Banner of the Damned (89 page)

We had two weeks of the year left when at last we rode into the courtyard of the royal castle.

It seemed both strange and curiously familiar—as if I’d been gone a lifetime, or only a few hours. Nothing had changed. That impression altered the moment I rounded the stair to the Residence part of the castle, for instead of the ubiquitous smell of dusty stone and old meals, my nose encountered a dank smell that startled me: the long stone hallway had been smoothed over with plaster of a soft gray, so pale it reminded me of moonlight. Midway along, several young men and women were busy—artists, creating huge stylized frescoes of running animals, swooping raptors, all in shades of gray and silver overlapping.

The doors to the queen’s chamber opened, and runners emerged. Gislan, the tall, somber woman who oversaw the communications between Lasva, her staff, and the female guards, appeared. She touched her fingers to her chest, then said, “I will show you your new chambers.”

One cannot say that Marlovens do anything in great state, but her pace seemed deliberate as she walked me the rest of the way down the long hall to the double doors leading to Andaun-Sigradir’s tower.

There was no lingering scent of old man sweat. The plain stone had been scrubbed clean, the oddly shaped main salon with its many doors rendered as comfortable as possible by an astonishing sight: candlesticks of blue crystal, shaped like birds; tables and bed covered in garlanded damask of pale blue; everything straight from Colend. I wondered if these were the furnishings that Lasva would not let herself possess.

I had glimpsed the bed in a bedchamber, a single slit window deep set in the massive walls letting in a modicum of natural light. Two more chambers lay off the main one in the other direction, one a workroom, the other full of the books Andaun had left behind.

I ran my fingers along spines and scrolls: most of them old, careful records of castle and kingdom renewal spells, twin to what I had made on my journey. A few books of magic… but those on the upper levels appeared to be long-unused elementary spells, books, or experiments. Nothing important. Of course he would have taken those with him. I did not look at the bottom shelves, tightly packed and perfunctorily dusted.

“Thank you,” I said to Gislan, though I knew whose orders lay behind the labors. “Will you show me the way to the Chief Herald?”

I knew where the heralds’ wing was—beyond the Great Hall—but I had never stepped inside. It was a bewildering maze of narrow corridors and rooms. Gislan left me outside a chamber with a stream of runners coming and going. The old Chief Herald was talking to a circle of heralds. When he saw me, he stopped talking, and took the scroll that I had
labored over during my long year of travel. By now it was sadly rumpled and smudged in a way that would have gained me deportment marks from the Senior Scribes—who would never have imagined a scribe, much less a mage, traveling and living as I had.

He made no comment on the state of it, but read rapidly, his brow furrowed.

Then he gave me an approving eyebrow lift. “This is exactly as I would have done it myself. Thank you, Sigradir.”

“Of course,” I said and departed, wondering if the peacock had grown a feather or two.

I headed to the queen’s chambers, to find Lasva approaching from the opposite hall. Though she dressed in the Marloven robe, she still moved with the gliding step of a Colendi; her curling dark hair was braided, but she’d twisted it up in a flattering knot, instead of wearing it fastened in loops behind the ears.

“Emras. It is good to see you back.” I noticed she did not say “home,” and wondered if she was aware of the distinction.

I made a full bow and spoke my thanks for the tower room.

“Are you pleased?” she asked.

I praised everything, from the fine Colendi bedding to the furnishings, as she smiled with delight, then I said, “Will the king be expecting me to report?”

“He walked down to the garrison to meet your escort, and they are probably deep in
I did this with my sword
and
that with my arrows
,” Lasva said, leading the way into her suite. “Do you like what I’m doing in the hall? I got the idea from Darchelde. I finally figured out why the Marlovens are so resistant to art, especially when it is combined with comfort. Why they end every discussion with,
what suited my ancestors suits me.
Do you remember the mural in the old palace, how King Martande was depicted so much larger than life?”

“Scribe Halimas told us that it was a symbol of power, and of greatness.”

“I suspect the Marlovens think their ancestors
were
larger than life. All those songs about truly frightful deeds, couched in terms of glory. If they lived in bare stone rooms, it made them stronger. Emras, I think they lived in bare stone rooms because they were learning how to live in castles. It is so clear from Hadand’s letters that they still thought of themselves as traveling people. Their travel furniture was probably sparse when brought from tents inside halls, and maybe stone seemed comforting if you are used to being awoken in the middle of the night
with a sword at your neck. But I seem to be the only one who thinks that our Marlovens now equate comfort with complacency. So I must use all of their symbols of strength and power to create art. And maybe, someday, I can sneak in some comfort.”

She laughed as her hands swooped in great swirls, following the line of an arch-necked horse, and out and up toward a high-flying hawk. “I went through so many designs, and as always Ivandred said, ‘Do whatever you like.’ But I read in Hadand’s records what they thought of the queen’s suite, which sounded lovely and civilized.”

“Queen?”

