Banner of the Damned (74 page)

“A combination of reasons, beginning with the deep distrust Marlovens have for mages, or anyone they cannot vanquish with a sword. There’s the king’s distrust. Andaun lost the two he’d begun training; one was killed, the other disappeared. Then he became too old, and too bound up with the king’s frantic demands for safety, to begin training a new one. So when you appeared along with Ivandred, with your fast ability to learn….” He laughed again, no sound—a quick flash of teeth, the
crinkle of eyes. “The royal runners can do some very limited, very basic spells, but there is only ever a single royal mage in this kingdom.”

“Why are you not appointed?”

“I first came to serve as Ivandred’s teacher. His studies, as I am sure you are aware, have been intermittent at best, and so I promised myself elsewhere. I come when I can, because I conceived a liking for Ivandred and sympathy for his position. Now there is you to keep me returning, for you are that rarity, a natural.”

I gestured my thanks, warm with pleasure.

“Ivandred was specific. He wants me to train you to replace Andaun. As tutor to the new royal mage, I am assigning you this crucially important task, which only you can perform, as I cannot enter Choreid Dhelerei. And it must be done from inside.”

So I was not just to be a mage, but the royal mage! As I made a gesture of protest, he said, “You object? Or am I seeing trained scribal hypocrisy?”

“Hypocrisy!” I repeated, far more disturbed by the accusation than about the putative position of royal mage.

“I suspect you were about to tell me you could not possibly be a royal mage—that you scribes keep the purity of the First Rule, non-interference?”

“We don’t interfere in governments,” I began, “and we certainly don’t participate in wars.”

“Have you ever paused to reflect on how animals do not recognize kingdom boundaries?” The Herskalt made The Peace, gently mocking. “Political boundaries are conditional. The Scribe Guild is supposed to ignore them, for example, but what Sartor is trying to foster is a kingdom in secret, its power the control of information.”

“We don’t control information,” I began.

“Scribes can be as dangerous as the most war-mongering, wild duke. More so, because he is outright in his intentions. You move secretly, you dress simply, you influence from behind the carefully cultivated façade of virtue. The scribes, together with the heralds, who were once scribes, have an international legal structure. They control information that kings desire. Within kingdoms, they handle the records of lives. Do you know what they do with that information? Do you really think that no one looks at numbers of marriages, births, and deaths; that policy is not formed on the details of lives—details culled by scribes and heralds?”

“Information that betters lives.”

“Information about defense. About offense. Your King Martande the Scribe got ahead because the smart and creative people who felt stultified in Sartor fled to him. He also saw that princes and dukes become interested in legal structure to support and sustain them as soon as the question of inheritance comes up. His kingdom was born not as a result of that fight with the Chwahir. That would have remained a battle, with a statue at the famous site and a few ballads and tapestries. The kingdom was born in recognition of his claim, and in making laws to legitimize that claim, he insured against a series of warrior dukes fighting one another to be king after his death. Everyone in power wanted Colend to survive.” The Herskalt leaned forward. “Emras, what I am trying to tell you is that influence is not all bad. You do, however, need to be aware of what you are doing.”

“But I have never…”

He opened his hand toward my foot. “Your toe ring. You seem to have forgotten it. Assuming that your Sartoran friends could transfer in a flood of magical spies—which the border transfer wards specifically prevent—how would that not be interference?”

“I did not see it this way.”

“Of course not. Emras, do not distress yourself. Ivandred does not want a political royal mage. Far from it. You are very well suited to the position because you consciously maintain a political distance. I only ask that you understand that with power, ignorance is not an acceptable excuse. You must learn as much as you can, but you must be very careful. Think through your actions.”

“I agree with that.” I took a deep breath. “As I am called to serve, and I have the ability, I will do what I am asked. There remains my original orders, to seek signs of Norsunder, and it seems logical to begin my search in Andaun-Sigradir’s tower.”

