Banner of the Damned (60 page)

Ivandred said flatly, “Insurmountable?”

“No. But it will take time. Such healings must be done in stages, so the body can do its own work—as much as it can.” A pause and then, “You know the cost.”

“Just teach me the magic. Or point me to where I can learn.”

A quiet laugh. “The woman will be dead by morning if something is not done immediately. The boy will never raise that right arm above waist level, if you do not shift away the bone shards.”

“Teach me.”

“Ah, Ivandred! Your stubbornness is amusing but futile. No, I will not argue. We haven’t time for one of our conversations on the verities.” The man’s voice altered to a brisk tone. “Now clear your people out so I can concentrate.”

Ivandred’s footsteps chuffed rapidly away through the hay.

A finger touched my forehead, and an odd pang flashed through my inward vision. I opened my eyes, only to find a vague face-shaped blur, half-obscured by tiny flickers of light, as if I stared at the night sky reflected in water.

“You and I,” the man said, “will talk later.”

I dropped into slumber.

I woke to the rise and fall of voices singing the Marloven memorial chant they called the
Hymn to the Fallen
.

We began moving again later that day.

The Marlovens’ helm tails had thickened. That obscene detail was no dream.

From that point on I exerted myself to avoid ever touching those helms or permitting one to touch me, though I knew it was absurd. Hair
could not hurt me. But symbols are strong. They shape the meanings in our lives.

I had nearly killed myself with only one spell. Now I knew with visceral conviction how very powerful magic was. We take it so for granted, with those little magics we use every day to make life comfortable. I needed to learn more. Sometimes I flexed my toes in my slippers, feeling as if that little ring burned me with the weight of its implied responsibility. How could I possibly know Norsundrian magic from any other kind of magic, if I could barely contain one spell?

Someone had commandeered a wagon in which Fnor and Retrend still lay gravely wounded, seldom awake or aware for very long.

For a few days, I lay with them as Anhar tended us. I gazed up at her face: the color of her eyes, which turned to amber when light shone from the side, and the little hollow in her upper lip. She gently washed the smoke from my face with a warm damp cloth that smelled of some herb. She pressed her hands over the hay before we lay down, to make certain there would be no bumps to vex our muscles. Without being asked, she did all these little things that — when you are so hurt all you can do is lie there — become more important than wars or even the wheeling of the stars.

Sometimes I opened my eyes and Birdy was there.

Once he smiled at me. “Drink up, and then you can sleep.” He flicked the ends of my hair, a brief yet compassionate gesture. I wanted to weep, but it would hurt too much.

Within a few days, I could sit up, eat, and drink; within a day after that I could take care of my own dishes. I also became aware of Marnda’s fretful voice summoning Anhar to other duties. So I took over the task of caring for the severely wounded, which enabled me to ride in the wagon beside them, my knees up under my chin. Anhar appeared with food, always making sure we got ours hot.

The best part of those long days was when Birdy came. He would sit on one side of me and Anhar on the other, and report on our progress.

One night Birdy appeared late. I had been lying there with my eyes shut. For a moment we just sat, three tired, grimy people far from the
home we’d known and loved. Then he breathed, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

I opened my eyes and discovered that he was not talking to me. The campfire light beat over his features, touching his ears that stuck out so appealingly, as he smiled across at Anhar.

And she smiled back. Then he leaned forward—he was very tall—and their lips met directly over me. When they separated again, their breathing was ragged. They thought I slept, so I closed my eyes again.

I also considered a strange conversation I’d overheard, or thought I’d overheard, half convinced I’d dreamed it. That healer Ivandred had brought to us—I could not recall for certain the language in which he had said, “We will talk later.” My forgetfulness suggested a dream.

We traveled more slowly, not just because of the wagon but because it snowed twice. The second time, the snow stayed.

When we reached the Faral River, Ivandred rode up a hill overlooking the cross-roads and peered intently toward the west.

