is it not charming?”
I said what anyone would. I doubt that she heard me, for she gazed down at the babe and said slowly, “So strange, the power of love. I never particularly thought of children except as a duty, but he is here and so is love. A well of it, that I did not have to create. What did my foremother, Lasva Sky Child, say to her king? ‘So powerful is love, freely given, for it cannot be taken, even by an emperor.’ The Marlovens say that no one can command love, it’s as wild as the wind.”
I sensed that she did not want my comment, for she stared down into the baby’s face, the firelight reflecting in her eyes. She bent to kiss him, and he stirred at her warm breath on his face, his mouth making little motions. Then she looked up at me, her pupils huge from the effect of kinthus. “I did not expect the strength of this love,” she murmured, as she wormed her forefinger into the infant’s grip. “I’m beginning to think that rafalle is an illusion, part of the ephemera of youth. There is a reason that someone named that emotion after something ephemeral and intangible. But this love… like this moment. No pain of the past. No worries about the future. It is perfectly in balance.” Her whisper slowed. “Ivandred doesn’t write. He doesn’t talk. He loves me with hands and lips and body, but our minds are separate, for he is chary of words. Is it that words have betrayed him? Or perhaps it is that harsh training that drives a wedge between the inner life and the outer. Cry room! It explains much, do you not think? They learn not to express any emotions beyond the field of what they call defense. I do not want this child growing up like that. He will have love and gentleness.” Her eyelids fluttered, she slid her arm protectively around the baby and closed her eyes.
When I walked out of that room, I found Ivandred waiting. “Does she sleep?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Is she happy?”
His question took me by surprise. “Yes,” I said, because it was easiest, it was polite, and happiness formed part of the truth.
He looked away, but his manner did not release me, and I knew he was considering what to say. So I waited and in my own mind tried to think of ways to define the intense, complex emotions I had witnessed in Lasva. But when he spoke, once again he took me by surprise. “There must be a way to clear snow off of a road by magic.”
“There is always the transfer spell, but you know its limitations. You must be specific about the amount, and the more you send, the more difficult the spell. Several strong people would probably be faster.”
His lips curved into almost-smile. “Not if the road is between here and the border.”
I closed my eyes. “I know there is some kind of spell… I read about it somewhere. But it requires a great deal of labor. For one must lay it down along the road first, section by section. And then that spell is tied to some object which, when certain words are spoken, will complete the transfer, and shift snow to the side, at least for a time. But it is very expensive. I know that Sartor’s nobles and royalty possess such objects, which their highly paid mages keep in good order.”
“Find out how to make it for us,” he said. “You can
lay down the road spell when you go around the kingdom renewing the protection spells. I will order your escort to keep you to the military roads. For the other part, all you need to do is teach one of my lancers how to layer the transfer spell onto an object. They will see it done.”
I bowed my assent, and left, pitying whatever young rider was going to be stuck with this tedious chore.
You now know how I was able to see events through the eyes of participants, though I was not present. What you do not yet know is why. That will come.
On the last few days of the year, the jarl cavalcades arrived one after another, sometimes two and three together. The entire castle was on alert when Yvanavar arrived.
Lasva made it her business to greet them all Colendi style—not just friendly chatter, but inviting them to refresh themselves, rather than dismissing them to their suites after the formal salute.
She had me with her, my runners at hand to be dispatched in case anyone needed anything. So I was there when Danrid and Tdiran rode in, surrounded by their cavalcade, looking so spruce that they had to have stopped somewhere beyond one of the hills to change into their formal wear. As the two dismounted, the walls were lined not only with the regular sentries but the curious. The jarl was wary, his smile humorless; the jarlan looked about with darting glances, as if seeking someone who was not there.
Lasva did not make the mistake of ordering Colendi scrollcases. In Colend, notes carried by messengers were always folded into shapes, as I have said. But intimate notes, given directly from one person to another without being touched by an intermediary, were always tied in little scrolls with thin ribbon, the colors symbolic. So Colendi scrollcases were flat on the bottom but rounded on the top, and always as artistically made as one could desire or afford.
Here, the scrollcases were rectangular and flat, the easier to slide into a coat pocket for travel. Lasva designed the scrollcases herself. Each had at its center the family device, framed by Venn knots and stylized running horses and soaring birds.
At the New Year’s dinner, we watched the jarlans touch and examine the scrollcases. You could tell instantly who already had already learned to use magical scrollcases and who had never seen one before, by the way they handled them.
Lasva said, “As you know, I come from the other side of the continent. So I am regretfully ignorant of your history. I am doing my best to repair that. Therefore, I am hoping that you will recommend the best histories for me to read. That includes memoirs and letters written by your own ancestors. I would like to correspond with you about history,” Lasva said. “These scrollcases will enable me to write to you, and if you wish, for you to write back. All you have to do to write to me is to tap twice in the center of your family device after you close the note inside. Otherwise you may use the scrollcase any way you wish, for I know many of you have personal magic signs.”
I do not think that I was meant to overhear, but Lasva was so used to my presence coming and going that she was probably unaware that I paced behind her as she walked with Tdiran out of the dining hall that first night.
When they reached the hall, Lasva said to Tdiran, “Go talk to him.”
Tdiran glanced her way, her brow furrowed warily.
Lasva touched Tdiran’s wrist. “I know he still thinks of you.”
“What does it mean in Colend, to invite one to talk to one’s spouse?” Tdiran asked. “Gossip says that you change partners like you change clothes.”
