Martande Keperi—your Birdy
It was after I received that one that the wall inside me broke, and I cried.
Greveas made certain that my prison was comfortable, two rooms deep in the Mage Guild’s building, with a window that overlooked fountains and a park. If I craned my neck, I could see spires of the royal castle.
I never tested the wards they put around my rooms. I suspect they knew that I could break anything they put up—as I knew that the smallest spell testing those wards would instantly bring them upon me. One cannot unlearn things, however one might wish. I had become a liability—an embarrassment— a mage ignorant of most forms of magic outside of basic protections, but extremely powerful with wards, the most difficult magic of all. Too powerful, judging from the way they pounced on the Adamas Dei text. Apparently it had been missing for centuries, and the likes of me should not have even seen it, much less translated it.
From time to time, as I wrote my defense, I was visited by this or that mage, and requested to go over exactly what I found in Darchelde and what I did. I had written out all my magic notes, but they wanted to comb over every detail so much that gradually I became aware that some of my skips—my shorthand—constituted important steps for them. Only then did I begin to comprehend that mirror wards were both rare and dangerous.
They were not happy about my summary disposition of the dyr, but as I had foreseen, they accepted that it would become the future’s problem. Whatever Birdy chose to tell them was sealed up in their archives.
He continued to write to me. It gave me solace to write back, explaining exactly what was going on. His letters were full of news that could be read by any number of censors. He and Anhar went to Sindan-An to run Kaidas’s household, once the house he had built was finished. Anhar’s lover, the pastry-cook, soon followed to join them, and took over the kitchen. Birdy wrote cheery letters about cats, all their children, and the colts that Kaidas had begun raising, straight off the Nelkereth plains south of Sindan-An.
Lasva wrote as well, reporting on her ongoing work to hold Marloven Hesea until Kendred turned twenty—and her determination to educate a prince who would foster peace.
Two years after I commenced writing it, I handed my defense to Greveas. She took it away, and another year passed before they sent for me.
I was not permitted farther than one floor up, and down to an archive where a young scribe sat, poised to record every word spoken.
To my surprise, the first interview was with no less a personage than Scribe Halimas, white-haired and irascible. He grumbled a great deal about politics, then finally said, “They spent half a hear arguing about who would judge you. Queen Hatahra maintained that Sartor had no political rights to judge you, only her sister Lasthavais did. And Hatahra claimed secondary rights, as the one who had sent you to Marloven Hesea.”
I had to laugh at that.
“They then asked if she wanted you back in Colend, and… ah-ye, it’s that business about Norsunder, and no one quite knows what happened at the end. There are witnesses who insist that it was you who slaughtered those nobles by lightning, not the king.”
“Neither of us did that.”
“But they believe what they saw.”
“What they thought they saw.”
Scribe Halimas, said ironically, “And you saw to it that this mysterious disc, a means by which they could look back in time in order to corroborate what you did and didn’t do, is safely removed from anyone’s access.”
“It’s a Norsundrian artifact,” I said.
“It’s an artifact of Old Sartor,” he corrected. “This much I’ve learned from colleagues at the northern end of the world, where more records survived the Fall. Probably had all kinds of safeguards in the olden days.” He leaned forward. “The mages are in a hum because it’s beyond reach, but I’m glad you did what you did. And so are many others. We have no defense against that thing, and a powerful mage corrupted by it… Ah-ye! Let the future worry about it.”
“What’s going to happen to me, Scribe Halimas?” I asked.
He looked down at his hands. “I don’t know, Emras. Nobody does.”
After him came heralds and royal representatives from various places. The most difficult interviews were with people from along the coast of the strait, where the Great Flood effects had been the worst. I told my story over and over again, to a range of reaction from sneering disbelief to knowing skepticism to a wary, conditional acceptance that I might really be as stupid as I sounded.
The only visitor they permitted other than official ones was my aunt, Tiflis’s mother, who was too high in diplomatic circles to shut out. She caught me up on family news, and when she left, she said, “If they let you out, hold your head up, as a smiter of Norsunder ought. Remember the family melende!”
Nobody brought Marlovens to Sartor to speak in my behalf. The only witnesses spoken to were survivors of the magical duel at Darchelde—which, Olnar reported to me, was so blasted that it was going to take centuries for the dark magic to leach away. The mages traveled to Marloven Hesea to interview the former residents of Darchelde.
