Banner of the Damned (112 page)

“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 appreciation 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.

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.