In Colend’s court, what is promised and kept or broken is far less important than the style with which such matters are conducted. Here? Did the knives come out? Did they duel over broken promises? I could see Lasva regarding Tdiran warily, then she said gently, “Ivandred and I have made no vows of exclusivity. As for Colend’s way of life, friendship is cherished. Talk to him.”
Tdiran saluted and walked away.
In spite of the tension gripping us all, from the wall sentries to the kitchen runners, Fourthday’s judgment gathering in the throne room was far less contentious than anyone had expected. I was surprised less than most, after the Herskalt’s words, for Danrid made no trouble. Far from it. As the Herskalt had promised, the Jarl of Yvanavar spoke passionately about the glory of Marloven Hesea, quoting lines from old ballads, judging from the galloping rhythms and the percussives of alliteration. His manner was fervent as he looked forward to regaining the prestige of the old days, under Ivandred’s leadership. His mood seemed to infect most of the jarls, infusing the events with a celebratory atmosphere. As that was the last day of business, I think it is fair to say that the festive mood heightened to one of hilarity.
While everyone withdrew to their suites to put on their silken battle tunics and robes for the last meal in the Great Hall, Tdiran found Ivandred between the garrison command building and the residence wing.
When he saw her, so tall and strong, her long hair hanging down like a cloak over her shoulders, its color of corn silk in the summer sun, all his old feelings were there, powerful, sweet, and painful. Every step she took toward him increased the pain and rekindled the anger of two summers before.
She held out her hand. “Lasva promised me she would explain to you what I kept to myself for your protection.” She studied his eyes. “You are angry. Perhaps she did not understand? I know our language is new to her.”
“She explained,” he said. “It was my father’s interference that came between us.” He shook his head. “You let me think you didn’t want me. I understand your reasons, and I honor your attempt to spare me pain. Maybe even death. But I can’t…” He looked down, feeling the old struggle against the danger of words.
She stepped forward and laid her strong hand over his heart. He closed his eyes, for he could feel her pulse counter-beat to his, he could smell the wild bayberry and myrtle she used to rinse her hair, and desire reawakened. But then came the image of her standing thus, heart to heart, with Danrid, and a memory overlaid that image with his own beating pulse, the mingled scents of horse and sweat and mud after a banner game, and Danrid’s soft voice, his hot breath stirring Ivandred’s hair… and the strength of memory drove him back a step.
“Talk to me, Van,” Tdiran whispered.
He took another step back. They’d never had to “talk.” They’d always understood one another with a look, a tug. A slap.
Again, his mind supplied the vision of Danrid flushed and sweaty, ardent and angry. Smiling with cruel anticipation as he used his strength to lure, to subdue. Pain and desire in equal measure. Danrid’s hands on her…
Ivandred’s gut churned. “We can’t go back.”
He sidestepped and walked away from memory, away from her. He could never touch her again. Then came another image, more powerful even than memory, because instinct said it was possible—probable: Danrid’s elusive smile aimed at Lasva, the low purring voice as he bent to whisper in her ear, the easy power that enticed and then chastised, knowing instinctively and intimately, the blurred border between the two. That would be far worse than losing Tdiran. It was an unbearable image.
He knew that Danrid would be unable to resist trying.
The dinner was torture. He forced himself to patience, to give time to each jarl and jarlan. But the relief was physical when at last it was over, and Marlovair had reported, and at last, at last, he was alone with Lasva as she nursed the child in her chamber.
And though he’d begun their relationship determined to acknowledge the Colendi freedoms, he could not prevent himself from whispering, “Make the ring vow with me, Lasva.”
She was taken completely by surprise.
“In the vow,” he continued, “it says, ‘I will cleave to you until I am taken beyond life in this world.’ I will never want another woman.”
She said, “But what about Tdiran?”
His hand flicked out, repelling. “Old friend.”
That moment is as indelible in my mind as this ink on my defense. For I was there. I’d slipped to the other side of the room, not directly beh
ind him—he did not like people behind him—but on the periphery of his vision. She could see me, but I was part of the furniture. Her attention was on him, as their fingers met. His profile so intent, hers so still.
Then she said “I will,” as softly as he, so as not to disturb the babe, who was now making small noises.
He let out a breath of relief.
She whispered, “What is your custom? Must we do it on a festival day, or Midsummer? That is when royalty in Colend has customarily made vows of fidelity, which they then renew each year.”
“No. I will send the herald in charge of the Montredaun-An vault. There will be rings to fit us among those my ancestors left. Ring vows can be private. Have nothing to do with kingdom matters.”
The ring exchange was held the next day. The only witnesses were Haldren Marlovair, several of Ivandred’s personal guard, and Pelis, Anhar, and I for Lasva. It was a quick ceremony, in fact so quick you could scarcely call it a ceremony in the sense that Colendi understand the word.
As they stood there before a roaring fire, he in his warrior gear, weapons glinting, and she in plain robes of cotton wool in his colors, the ruddy light on their faces made their emotions clear enough: he so ardent and so intense as he gazed down into her eyes and spoke barely above a whisper, only for her to hear. She, looking up, her profile the smooth courtly mask that first appeared the summer after Kaidas left to marry Carola.
Her voice was soft, and distinct, and I, who had spent so long listening to every word she spoke and trying to descry the emotions behind it, heard not ardency but determination. Each word was an act of will.
ELEVEN
OF SARTOR’S SHADOW
“N
ow that the kingdom is quiet,” I said to the Herskalt the week after New Year’s, “and the pressing magical repairs are done, I am ordered to embark on a kingdom-wide tour to reinforce all magic as the snows melt in spring. I am told it will take most of a year.” The Herskalt gave me a nod of acknowledgment.
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