“But you eradicated the Norsundrian rift better than any rift has been blocked for centuries,” Olnar finished.
“Rift?”
He looked skyward. “Ugh, Em. Your ignorance is almost as frightening as your skills.” He grinned. “You can imagine the shockwaves going through the Guild at their methods of education, and how they communicate with the other guilds. ‘How can we prevent another Emras from happening?’ is on lips right and left.”
He leaned forward and touched my hand. “But others say this: how can we test for greatness? You know that the definition of ‘greatness’ varies from land to land, from generation to generation. One kingdom’s Someone the Great is another kingdom’s Someone the Bloody-handed. We call this playwright great because he successfully flattered a prince, whereas the words of another are still remembered two hundred years after the great one is forgotten. But Emras, many mages are calling you great, because though you were carefully cultivated by a Norsundrian, you turned his intention back on him. A Norsundrian from Old Sartor.”
“It’s the nature of mirror wards,” I said. “You have the means there in the Adamas Dei text and my notes.”
“Which vanished like smoke the night we brought you here,” Olnar retorted. “In spite of being very carefully locked up.” He twiddled his fingers, indicating magical locks.
I shivered. “It can only have been the Herskalt. Or whatever he calls himself now.”
“The same man who created the last rift, four hundred years ago, not very far south of where you were. He closed that rift after he took those ships—you know that story?” As I signed assent, he said, “And it took decades for the mages to eradicate the traces of that rift. Decades, Em.” He waited, and when I just shook my head, he sighed. “So. As you are a scribe, you should be able to reproduce your translation of Adamas Dei’s text.”
“I can…” I began confidently, then remembered the difficulties of those last pages, all the material about Norsunder. It had often taken a full hour to translate a single sentence, and even then, I’d have to constantly reread because the sense of it would not stay solid in my head. “Ah. Most of it.”
He sighed again. “Probably the parts we already have. Do try. And as a reward for your effort, I am allowed to ask: have you have any requests from us?”
“I do. May I take magic lessons?”
His brows shot up. “I will inquire.”
I reproduced about three-quarters of Adamas Dei’s text, then had to give up. I could not be absolutely certain of the last part, the most difficult of all. They accepted that in resignation, though I suspect that they wished they could use a dyr, evil or not, to claw the rest of it from the inside of my head.
They then fitted me with an armband so loaded with magical protections that the subtle buzz against my skin felt like velvet. I spent a little time assessing the layers, in deep appreciati
on of their thoroughness.
I am certain that a degree of irony prompted the assignment of my first class, which was with children no older than ten. But I took my place, pretended not to hear whispers about the “dangerous lady” and though the elementary lessons—Bells and Spells—were as boring as I’d feared, over time the rote recitations in cadenced Sartoran poetry, spoken by magic students for two thousand years, became deeply soothing to my spirit.
Instead of a first test after six months, I was taken to an interview with Greveas, who said, “We are fairly certain who your Herskalt was.”
“He called himself Ramis, four hundred years ago,” I said.
“Oh, he’s older than that. Much older. The modern form of his personal name is Detlef, as we say in Sartor, but the Venn called him Detlev nearly two thousand years ago, when he appeared to smite their most powerful king, and there is evidence that he’s even older than that, like from before the Fall of Sartor, four thousand years ago. There are mysterious references to a Dei-to Laif, or some such. Most don’t survive dealing with him. You did.”
“Because he let me. He’s one of the Host of Lords? The authors of Norsunder?”
“No,” she said pleasantly. “That would be your white-haired man in the column of light, the soul-eater himself. Detlef is their servant. But terrifying enough.”
“And he got away,” I said, harrowed by the extent of my failure. “He could come back any time.”
“No he can’t. Not easily,” Greveas said. “Emras, he was born more than four thousand years ago. But in spite of his great power he’s human. That means time is his enemy, and it’s more powerful than any of us. He might not have let you go, so much as had to. You cost him dearly, is our guess. He spent a lot of time in the real world, especially at the end, to pull his plan together, which you smashed along with that castle. He won’t be back for a while, is what they think now.”
“He took the Inda wedding shirt,” I said, cold inside.
“Then he’s not done with the Marlovens,” Greveas said, her shoulders lifting in a faint shrug. “That’s their lookout, some day. Right now, the general trend of the ongoing discussion is to permit you to finish training in Basics, and let the experts gauge you. The question is restitution in the north.”
