Banner of the Damned (84 page)

He knew that Danrid would be unable to resist trying.

The dinner was torture. He forced himself to patience, to give time to each jarl and jarlan. But the relief was physical when at last it was over, and Marlovair had reported, and at last, at last, he was alone with Lasva as she nursed the child in her chamber.

And though he’d begun their relationship determined to acknowledge the Colendi freedoms, he could not prevent himself from whispering, “Make the ring vow with me, Lasva.”

She was taken completely by surprise.

“In the vow,” he continued, “it says, ‘I will cleave to you until I am taken beyond life in this world.’ I will never want another woman.”

She said, “But what about Tdiran?”

His hand flicked out, repelling. “Old friend.”

That moment is as indelible in my mind as this ink on my defense. For I was there. I’d slipped to the other side of the room, not directly behind him—he did not like people behind him—but on the periphery of his vision. She could see me, but I was part of the furniture. Her attention was on him, as their fingers met. His profile so intent, hers so still.

Then she said “I will,” as softly as he, so as not to disturb the babe, who was now making small noises.

He let out a breath of relief.

She whispered, “What is your custom? Must we do it on a festival day, or Midsummer? That is when royalty in Colend has customarily made vows of fidelity, which they then renew each year.”

“No. I will send the herald in charge of the Montredaun-An vault. There will be rings to fit us among those my ancestors left. Ring vows can be private. Have nothing to do with kingdom matters.”

The ring exchange was held the next day. The only witnesses were Haldren Marlovair, several of Ivandred’s personal guard, and Pelis, Anhar, and I for Lasva. It was a quick ceremony, in fact so quick you could
scarcely call it a ceremony in the sense that Colendi understand the word.

As they stood there before a roaring fire, he in his warrior gear, weapons glinting, and she in plain robes of cotton wool in his colors, the ruddy light on their faces made their emotions clear enough: he so ardent and so intense as he gazed down into her eyes and spoke barely above a whisper, only for her to hear. She, looking up, her profile the smooth courtly mask that first appeared the summer after Kaidas left to marry Carola.

Her voice was soft, and distinct, and I, who had spent so long listening to every word she spoke and trying to descry the emotions behind it, heard not ardency but determination. Each word was an act of will.

“N

The Herskalt gave me a nod of acknowledgment.

“Before I depart, Lasva has given Anhar and me permission to visit home for a week. I can make the transfer tokens, so we are spared the usual prohibitive cost.”

“True,” the Herskalt said. “But is it wise to leave the kingdom?”

I gazed at him in surprise. “Is there something amiss that I do not see?”

“Remember our discussion about the Sartorans and your unorthodox training? This has been a problem for Marloven mages for generations.”

“Ah-ye!” I exclaimed. “I did not consider that. But in Colend I am known as a scribe.”

“But you will be visiting friends and family, yes? Do you trust them not to speak about your new calling? If they do, and word gets around as it does, Queen Hatahra could summon your hosts.”

I’d told the Herskalt that I wished to visit my parents, but I meant to spend most of my time with Birdy. I longed to tell him everything—to
regain the free exchange whose preciousness and importance I only understood when it was withdrawn. So the Herskalt’s words startled me.

“Why should my queen summon him?”

The pronoun slipped out, but he did not remark on it. “Because the Sartoran Council will probably send an emissary to your queen if any word gets out about your studies. You do know how scribes share news and talk.”

I thought uneasily of Greveas and the ring on my toe, though I had done nothing wrong.

“Look at it this way,” he said. “Would you put your friend in the position of having to harbor your secret from his queen, and from the Sartorans?”

“I think he would gladly protect me, once I explain the reasons,” I protested. “Birdy and I trust one another.”

“He trusts you not to speak or do harm. Try to comprehend the difference between that and keeping secrets that transgress against guild rules.”

“I intend no harm, and we trust one another to be open.”

“You will tell him about the dyr, then?”

“The dyr! Should I not?”

“Don’t scribes have trade secrets?” He smiled. “Knowledge is important, on that we are agreed. Finding out the truth gives you greater understanding. You need that, as a mage.”

“I understand that, but—”

“Perhaps, at this juncture in your studies, you need the truth of experience, compared to your own perceptions.” He gestured, and there was the dyr again. “Think about your friend, this time.”

I stared at the gleaming object in his hand, and my desire to see through Birdy’s eyes—to see myself—was abrupt and irresistible.

“Shut your eyes and select a memory shared by you and your friend. Perhaps a crucial moment, one wherein you had doubts about someone else’s motivation. It need not be negative. In fact, I think it would be better if you chose a situation that did not make you angry or defensive.”

My mind reverted to that encounter when Birdy left for Chwahirsland. “The moment I want to see is one when I was a teen. It had no political importance, and there was no anger or threat to me.”

