Banner of the Damned (20 page)

The Enaeraneth brightened at the thought of a gallop—even a necessarily short one, given the tiredness of the horses. At least the heat was fast diminishing.

The attack came as the sun sank beyond the mountains, melding the shadows. The tired, thirsty party was riding down through thick trees toward the river’s edge when they heard sounds: first the rumbling of hooves, then the whining buzz of arrows.

Arrows! Despite the Compact agreed to by the civilized world,
No weapons that cannot be wielded in hand
, these brigands shot
arrows!
Macael and his friends exclaimed at the discourtesy—the criminal action. They wondered what authority might be sought, then sustained the sick realization that their law, and those who protected their law, resided far beyond the mountains.

Oh, but the Marlovens had arrows—everyone knew they were barbarians. It was certainly good to have barbarians on your side now! They turned to Macael, who mirrored Ivandred’s motion to gather behind a thick copse of trees a few paces away.

An Enaeraneth servant gave a choked cry and fell, an arrow in his chest. The second arrow struck Macael in the shoulder.

The cavalcade reined in behind the trees, terrified Enaeraneth horses nearly out of control, the Enaeraneth and their servants yelling commands and questions that no one listened to as the Marloven women spread out, bows at the ready, their animals alert, even if their hindquarters quivered.

The enemy ranged in a line behind a hedgerow in the gathering shadows. A brigand called something, the words in a slow drawl, the consonants affectedly prissy.

Ivandred turned to his cousin. “What’s he saying?”

“That’s Lamancan,” Macael whispered, his breath hissing. “I know that much… but I only have a few words.”

Tharais said quickly, “It’s enough like Remalnan for me to understand—if he keeps talking slow like that. They said we can all go if we throw down our arms and turn loose the horses. We can keep our food, but the rest is theirs.”

And another shout, which she translated: “We have to decide now.”

An arrow whistled right overhead, glancing off a shield snapped up by one of the women. Tharais ducked, but Ivandred did not move. A last glint of the fading day reflected briefly in his pale eyes as he tracked the shot—and the defense—then he raised his voice just enough to be heard by his academy riders: “Spoke form.”

The honor guard vanished somewhere behind the wagons, blending with the gathering shadows as the unseen brigand shouted and his line galloped to the attack.

On the command of their captain, the women encircled Tharais and her fallen cousin, their bows humming as they shot arrows with astonishing rapidity. The bewildered Enaeraneth rejoiced when nearly every arrow hit a target.

Here was another shock, women (some middle-aged) defending young lords trained in the art of the duel. A tall, hardy young lord rallied the Enaeraneth with angry shouts, and they galloped to meet the enemy, roaring with fury.

Tharais mustered the terrified servants to help get their prince off his horse before he fell. Someone spread a cloak on the grass and laid him on it.

Macael, struggling with every breath to hold onto consciousness, perceived milling horses, bodies, heard the whang and clash of swords, shouts of his own friends, and yells in foreign languages.

The Enaeraneth reached the brigands to find themselves surrounded. The brigands, in turn, became aware of the drumming of hooves from
behind, and then “Yip! Yip! Yip!”—an inhuman cry that would echo through Enaeraneth nightmares for years—Ivandred’s honor guard hit the brigands from both flanks. Only twelve of them on either side, but the fury of their attack felt like hundreds.

The brigands’ order was utterly destroyed, and within a very short time, so were they.

“Drink.” Tharais pressed something pungent to Macael’s numb lips.

He gasped as fiery liquid burned his mouth and down into his chest, a fire almost as strong as the shredding pain in his shoulder.

“Another. Big one.”

He drank again, realizing what had to come next. The thought of the arrowhead having to be pulled out made him swallow so much his nose burned, but by then a dose of strongly steeped listerblossom and willow bark assuaged the worst of his anguish, and he lay back, panting.

“Bite onto this.” A bitter-tasting wedge of treated willow bark was pushed insistently into his mouth. He wanted to gag, to spit it out—but then white lightning ripped into his shoulder, and his teeth clenched.

One of Thar’s women was winding a bandage round his shoulder and chest when he became aware of Ivandred kneeling at his side. “Was it bad?”

Macael tried to talk, but he couldn’t get his lips to move.

