Banner of the Damned (37 page)

At least they did not gallop long. Marlovens knew how to make an impression, but they were equally careful of their mounts. Ivandred gave the signal for them to holster their lances and slow the animals.

Davaud welcomed the signal with intense relief. His hips hurt almost as much as the inner parts of his legs, and the back of his neck was awash in sweat from the sun beating down on the four layers he wore: silken brocade over thick quilting, over a heavy linen shirt, and over that the chain mail. The damned shield dug unmercifully into his thigh, but no matter how he tried to shift it, it either disturbed the horse or thrust against his boot, or something. It seemed to have twenty corners instead of five.

Davaud glanced at his companion, whose shield, an odd tear shape, hooked over the horse’s gear at a slant so that it stayed out of the way. The Marloven prince wore black, which soaked up sunlight, but he did not look red or sweaty. Summer was nearly over, and that coat had to be hot. On closer look Davaud suspected the weave had more linen than wool. But did he wear chain mail underneath?

Ivandred had been scanning the countryside. He turned Davaud’s way and said in heavily accented Sartoran, “What can we expect?”

“Expect?” Davaud was grateful for the Sartoran, because the meaning was confusing enough even though he could define each word. “You mean, how many are there?”

Ivandred turned his palm up.

Taking that for assent, Davaud answered, “The wards in the passes signal alarms if more than fifty gather in a given space. We do have some limited trade with the Chwahir, and there is even some visiting back and forth and seasonal workers hired, but no one travels in large groups. Forbidden either side,” he explained. “Since the first alarm, our people have been trying to count them. Several hundred at the least, probably with more coming up their side of the pass.”

Another open-handed gesture. “Any warning sent? Demands? Threats?”

“Nothing. Only the wards broken.”

Ivandred’s voice showed no emotion. “What kind of tactics can we expect?”

Tactics? Davaud had felt like a fraud ever since the queen had informed him he would be in command of this defense. But he wasn’t one. He’d spent long, wearying nights reading every first-hand record of a battle that the heralds could find in the archives. Most of them were not only ancient, they took place in other lands. Colend had had skirmishes aplenty, but was short on wars.

He’d begun with the Battle of Skya Lake four centuries previous, when the Sentis family had faced off the Lirendis and lost. Then there were several abortive Khanerenth incursions, a brawl at Pansan Bridge in Gaszin, and a ducal scuffle over inheritance that the former queen Hatahra had to settle. He’d finished by plowing grimly through the long-winded chronicles of the last Chwahir invasion, the enemy having been repelled by Martande Lirendi, who subsequently made himself king. The archaic language turned out to describe, in detail, the heroism and glory of the aftermath, and furnished not a scrap of instruction on exactly what you were supposed to do to get there.

“Tell you what,” he said to the waiting prince. “You take a look at these records yourself and tell me what you think.”

He gestured to the servant riding discreetly behind with the baggage. The man trotted up, and Davaud handed off the shield, then retrieved the neat copies made by Hatahra’s scribes from the side-pouch on his carry-all.

These he handed to Ivandred. Then he turned his neck from side to side to ease the stiffness that had somehow resulted from that wild gallop.
When had he last galloped like that? Probably the time he fought his only duel—when he was twenty, and he and that hothead Basya Isqua hadn’t known how to back down from a witless quarrel forced on them by a flirt. That duels were forbidden had only added to the… intensity. He recalled the anguish of those days with an inward flutter of laughter. Now the flirt was a staid matron, married to a southern baron. But in those days, she wanted to heighten her prestige by getting someone to fight over her, so she could court the brother of the King of Sartor, visiting at the time. They’d all lost, in the sense that the old queen had demanded they make restitution for flouting laws.

The purpose of a court
, he thought, trying to ease his right hip by listing to the left,
is to avoid this war savagery
. He had lived too long to expect everyone of high degree to have brains, moral principles, and good will, but the layers of language, behavior, even dance and fashion, all diffused the clashings of intent. People might, and did, get wounded, but not by steel. And so they lived to learn their lessons, as he and Basya and Firandel had, or they did not learn. But no one lost their lives in the process.

The Chwahir, he knew, did not have that luxury. Neither did these Marlovens, it seemed.

“Parade,” Ivandred said.

“What?”

Ivandred handed the papers back. “These are not battles. They are parades, at least this Skih-huh Lake one, and this other that took place near this bridge.”

“Do you mean the Battle of Skya Lake?” Davaud corrected with an apologetic gesture. “Parade? If you will honor me with a clarification, I would be most grateful.”

Ivandred pointed at the papers. “These rules binding who marches first, how close they come, maneuvering around one another, the heralds all at the side conferring and sending messengers running back and forth, with scribes to write it all down. At the end, all that about hostages and ransom, and what is required of each rank, and the court lined up watching their favorites. That’s a parade, a mock battle. It is not quite a war game.”

Davaud looked surprised. “But there have to be rules, or who’s to stop a wholesale slaughter?”

Ivandred’s pale eyes narrowed, revealing the amusement he was trying to hide. Davaud’s nerves chilled.

Ivandred said, “These Chwahir, they are mainly foot warriors and rely on numbers, or did in this report. How old is it?”

Davaud told him.

Ivandred turned up his palm. “Seven centuries ago! Much could have changed since then.” Again, he was trying to hide his amusement. “So we shall assume a similar tactic, at least until we see them. If you have a map, I can show you how to plan for that and break them up quickly.”

The clatter of galloping hooves interrupted. An excited page rode up, his voice cracking as he announced that Duke Thias was behind them.