The Herskalt gave a voiceless laugh. “Andaun is no more Norsundrian than you are. He was constrained to do what he did by his master’s obsessive fears. The Sartoran Mage Council has been pointing accusatory fingers at the Marlovens for generations, accusing them of magical alliance with Norsunder and castigating Marloven culture as a recruiting ground, because the Marloven kings wanted the Council safely warded beyond the border where they couldn’t interfere.”

“That is a comfort to hear. Do you know where he is so that I may interview him? Ask if I may copy his books, and learn what he’s done, to enable me to be more effective?”

“He’s not just gone from the castle, he’s gone from the kingdom.” The
Herskalt gestured, hands turned upward. “Ivandred told me that the poor old man was gone before the next watch bell, once he heard about the king’s death. I do not know the particulars of his late interactions with the king, but no doubt they were sufficiently dire. So.” The Herskalt touched one of the magic books on the table. “There is no danger from the king or his former mage, but there is still danger from hidden traps. You cannot be complacent. Remember, because I am warded from entering Choreid Dhelerei by any means—even walking in—I cannot be there to help you.”

“I will proceed with caution,” I said.

“Return to your duties, Scribe Emras. Both of us have much to do.”

For the first time, I transferred back to the royal castle in Choreid Dhelerei with a sense of anticipation without equal dread, to find someone utterly unexpected standing in the middle of the staff chamber.

“Birdy!” I exclaimed. I was about to proudly proclaim my astonishing new status—as if by speaking it aloud I could make it more real—but halted, disconcerted by his wary stance, his unsmiling mouth.

“I asked permission of the princess—the queen.” He was speaking in Kifelian. “To say my farewells.”

“Farewells?” I repeated witlessly.

He looked aside, at the closed door, then back at me, his mouth thin. “Lasva is sending me away. I am returning to Colend with Belimas, who asked to be sent back. I am not being given a choice, it seems: the Marlovens have enough stable hands, and Lasva says that she can write to her sister herself.”

He took a step backward toward the door. I followed, instinctively desiring to close the distance between us. “What happened?” I asked, my wits entirely flown. “I don’t understand.”

He passed a hand over his face. “This isn’t working,” he mumbled into his palm. “Lasva is angry because of the queen’s secret orders.” Birdy met my gaze, his sober, the tenderness that I thought an inescapable part of him utterly absent. “But that is not what upsets me most. I did not know what to think or to say when Ivandred said he would send us by magic—using tokens
you
made for him. Emras, why didn’t you tell me?”

His voice was raw with grief and betrayal, and I felt the impact as strongly as any physical blow. “The magic was a secret,” I said, utterly inadequately.

Birdy made an impatient gesture, as though to strike the words out of the air. “I was there when you received your orders,” he said. “And I can understand what made you keep the secret while we were traveling. But
you could have whispered to me on the ride. Or when we talked every day, Emras.
Every day
, we met down at the baths, and talked about everything. I thought we talked about everything, for you picked the topics, I made sure of that. How could you possibly think I would be incapable of protecting this secret? If you didn’t trust Anhar, why didn’t you ask to take me aside? She would have understood. She has always understood. Always deferred. She knows quite well that all the Colendi think her a lesser being because one of her parents was a Chwahir.” His voice cracked.

“Ah-yedi, that is not at all—” I exclaimed, my hands out in shadow-warding. “It was
never
that. Never! I kept my secret to protect us
all
. You, too. Even Anhar!
Think
what would have happened if the king had heard a single word!”

He looked aside. “I did not consider that,” he said as quickly as I had—as if he, too, willed the gap closed between us. “Yes. That makes sense. Yet you could have asked me.” He made that impatient gesture again and flicked his hand up in Thorn Gate. “Enough argument, even with myself. Let it be past.” He drew an unsteady breath.

I could not forebear speaking, though I was horribly aware of that day when he left for Chwahirsland. “Will you write to me, Birdy?” My eyes stung with tears.