“Nasty enough,” Tharais said, from somewhere behind. “But he’ll live. We’ll have to ride easy for a time.”

To which her brother replied, “No difficulty. They’re all dead. I’ve got Dandy’s locks right here.” And something long and waving dangled from his hand, catching the campfire light; it was bound at one end by something ragged and pinkish-brown. “Where’s my helm? Weather’s too hot to wear it.”

Macael’s gut churned. Those helms were decorated with hair from human scalps.

“A hundred and forty, or close to it,” Ivandred went on. “Nearly three to one. I’ve given my riders permission to do a victory dance.”

He laughed then, a young laugh, that Macael—who knew him from only two visits—had never heard before. Tharais, of course, had, and her usually cheerful face sobered into a hardness that emphasized her resemblance to Ivandred.

But in her usual pleasant voice she said, “Go ahead, Van. Dance with them. They’ll want you. I’ll stay with Cousin Macael.”

Macael wanted to ask questions, oh so many, but he lay, watching her firelit profile for a time, the square jaw and subtle line of ridged cheekbone that characterized all of them, framed by long butter-colored braids.

From a distance came the sound of drums, and then singing, in cadenced minor key melodies that sounded warlike to Macael’s ears. And then came the rhythmic crashing of steel, more drumming, and he fell asleep at last, dreaming of horses riding over the plains and hooves striking the ground in galloping rhythm.

A

So too did Kaidas Lassiter, who for the first time was not careless of manner, or word—though he worked hard to sustain the impression. They wore no ribbons. They did not dance together in public, and spoke together rarely. They controlled the impulse to watch the other in a room. There would be no whispers of the garden arch.

They met in secret, all in all to one another. That was the second world.

He could not afford a staff. He had a man who oversaw his horses and lent a hand with his things when necessary. This gave Kaidas freedom of movement. I took many domino veil walks, and with my permission, they used the bath stair through my room to avoid the notice of the rest of the staff.

But no one can live successfully in two worlds. We are finite.

“What did your princess do, Em?” Tiflis asked when I took cakes and wine over for her Name Day. “In the last court play at The Slipper, the
Rose Veil
was collecting silhouettes of coronets decorated with hearts.”

“Coronets decorated with hearts,” I repeated. “Since I’ve never seen
her flirting with anyone at court this year, I wonder whose hearts she’s supposed to be collecting.”

Then a month later: “What’s going on in court, Em? They got out that old play about the mermaid who lures sailors to dive into the sea, so she can drown them, and they dressed her in rose.”

To which I replied, “Princess Lasva hasn’t done anything cruel. She doesn’t flirt.”

“Not even with Handsome Lassiter?” Tif leaned toward me, her brows furrowed. “Here’s what I find confusing. The city chirps about how half of court is wagering on whether or not she’s twoing with Handsome Lassiter. Does anyone know? Even court doesn’t seem to, or they wouldn’t be wagering.”

I said, “You know no one chirps to me. Or even whispers.”

“Well, I’m chirping like a tree full of birds,” Tiflis said plainly. “I would love to know if there is a book in it. What has she to be secret about? She’s the
princess!
No one can do anything to her! Anyway, how can she be collecting all these other hearts if she’s with him?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” I said.

“Of course you do,” she retorted, but not angrily. “Well, I don’t tell you my secrets, either.”

I walked back, greatly troubled, for in spite of my words to my cousin, I’d begun to catch some of the whispers, the canted looks, the flit and snap of fans when Lasva danced or even moved about in a gathering.

I could not figure out
why
.

The high, sweet bell rang the five notes of the Hour of Repose—the last hour before the dawn of Midsummer’s Day, and the Queen’s Birthday.

Lasva walked out of her bedroom onto the balcony that overlooked the Rose Walk, singing under her breath the melody she called
rafalle
. The name of the song was actually “Laughing Fountain,” and she’d introduced it to court at the Dance of the Spring Leaves. Now it even had its own dance. By making it so public, she could hear it all around her and revel in its secret meaning. The canal beyond was barely visible, the color of slate. She did not want the happiest night of her life to end, but since it must, she would watch through the old meditation hour as dawn banished the shadows.