“He thinks the enemy came from there,” Lasva said to me, for she’d joined me on the wagon that day, to take a turn giving sips of water, or whatever was needed, to Fnor and Retrend. Fnor had wakened enough to discover that her sister was dead. Little was said, but Lasva sometimes just sat, head bowed, holding Fnor’s hand.

“West of the Faral?” I asked. “Isn’t that what used to be Choraed Elgaer—where Elgar the Fox came from?” There had been a map in the scroll I’d translated from Tharais’s text, which I had copied out for Tiflis.

“It is now called Totha and wishes to be independent.” Lasva lifted her head to glance at Ivandred, still on horseback atop the rise, reins loose in his hand. “There is a peace agreement with Marloven Hesea, but he said things are… complicated.”

“‘Totha,’ is that…”

“From Tenthan, Elgar the Fox’s home territory.”

Prince Ivandred rode down the hillock and ordered us to cut up northward into a narrow valley rather than follow the Faral River to where it branched into the Marlovar.

And so we began the last leg of our long journey.

Marnda had been silent since the time we were invalids. She was like a stunned bird, eyes open but blank, eating by rote, only rousing to oversee Lasva’s care and to scold Pelis and Anhar—who were busy sewing a
suitable gown out of the last hoarded length of silk. But her voice was no longer shrill.

We had assumed that a kingdom whose prince could not afford to travel in the proper style would be penurious in the extreme. Our first introduction to Marloven Hesea was nothing like what we expected. There were inns, but to our eyes they were more like military posts, swarming with warriors. The stables were enormous. The rooms were plain, small, but warm, and the food, after the dreary travel fare, was hot and plentiful. No money changed hands—this was our first introduction to the complicated system of duties and barter that was more common than money in this kingdom.

Despite those inns, we camped as usual.

By the time we passed through low, rugged mountains, like those on the other side of the Telyer—sheer with naked rock of many warm colors, unlike the green, smooth hills of Colend—Fnor and Retrend were awake for longer periods. I had regained my strength, and practiced Marloven with them as I helped them to eat, drink, and to shift position.

Our cavalcade climbed steadily, then descended into a valley of shifting shades of silver, white, and pale blue crowned by an enormous castle with eight towers. It was my first sight of the Marloven honey-colored stone that could look like gold when the sun sank toward the western sea. I never thought I would admire a castle—a building made for defense rather than beauty—but Darchelde was beautiful in an austere way.

Marnda recovered her old spirit as soon as that castle was sighted. She pleaded with the prince to halt the entourage so that the princess could wash her face and hands, have her hair dressed, and wear the coronet that Marnda had secreted among her personal effects. Lasva tried to remonstrate, but Ivandred smiled. “You shall have it as you wish, Runner Marend. Ah. Marnda.”

Very soon Lasva rode beside the prince, her hair arranged in shining coils once again. She wore the Lirendi colors in filmy layers of royal blue, darkest around the square neck and with each layer lightening to silver. It was a beautiful gown, but meant for a ballroom, not arduous travel. Marnda climbed into the wagon, anxious that the many layers would not snag on the splinters or become mired with grime. She waved me away from the wounded with a gesture worthy of Queen Hatahra, and took her place at their heads.

Ivandred gave the signal to ride, and the lancers ululated a shrill “Yip-yip-yip!”

People came out of sturdy houses with tiled or slated roofs to stare at us as we crossed the valley on well-tended roads. Their gazes lingered longest on Ivandred and Lasva. We’d begun the winding road upward to the castle when riders galloped down to meet us. Over their coats were tunics with either eagles or fox faces worked across the backs. They closed around, accompanying us as, from one of the eight castle towers, out-of-tune bells rang in a dissonant, monotonous clang.

“Alarm?” Lasva asked. She and Ivandred were directly in front of the wagon.