“I think such a memory an astute choice: thus you will learn to compare your own perceptions of an event with others’ real perceptions—not what they want you to hear about said events. Or what you want to believe.”

Guided by his whispered words, I watched myself through Birdy’s eyes on that day just before he left for Chwahirsland.

I did not record this memory of his when it happened because I think it is better placed here. Seldom is it pleasant to see oneself through others’ eyes, but in this one instance it was so poignantly sweet to be looking on my young self—my round face so unmarked by time and experience that it looked to me like unbaked dough. But to him it was dear. I had to laugh as he tried to find a hint of curve in my plain white linen robe, but my moment of humor was rueful, almost painful, as he struggled not to reveal his hopes, and his ardency.

He used his juggling to distract himself, to hide his sweaty hands (though he had come straight from the baths, his hair still wet). What a disaster! There I was, pompous as only the young can be as I scolded him for juggling at the table.

The diving of bold birds is an apt comparison to the swooping of your silken bags
, I said, oh, so self-righteous, my voice much higher when heard through someone else’s ears.
But if I have to point out the analogy then it is clumsy.

I’m the clumsy one. It’s just that… we leave tomorrow for Chwahirsland,
he said in an agony of hope and fear.

And there I sat, my lack of concern killing him inside as I said,
I thought you wished to go.

But… Chwahirsland,
he said hopelessly, and there were all the dreams he had of me missing him, of me opening my arms to a first kiss. Nothing. All I offered was a platitude, my disinterest plain, and his sorrow and humiliation hurt me so much that I fell out of the memory, my head aching as if I’d someone had taken a hammer to my skull.

“Drink this.” Something cool and bitter was pressed to my lips. I swallowed, choked, forced another swallow.

Very quickly the pain receded, replaced by a cool fog that kept my thoughts at a distance.

“You have not only experienced the truth, you have also discovered the danger of personal exploration with the dyr,” the Herskalt said. “We all have done the same. Mages have to learn to disengage emotionally. Do you see that now?”

“Yes.” I had difficulty finding my voice. “What did I drink?”

“Kinthus.”

“You had it ready?”

He smiled. “Mage students at the higher levels often face this dilemma. It is expected.”

The conflicting emotions were still there, behind that fog. I couldn’t feel them, as I couldn’t feel the headache, but I knew they were there as I knew the headache was still present by the pulse of heartbeat behind my eyes. “I don’t think I can do that again. Not to him.”

The Herskalt inclined his head. “The knowledge we gain from such sessions becomes difficult to hide from those we are close to.”

I forced my lips to move. It took an effort. “We are told that the Old Sartorans talked mind to mind. How did they prevent that sense of trespass?”

“By using mental shields,” he said. “It is very much like learning to ward scrying, except you are not using a glass as a focus. It is inside your head, reinforced by magic.” He smiled. “Some are warded from the outside, as I have already explained about Danrid Yvanavar. If you follow the typical pattern to the next step, you will be tempted to look at my experiences, if you did not already know that I was shielded long ago.”

For the first time, it occurred to me that he might have used the dyr to delve into
my
memories. I was afraid to ask if it was true. Instead I asked, “Will you teach me that mental shield?”

His smile deepened as if he knew my thought. I reassured myself that what I felt was probably what everyone did. His voice was noncommittal as he said, “You will learn it when your studies reach that point. So let us address your progress with the castle wards.”

I did not go to Colend.

I was in the staff room when Anhar returned from her visit. On her arm was a basket full of delicious Colendi pastries. I was startled to see her hair dyed that light ashy brown again.

Pelis raised her brows. “Anhar, why that terrible color? Or is it all the rage?”

“It was what my sister wanted,” Anhar said, flushing.

Pelis paid no attention. She was trying to see into the basket. “You brought us lily breads! And lemon-cream cakes? I can smell the vanilla bean!”

Anhar pulled the basket from Pelis’s eager fingers. “These are for Emras. Birdy and I packed them together.”

Pelis turned to me, and of course I had to say, “We shall share them.”

Anhar went on to describe, in detail, the newest plays in Alsais.

The next day, her hair was back to its natural hue.

Scarcely a week after Anhar’s return, came two surprising letters.

First, one from my parents. I’d corresponded with them ever since making myself a scrollcase, but I never mentioned magic. Our letters were entirely about the family doings, irrelevant to this record until now. On my Name Day they sent me congratulatory notes and a gold piece, and Tiflis also remembered, writing a long screed about how busy and successful she was, but I did not hear from my brother at all.

I did not know what to make of Olnar’s silence after I’d written on his Name Day. I had hesitated about writing to him on mine, for I did not want to tell him what I was doing (I knew what he would say) and yet I did not want to lie. So what had we to talk about?

Here is the letter I received from my parents.