She and Kaidas had pledged their lives to one another. Who had spoken first? Now she could no longer remember, but did it matter?

The intensity of her exhilaration almost frightened her. It was time to let the world discover their love: tomorrow, she and Kaidas would travel down to Sartor together.

A gift? All I ask for in life is for you to bind my hair with your white ribbon
, he had said as he reluctantly robed to leave, for the entire court must be in formal dress for the Midsummer Rising.

And you will bind mine,
she had said.

He kissed her, then brought from his pocket a gift wrapped in a square of silk.
It’s Midsummer’s Day, and I know your sister will expect you to attend her before the day’s festivities, so I’d better leave. But first I wanted to give you this.

Her fingers cradled the lover’s cup, made from porcelain so fine that light shone through it, gathering with a golden glow. She lifted it to gaze on the delicate roses painted in the wind dance pattern around the rim in shades of red, pink, peach, apricot, and mauve, leaved with gold.

The pure light of daybreak had painted the roses at her feet with their natural color when the joyous peal of Midsummer Daybreak rang out.

Lasva listened with her eyes closed, hands cradling the cup, mind lingering in sweet memory of their last moments together, feeding one another slices of crisp apple. The long reverie was broken by voices from her private bath chamber, which, at this time of year, was always open to the air.

“Oh Dessaf,” Seneschal Marnda’s voice was so high Lasva almost failed to recognize it. “Oh, it has happened.”

“Boy or girl?” That was Dessaf, the princess’s chief wardrobe mistress.

Lasva stared down at the Rose Walk, so rich with blooms the perfume rose on the soft summer breeze. She shivered, her heart cloud-light with elation, and wonder. “Boy or girl” could only mean one thing: there was now an heir.

“Oh, a girl, a girl,” Marnda said. “The queen is so happy. I saw her myself just now, when the nursemaid took her out to put her Name Day clothes on! A princess! Her eyes will be dark like the dear old queen’s, mark my words.”

“How lovely,” was Dessaf’s whispered response. “How perfect! For of course she’ll carry the dear queen’s name.”

Lasva and I had talked about magic on the last journey to Sartor. As far as I could discover, not even the mages knew why the Birth Spell worked for some and not for others, why sometimes a person alone, man or woman, could produce a child, who was nearly always a throwback to a distant ancestor. It came when it willed—when someone willed it?—to
the poorest street-wander or to kings. Colend’s rulers had been relying on it for centuries, and because it had nothing to do with nature’s child-bearing cycle, their custom was to wait as long as they dared. Though heirs were necessary to those in power, no one liked them appearing too soon. Historically, heirs were impatient to inherit.

Heirs.

I am no longer potential heir
, Lasva thought.

She only realized she’d stirred when she heard a soft intake of breath from the other room, and there was tall Marnda, who ducked out and then returned with a silver tray on which rested Lasva’s morning caffeo. Her thin face was flushed with elation.

Lasva slipped the sleeve of her robe over the lover’s cup.

“Oh, my princess,” Marnda said, her low voice tremulous with emotion. “Your royal sister begs you attend her before the Rising.”

Lasva forced a smile at the perfect blend of fresh-scalded coffee and fresh-ground chocolate, all frothed up in steamed milk, but her stomach was closed. “Thank you,” she said.

Marnda made a sign to the page waiting beyond the archway, out of Lasva’s view, who would speed down the hall to apprise the queen that the princess was awake.

She was still The Princess, but now there was a Royal Princess, heir to the throne. Lasva began to wonder what that would mean.

“Tell me what happened,” Lasva asked, as Marnda lingered in the doorway in a manner completely unlike her usual brisk busy-ness.

Marnda’s smile and indrawn breath were full of wonder. “It was just as the Daybreak carillon rang out. Just an hour ago and how the world has changed! The queen took Lord Davaud’s hand… and the magic came to them.” Marnda clasped her hands again, almost a clap, in an effort to contain so much joy. “They said the spell together, though no one could quite catch the words. The maids said it was very like Old Sartoran, and very like a song. And then she said it was as if a star blinked into the room, and the babe was suddenly there, on the waiting cloth they held between them, the child kicking and looking around.” Marnda opened her hands, turning them upward. “She said the queen’s face—her face—” Her voice suspended.