Banner of the Damned (79 page)

“This is insupportable,” Lasva whispered in Kifelian.

An eternity later, the Herskalt spoke again. (It was still daylight, but I could not tell you how many hours we stood there.) “Ah! He’s lost control of the rally. There they go, straight for the river. If their retreat is as messy as I suspect it will be, Ivandred will dispatch his skirmishers to make life interesting for them.”

Trumpet signals traveled through the strengthening breeze. The fighting did not end at once. There were surges in the mass, shouts and clashes, but more spaces opened up, revealing the terrible cost.

As the battle sounds below diminished, and I could hear Lasva’s breathing. Her gaze was unwavering, even after Ivandred emerged, riding along his forming lines on a new horse, apparently unhurt, though that black coat could very well hide wounds. His helm, encircled by a wreath of black steel, glittered in the light.

“It is time to descend,” the Herskalt said. “Ivandred desired me to educate you both as much as I was able, and I trust I have done so. You now have a better understanding of what is at stake.”

Lasva said, “Yes. I thank you.” She looked away then back. “Do we walk, or will you bring us via magic?”

The Herskalt did not answer, but shifted us again, without painful effect or apparent effort.

Lasva and I found ourselves alone in the middle of our camp, where all around us purposeful activity was carried out: wounded to certain tents, from which groans and cries of pain issued; the dead were laid out in the center of camp, their coats neat, their weapons and helms at hand; horse pickets in a long line, busy with people tending them, everywhere laboring to bring order after the horrible destruction.

Lasva made straight for Ivandred, who was mud and blood spattered from boots to eyebrows, his hair clotted. He sent a bloodshot look our way, then said, “I must see to the worst hurt.”

Lasva joined him. They walked together from cot to cot, or from bedroll to bedroll. No one had prepared me for the stenches attendant on mortally wounded flesh. The king stopped by each wounded warrior who was well enough to perceive him. Lasva reached down to smooth pain-furrowed brows, to touch straining fingers. When steaming cups of green kinthus were brought around, the fumes heady, she helped to
steady heads and hands so that the elixir might mask pain, even though it did not restore rent flesh or shattered bone.

Ivandred stopped the healer, who protested hoarsely that he “dare not talk,” then explained rapidly that one of his colleagues was dead and the other lay in the tent behind us with a cracked skull. Half his prentices were away with the skirmishers, and half of those left also were wounded.

Without saying anything to anyone I disengaged from Ivandred and Lasva and followed the man to his next cot. At first I carried freshly steeped cups of green kinthus to the wounded, who—when the pain elixir relaxed them—were then tended. I listened as the healer performed his spells. Though the more complicated spells were beyond me, I quickly grasped how to keep loosened teeth in the head and how to secure a bone once the fracture had been set, so that it may be safely bandaged. This spell I performed over and over, as Ivandred went out to preside over the Disappearing of the Dead. As I worked, I heard the mournful rise and fall of the
Hymn to the Fallen
. Was it echoing faintly from the hills, or did the sound carry from the Olavairans? The idea that they sang the same song struck me as hard as that first brutal smash.

It was very late when, at last, the worst were seen to and the wounded lay in the pain-free haze of kinthus. I slipped away to seek Anhar, who would know where our tent was, but just as I was crossing the square between the lazaretto and cook tents, Anhar herself appeared. She scudded across the square, blue-black braids swinging like bell ropes, her Colendi gait out of place in a war camp. “I have been seeking you! Come, Emras.”

Ivandred’s tent was larger than anyone else’s. From its sparse, collapsible furnishings, it was clear that this was where he held his war councils. I stepped inside, then almost rocked back at the strong smell of the Marloven warriors. No courtier would have stepped in personal proximity to another in such a state, but Lasva sat on the pillow behind the low table with the huge unrolled map, as composed as if she sat in the queen’s formal parlor with aromatic breezes wafting through.

As always, the light came from one source, throwing shadows onto the tent walls, and as always the runners were oblivious as they moved about efficiently. Ivandred was issuing orders, and the runners vanished one by one, as Lasva listened in silence.