Ivandred’s answer was too low for us to hear, but Birdy turned just enough to grin. “It’s a welcome ring,” he said. And in our own Kifelian added, “They don’t seem to have carillons.”

I hope their horrible bells do not ring the hours, I thought, but kept it to myself.

We rode through a huge open gate, under castle walls bristling with warriors—men and women—armed with swords, spears, and bows. When a trumpet sounded (thankfully not discordant) these guardians sent up a great shout and struck fists to chests.

The lancers rode in strict control until we’d entered an enormous courtyard. Ivandred released them by raising his fist and opening the fingers. The column broke into individuals all talking and laughing, as riders in fox tunics or eagle tunics, friends and family, reached to take charge of gear and extra mounts, pelting everyone with questions the while.

A woman approached, walking with a swinging stride, and everyone gave way. She smiled at Ivandred and laid her hand to her thin chest when she came abreast of Lasva, but all her attention was on the wagon. She vaulted lightly up and crouched down beside Fnor. Her hair was entirely silver, her bony face lined, emphasizing her resemblance to Ivandred. She had to be quite old, but she was vigorous. “I am Ingrid Montredaun-An, Ivandred’s aunt, and sister to the king,” she told me. “Give me a report on her state, please? On them both?”

I began to speak, but Marnda sent me an angry glance, then said, “I am Princess Lasthavais’s Seneschal, your highness.”

We soon learned that Ingrid was the jarlan of Darchelde, Ivandred’s
ancestral territory. Jarl and jarlan were titles somewhat like duke and duchess.

Ingrid-Jarlan issued a stream of fast-spoken orders, then turned to me. “My first runner will see you and these others comfortably established.”

Our party was promptly surrounded by a genial, curious mob. Birdy was swept along with the horses in one direction, Lasva and Ivandred in another, leaving Marnda, Anhar, and Pelis with me. Marnda climbed down from the wagon, moving more quickly than I’d ever seen her as she scurried to take her place directly behind Lasva. They vanished inside.

Anhar whispered to Pelis and me, “I hope their floors aren’t covered in horse manure.”

“Or that the beds aren’t bedrolls on the floor,” Pelis whispered back, her lips compressed against a laugh as a tall older servant handed them off to a younger and beckoned to me to follow.

This older woman wore a long robe over trousers and a thick tunic, the colors contrasting gray shades edged with saffron. Everyone looked alike. I could see that none of our people could tell the Marlovens apart.

My first glimpse of the great hall inside the massive iron-reinforced doors at the front of Darchelde castle filled me with wonderment. The hall was so enormous that the vast fireplace I glimpsed at one end was as large as the queen’s formal parlor at home.

From there, we climbed steep stone stairs, the stairwell narrow and bare. The woman in gray and saffron pointed me into a small room on the third floor with the bed on a platform and space for a trunk. She talked so fast that I hadn’t a hope of following her words, once I winnowed out “bath” and “stairs.” I didn’t care about anything yet beyond getting a bath and changing my clothes.

The baths turned out to be in the basement, a long, long way down dank stairs.

“It’s stone
everywhere
upstairs,” Pelis whispered when we met at the baths a short time later. “Is this a prison, perhaps?”

“No torture instruments,” Anhar said, bowing in Unalloyed Gratitude, causing Pelis to sniff a laugh. “And though we are consigned to dormitories like children, at least they are warm.”

Dormitories? I did not tell them that I’d been given a room to myself; though it was small and mean by Colendi standards, it was private. And privacy was important to us.

“At least these Marlovens have discovered vents.” Anhar turned to me.
“Who was that woman who escorted you? A scribe? I didn’t know they had scribes!”

“I don’t know that they do, yet,” I said. “She was introduced as ‘the jarlan’s first runner,’ whatever that implies.”

Anhar said, “I thought they only had runners in the military.”

“According to
An Examination of Greatness
, they were also a kind of seneschal, and scribe, and maid,” I said as we stepped down into the steaming water.