Davaud knew his duty. “We are about to be joined by more of the queen’s force. Perhaps we can all plan over the map together,” he suggested.

To the east the Duke and Duchess of Alarcansa completed their third day on the road, stopping by the duchess’s command at the western limit of her lands, where Baroness Mayra Valsin had a comfortable palace.

“We will stay with Mayra, in a civilized manner,” she said, after summoning her duke to her carriage. “There is time enough to ride north tomorrow, for the next leg of our circle.”

Kaidas bowed.

Carola realized her voice had been short, and fought against irritation. She prided herself on her excellent manners, on no one ever knowing what she was thinking. She especially hated being short with her beloved, but it was difficult to maintain serenity after a second long, hot, boring day alone in this carriage, jolted horribly because of the speed that war seemed to require. Kaidas had politely refused to ride in the carriage, saying that he must remain with his force, to be seen by them, to be accessible to them each time they stopped, so he could answer questions and talk to the new recruits at each point.

Was that a necessity of the warrior habit of mind? She had no experience of it, so no argument could be made. She used her rank to commandeer an inn for the first night, but it had been extremely late when he came to bed where she lay waiting; and worse, far worse, he had risen before she awoke, ruining her cherished morning ritual for the first time. She’d had to scold herself into reason: if he’d made this stupid trip alone, she still would not have had her morning with him.

After dressing far more swiftly than she liked, she emerged from the bedchamber to discover that the putative warriors were all gathered in the courtyard, ready to ride. Her carriage waited and a meal, thoughtfully arranged for her to enjoy in the comfort of the coach.

To eat alone, while her duke rode with the louts.

It happened again the second morning. She was forced to hasten in a manner she did not consider commensurate with
melende
, but that night, when she requested her duke to wake her when he woke, he replied, “I shall if you desire, but first I must ask. Do you wish to go out to the stable in the dark and examine the animals’ shoes, and see to their feed? Because that is my task as soon as I rise.”

She did not wish. But she woke when he did and insisted on tying his hair before he went.

A rider was sent ahead to inform the baroness that she would be honored with a visit from her duchess and duke.

Mayra came to her gate herself to welcome the ducal cavalcade, assigning her own rooms to the duchess and her duke. As the baroness labored through dinner to entertain the two tired and tense people who had displaced her in her own home, the duchess responded with rigid politesse, and the duke, aching after a long day in the saddle, longed for rest. Everyone was relieved when at last they retired.

The duchess was determined to retire early so that she would waken before dawn and not be denied her morning time with Kaidas. Mayra’s bedroom was comfortable enough, but it was not Carola’s own. While Kaidas stood at the window, she wandered about the room, looking at things and fighting to resume her serenity. Her dressers, unfamiliar with the palace, were late to attend her. Finally she sent a waiting maid in search of them, and stood in the middle of the room, furiously tapping her fan on her palm.

Flick, flick, flick.

The sound was not loud, but it was distinct. Yet she seemed to be the only one to hear it. And what was her husband doing? She turned her head, and there was no attentive duke, making her distress his own, but an absent one staring out through the window, as if whatever existed there held more importance than his duchess. The realization was one more affront to the refined mind. Enraged past endurance, she said venomously, “Chwahir. The first time in hundreds of years. It would be like Lasthavais to be at the root of it.”

Kaidas spun around.

Carola had never seen that narrow look, the white mouth. Anger flamed, blood-hot, but she kept her teeth gritted, wishing she had not
lowered herself even that much. Until now she had never permitted any mention of the selfish, grasping Princess Lasthavais to cross her lips. Carola would not permit
Her
to destroy Definian
melende
.

But Carola’s disgust with her lapse was subsumed under the rage caused by that reaction of his.

His answer was utterly unexpected. “What makes you think there is a connection between the Chwahir in the pass and the princess?”

He didn’t say her name, or attempt to defend her
, Carola thought with a spurt of triumph.
His anger is justly with the Chwahir
. That observation was so comforting she regained her customary well-modulated tones. “The birth of the heir, the rumors of suitors, and the arrival of these Chwahir, all three at once, raise my suspicions. But if the queen apprehends no connection, no doubt it is mere coincidence. I don’t pretend to comprehend the warrior mind.”

He didn’t hear this gentle reminder of her forbearance. His eyes were turned toward his wife, but his mind reviewed the map of Colend. The pass. Alsais. Heir, suitors… and, back in memory, Prince Jurac Sonscarna, refusing to dance with anyone but the princess, scandalizing the entire court.

The possibilities assembled into conviction as he followed his wife’s lead in her evening routine. By now he had learned to shut his mind away, leaving his body to follow orders. A month’s habit set his thoughts free to consider what was likely, and what must be done, while the rest of him performed his part in Carola’s long sexual rituals.

He had learned after a single day in company with his wife-to-be that she was consumed with an angry jealousy, and so he had made a private vow never to mention his beloved before Carola. He would not have his memories sullied by her acrimony.

Jealousy, he had learned, distorted everything it touched. Carola’s notion that Lasva could have somehow caused the Chwahir to threaten was preposterous. Yet might there be a spark of truth in it? Why else would Jurac Sonscarna suddenly send warriors over the mountain the same year—the same season—that an heir was born?

Containing his impatience, Kaidas waited until, at long last, his wife’s demands had all been met and she sank into deep sleep. Then he picked up his clothing, splashed through the bath long enough to rid himself of her scent, dressed, and penned a note to his wife before his valet had managed to rouse the stable hands and get eleven animals saddled.

Kaidas hesitated, studying the note.