“… might try to rally at the riverside in the next day or two. At least that is probably what the old fool is planning, but keep the skirmishers at the ready. Strike whenever you see an advantage,” he said to the last runner, who struck his fist to his chest and ducked out of the tent.

Leaving the three of us alone. Lasva said, “Ivandred.”

Exhausted as he was, his dry, cracked lips twitched in a brief smile at her pronunciation of his name. He opened his palm toward her.

“Please give me a week before you commence your war again.”

“What?”

Lasva repeated herself with clear enunciation, “Please give me a week before you recommence this war. I intend to negotiate a treaty of peace, if I can.”

Ivandred stared at her as if she had begun speaking in a language he had never heard. I know I stared, my emotions a flood of relief, of anxiety.
Oh send her, send her
, I thought.

His lips parted, and he blinked rapidly, then drew his grimy sleeve across his face with one hand as he reached for the cup his runner had set down earlier. “I do not understand.”

Lasva open her hands. “Do you want this war?”

“Of course I do not want it,” he said impatiently, then he drew breath. When he spoke again, his tone was even, but with an undertone of question.

I clasped my hands tight, for all my training had imbued me with the importance of the First Rule. My mind bloomed with questions as Lasva said, “I know nothing of war, as you are well aware. But one thing we Colendi are trained in is negotiation. Let me go talk to this jarl, or king, and offer whatever terms you think best, and let me see if I can bring an end to this death and destruction.”

Ivandred shook his head. “There is no negotiating with the old snake. I tried. My father tried. He will agree to anything to your face, and slither off to do exactly what he wants as soon as you are safely away.”

“You insist on killing him?” she asked, her eyes narrowing.

His palm turned up. “I only insist when someone comes at me intending to kill me. But I find it strange, your reasoning. I think it your customs that I do not understand. For Marlovens, it’s a mercy to die if you lose. To be spared leaves you with a life of dishonor. In Colend, you said the duels are fought with wit. But if you lose, do you not see scorn in all eyes for your weakness?”

Lasva’s fan made a complicated swoop and swirl, one he could not interpret. What he saw was her shiver. “Our cruelty is not with steel, yes, but we too can be cruel. It took me a lifetime to comprehend it. But we also learn the art of compromise, which means leaving both sides with honor. I think… I think I know enough to try to achieve it. I want to try. What about the man’s son?”

“He’s long dead. Mestan, his grandson, was sent against me today. When I left him, he was alive but barely.” His brow furrowed. “There is his sister.” His tone had changed, as if a new idea had occurred. “Nanjir, who will be in command of Olavair while her grandfather is in the field. I’ve only met her twice, but I found her to be straightforward.”

“Then let me go under a white flag and talk to her. Please do not object with observations that I might be captured or killed. I know. That is why I suggest taking Emras with me. If I cannot talk myself out of a fraught situation, then she can take us away by magic. But at least let me try. In this, perhaps, I can attempt to be a gunvaer, instead of playing the role of one.”

I could see that Ivandred hated the idea of her riding into danger. He looked from her to me and back again, frowned at the map, then tapped his forefinger on the stylized castle labeled Yvanavar. Then he lifted his head. “If you’ll take a couple of my people as runners.”

Lasva clasped her hands under her chin and bowed over them. “I would be glad of their company and of their guidance. When would it be best to leave?”

He blinked rapidly again, then said, “What would be best, and what would suit you might be different. Leaving under cover of darkness would be the safest, but I would not have you go without rest.”

“I have rested enough. I was once used to dancing all night until dawn. I have not exerted myself today, except in spirit. I do not think I could sleep.”

He moved suddenly, taking her in his arms with such force and desperation that I withdrew from the tent. Tired as I was, relief made me giddy. If Lasva could make peace, then this horrible fighting would end, and perhaps with it the question of my making magic for war.

L

And I could not rest when at last we stopped, because I felt obliged to make transfer tokens for Lasva, Lnand, and Keth, as I was as yet unable to transfer more than one person at a time.