After that, there was only the lightest of boundaries—the entire city of Eidervaen—and my only guard was that armband of beaten gold, worked with lilies and laurel leaves. I went to plays and attended the music festival. I even heard Larksong sing again, and I reflected on her past.
After my first year of magic lessons, they no longer kept me among the children reciting the basics. The lessons were everything the Herskalt had said—and yet he’d managed to distort the intent. We didn’t just recite tables of historical facts, we deliberated the consequences of actions. We examined the records of mages and monarchs, discussing the latter with a freedom that would have been highly resented in court circles.
By the end of my second year of studies, I’d been promoted steadily and rapidly until I was working alongside people on the verge of adulthood—among whom I made friends.
And so, when at last I was summoned before the Chief Mage, an old woman whose reserve did not quite mask her amusement, she said, “We have come to our judgment, Mage Emras.”
“Mage?”
“You have attained the first level, qualified to purify waterways, renew cleaning frames, and strengthen walls, roofs, and bridge supports,” she said with gentle satire. “The conditions of your release are these: you will spend the next ten years making restitution by renewing protections through the kingdoms that suffered the worst damage from your actions.” She must have seen something in my face because she said hurriedly, “We are not inhumane. No one but the local mage guild will know who you are, and they will have no objections to your presence as you will be doing their work while they collect their fee as usual.” Her expression resumed its formality. “You will wear the armband for the remainder of your life, and once a year, you report to either Mage Olnar or myself. And,” she added. “When ten years are completed, you are free to go.”
“What about my written defense?”
“It served its purpose,” she said. “It is now locked up in the Mage Guild’s Archive.”
I’d expected no different. I packed my two robes into my satchel, loaded up my trunk of books, and among them placed the invisible warded cube in which rested my original copy of this record.
Emras:
Kendred is now king.
His first order was to restart the Academy. I fought against it, but Tdiran warned me last year that I was swimming against a centuries-old tide. At least Kendred invited her to be one of the overseers. And she and I have talked a great deal about what we think is the emotional price for that kind of training. She says that they all agree that nothing will be conducted in secrecy—they will go back to Inda’s rules again. I hope this means that some kind of compromise has been made between the Marloven eagle and the Colendi peacock!
I don’t think I told you that Vasande Definian returned to Alarcansa. The duchess had remarried, taking Young Gaszin—now Old Gaszin—as her consort. Her daughter wants to go to Sartor to marry a prince. Vasande writes to his father that she will probably succeed.
Mother and son made peace, but on the condition that Vasande could adopt his father’s name. His half-sister could be Definian or Gaszin or whatever she liked, but he would share nothing with Aunt Tatia Tittermouse—though she’d vanished years ago. I hope she found peace wherever she is.
After Convocation in six months’ time, I will move to Sindan-An, which is now going to be a principality. As the new prince, Kaidas suggested we rename it Vasande, adding Leror for the Iascans, who, it seems, vastly approve. (But the name of the forested area in the north will remain “Sindan-An” as “An” in Iascan means “woodland.”)
Kaidas has been painting scrollwork and vines and flowers and animals all around the doors and windows of the new house, which the various children can’t seem to stay away from. We will soon have children of our own to smudge it.
The year I finished my restitution, I went to visit my parents, and then, at last, I crossed the continent for what I believe will be the final time. Oh, what joy to walk up the rose garden to the house (a house, not a castle, not even remotely defensible) near Crestel in the newly-named Vasande Leror, to be welcomed by Birdy and Anhar, Lasva and Kaidas—and to find waiting for me a room of my own! I am now Vasande Leror’s mage, as well as a scribe.
So it is time to finish this record. Because Lasva was right: the Marlovens and the world have begun rewriting history.
Though I broke the scribes’ first two Rules, I have kept the Third, which was to record the truth as I saw it. For that very reason I cannot send it to Tiflis: no one else is going to read our inner thoughts until we are long gone.
Though I found justice, and made my restitution, there is a greater injustice. Somewhere in Norsunder Ivandred abides with his First Lancers, who loyally rode behind him straight into darkness.
And that is why I kept this copy of my record. I will transfer to Darchelde’s secret room, where I will lay this down with Fox’s memoir, then seal the chamber. One day Ivandred is going to ride forth again, and I hope by then that the world will understand what happened, and that justice will vindicate the banner of the damned.
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