“Yes,” he breathed, his expression softening when he saw my tears. “Yes. I already told Anhar I would write to her. Every day. But…” He looked away. Then back. “I was going to buy her a scrollcase, which would cost half a year’s pay. But you can make them. Will you make one for Anhar?”

“Of course I will,” I promised, and his face eased.

It was then that Anhar burst in, too distraught for politeness. They hurled themselves into one another’s arms and kissed fervently, roughly. I looked on, my breathing as ragged as theirs, but my emotions were grief and loss—and a little disgust at those moist, sticky noises.

He broke off, and when Anhar, always so quiet, could not suppress a sob, he left. She sank onto a cushion, her hands over her face. “Why did you do it?” she keened. “Why did you lie to him?”

“I didn’t. I couldn’t tell him. It might have gotten us all killed. He knows that.” I knelt beside her. “Do you want to go back with him? I could speak to Lasva.”

“And do what?” Her mouth was bitter. “Back to the world of people humming under their breath, and making plans
between two
in my hearing?” She dropped her hands. “I hate this place. But I know when I’m better off.”

She ran out.

Ivandred stroked Lasva’s eyebrow with a gentle thumb, then the line of her jaw. “I would do anything to see you happy,” he whispered.

“Your wish makes me happy,” she returned.

“You say that, yet I see here and here you are angry.” He touched the taut flesh on her temple and the tight muscle along the pure line of her jaw. “Give it to me,” he said.

They had fallen into a pattern. A lifetime of careful training required this ritual. She was conscious of the necessity as she said, “I am not angry with you.”

“I know what to do with anger,” he said. “Give it to me.”

She raised her hands and put them against his chest. She watched the flick of his eyelids at her touch, the twitch of his lips, and she pushed. And had to step back, because she could not shift him.

Why should his strength be so alluring? She did not question. It just was. She pushed harder, and once more stepped back. So she pushed again, harder, a shove.

“Give it to me,” he said and took hold of her wrists.

She used the Altan fan twirl and twisted them from his grasp, then struck at his hands, in play and not quite play. Once again he took her by the wrists, a firmer grip, and she freed herself more violently, and this time she dealt him a ringing slap. His head turned sharply, the red marks of her fingers imprinting the line of his cheekbone. Her fingers stung, and he smiled. “Better. But not good enough.”

She used the fan strike with her hand, whirled out of his grasp, and took a step. This time the force came up through her planted foot, centered in her hips, and her body torqued as she swung.

Then he caught her fist, and they grappled. Freed of all constraint she swung at him with all her might, and he fought back. Grunting with effort, her eyes stinging—why were tears always so close? She was angry! Angry… and the heat flared.

“Obliterate me,” she whispered, and sank her teeth into the palm of his hand.

Afterward she felt as if she’d tumbled into the air and sunlight. There was ache, but it was good, for her nerves were unsheathed, the more sensitive to the fading throb of climax. She floated free, empty of emotion.

Ivandred still lay beside her when she woke. She was not aware of moving, but she had discovered that even the sound of her breath changing would bring Ivandred instantly awake and aware, his body still, his fingers closed around the knife hilt never far from his reach.

She met his watchful gaze on the next pillow and smiled. “I dreamed of wings,” she whispered, habit making her sorrowful at the purpling scratch on his neck and on his shoulders. He always insisted he never noticed such things. It seemed to be true. He could not remember how he’d taken some of the scars she had examined with her fingers.

“Wings?” he whispered back. “How is that?”

She had not had one of these dreams since…

Her mind slid away from Kaidas and reached for the dream, whose images were already dissipating. But familiar patterns lingered: she always woke a little dizzy from seeing the land below, the wandering ribbon of streams, trees seen from overhead resembling round green sponges, the spires of the palace like spindles just below her fingertips. Dizzy but triumphant from the memory of happiness coursing through her veins as she drifted high on the air, the sun warm on her wings.