Lasva spent time bent over the thick book of Hadand-Gunvaer’s girlhood letters, as we shared a lamp. She pored over the girlish scrawl, fighting yawn after yawn. Once, I glanced over her shoulder and a surge of pity arose in me when I saw a long page of boring details about horses, dogs, cats, marmots, and the different flight patterns of falcons. On the facing page there appeared to be interminable descriptions of war games. But Lasva stuck grimly to her task.

Lnand and Keth traded guarding and scouting. It seemed they never slept; one was always awake when at last I shut my eyes and already up and doing when I woke after scant sleep.

I was grateful for summer. The moon’s light was a great aid—that and the lancers’ skills. Though we’d left the battle zone within a day or so,
we were not out of danger, for we traveled ever deeper into enemy territory.

Our first encounter with Olavairans was on the fifth day, subsequent to a discussion between the Marlovens and Lasva, who insisted we not take Nanjir Olavair by surprise. “In a negotiation, you want to preserve…” She turned my way. “How would we translate
melende
? Call it honor. We try to preserve our own honor, of course, but not at the expense of another. We must not travel by stealth, at this point. Give her time to anticipate our arrival.”

Lnand and Keth did not hide their doubt, but they didn’t argue, either. They had all their weapons at hand, which made them look very fierce indeed. My worry about war had shifted entirely to worry about what was going to happen when we encountered the Olavairans—if we’d be able to transfer before they shot arrows at us.

The encounter came at last one morning, when we rounded a hill full of roaming sheep and came face to face with a party of guards who wore sky blue tunics over their battle clothing. They were young and, until they saw us, were laughing and joking. The sight of Lnand and Keth stiffened them into wariness in a heartbeat. I watched all those gazes travel up the lances to the white pennants tied onto each, and suppressed the weird flutter of laughter behind my ribs, even as I clutched my token in my damp fingers.

Lasva said in her soft, melodious accent, “I am Lasthavais-Gunvaer of Marloven Hesea. I request an interview with Nanjir Olavair.” And she held up a ribbon tied scroll.

They gazed in astonishment, and from one of them came the hissed word, “Assassin.”

Lnand gave a laugh and squashed it into a peculiar hiccup.

The patrol leader eyed us, chewing his lip, then spoke a curt word, and the patrol surrounded us. Lnand and Keth stiffened, reins looped loosely around a clip, hands to weapons.

“Disarm yourselves,” the patrol leader commanded.

“We never lay down our weapons except by order or in truce.” Keth’s deep voice was flat with warning.

“We are here to propose peace,” Lasva said encouragingly. “Would you honor me by showing me the way to Nanjir Olavair?”

The patrol leader looked between Lasva and our escort. I have recorded my conversation with Lasva about authority. Here was a situation that illustrated the dilemma. Whether or not they recognized her name, it was clear that she had little authority here. Their attention was
all on Lnand and Keth. Authority lay in the Lancers’ reputation as well as their powerful presence.

Lasva said, “We will not attack you.” She brandished her scroll again. “I am here to discuss a treaty with Nanjir Olavair.”

They reacted on the word “treaty,” some surprised, others exchanging glances. One repeated the word softly.

“We will take you,” said the patrol leader, in the dubious tone of one who would just as soon dump the problem into someone else’s lap. “Follow.”

None of them approached Lnand or Keth, nor did they speak to them. I could not tell if we were prisoners or envoys; I believe we started out the first in all but name. I also believe that the patrol did not attempt to disarm Lnand or Keth only because they wanted reinforcements first.

Lasva modified her horse’s gait so that she rode next to the patrol leader. She asked his name and then began to comment admiringly about the flowering trees we passed, which had been planted as some kind of border marker. She commented favorably on the distant mountains to the north, purple and hazy on the horizon. The color of the sky, the scents on the wind, even the fine road were all given their due. I could see little signs of impatience in some of the patrol, and one made a comment in which I heard the word
witless
. Lasva certainly did chatter, in her pleasing accent, sometimes making courtly gestures with the scroll so that the ribbons fluttered.