“Wisthia. Foster-mother to Hadand. You need to read these records, Emras. You will be fascinated, I promise. Anyway, I watched faces as I showed my design around. Lips spoke the Marloven equivalent of soft words, but faces…” She touched her upper lip as she sneered. “They have plenty of honor, but no
melende
. So then I took Kendred to visit Ingrid-Jarlan in spring, as I think I wrote to you, but I didn’t tell you I was making sketches. And here is the result in the hall. I had Pelis watch from a vantage after the first set was done. No one said much, but she told me that people slowed, and looked, and mostly their gazes were approving. As long as the symbols suggest powerful creatures, ah-ye! Then art is permissible.” Her lips curled with mirth.

We were interrupted by an unprecedented noise that at first I could not identify, being unused to children. The prince entered with the peculiar stumping, tippy-toe gait of baby turning toddler. He waved his arms, exclaiming nonsense as drool threaded down his dimple of a chin. He was a sturdy child, his eyes wide and blue as the sky. His feathery curls of hair were as light as ducks’ down, though underneath his hair was just beginning to grow in thicker, promising a darker color.

The sound of that babble caused Lasva to whirl around and clasp her hands. Her attention arrowed to the child as if nothing else existed. To my amazement, she began to babble back in a high voice, causing the child to laugh a joyous, slightly husky sound that reminded me of Lasva’s laugh when I first met her.

Marnda appeared, cooing and clucking like an old hen. As the boy lurched from object to object, grasping things in both hands and attempting to gnaw on them, Marnda gently disengaged each candlestick, pen, book, and tasseled table cover, then she tried to guide him to some of the toys she carried in a large pocket of her robe. But the boy looked at those with disinterest.

He tugged at Lasva’s robe. She sat down and pulled him into her lap
as she said over his head to me, “One thing that I have learned from Hadand’s letters is the importance of letting the child meet other children in play. I never had that. From as far back as I can remember, court children were introduced into my presence in their best clothes, and we all behaved impeccably, or we would be whisked out to sit on the ponder chair.”

In spite of her caressing fingers, the child seemed to be aware of her attention on something else besides him and began to fret loudly. Lasva bent her head, kissed him soundly, and murmured to him in a cooing voice.

Kendred put up his fat arms and stood in her lap, reaching for her braids. He yanked hard on one as he tried to climb her. Tears sprang in her eyes, but she gently disengaged his fingers, then Marnda swooped down and snatched him up, saying, “You must treat mama with respect. You hurt mama. Time for the ponder chair.”

As soon as Marnda said the words
ponder chair
, the little prince began to howl as loudly as any of us Colendi had, a sound that diminished rapidly as he was carried off to the nursery.

Lasva tucked up the loosened strands of hair with one finger as she said, “Ivandred would have us strike Kendred’s hands when he does that. He says that that is the Marloven way. He says that the boy will get rough handling in the Academy, and that Kendred must get used to it as soon as he can. Ivandred says, How will the boy survive the first day? But then all he would tell me is that they have to pass the gate.” She looked worried. “What does that mean? Hadand’s letters only described what she saw of her brother at what they called ‘callover,’ when they line up of a morning.”

I told her what I had read early on in the Fox record: that the boys had run down a row of other boys who slapped and kicked lightly at them, after which they all have their hair cut so that they looked the same.

Her brow cleared. “Well if that is all there is!” She took a turn about the room. “There is so much that I cannot control here. So much that they say we peacocks cannot understand.” She touched her lips in the moth kiss. “But I will never accept violence as a way of life. I am struggling to understand how it is necessary for defense, if others come at you with violent intent. And it has happened in this very castle. So I understand when Ivandred tells me I cannot knock out windows to let in more light. I must work with awkward spaces as I can, using a mirror here or there to reflect what light comes in.” She pointed inside a small, narrow
chamber with a wall mirror that reflected the two slit windows. “And living things.” She pointed at potted plants. “I had a lot more of them in summer, which brightened things considerably and made the air much fresher. But there was not enough light, except at the very height of summer. These are the only ones left. I will try with different varieties come spring. Say the word, and I will have some put in your tower.”

I spoke my thanks, and she said with a facility that made me think her words rehearsed, “It is good to have you back. Emras, I know that when you first came to me I regarded you somewhat as a living doll, an extension of myself, who would share all my interests, talk to me when I want to talk. Though I would never want to emulate Hadand’s life—you cannot conceive the barbarity—I concede her wisdom. People have lives outside of one’s own. She knew that from the start. Perhaps she got that from her mother, who was a great woman. If she had lived in Colend, I am convinced there would be statues to her in every town and plays written about her wisdom. Well.” She opened her hands gracefully. “I just want to say how very glad I am that you have become a mage. You have a life outside of mine, but I hope I can still talk to you. I need people to talk to who will not say
yes, gunvaer
, but who will talk back.”

Training formed words about the First Rule. But I kept those back and gave her the assurance that she wanted.

Then she let me go.

I returned to finish acquainting myself with my tower and to arrange my few things in an effort to make the place mine.

Last, I broke the illusory spell in my old window embrasure, and brought to my tower the Lover’s Cup that Lasva had asked me to keep. After a moment’s consideration of hiding places, I put it in my trunk. There seemed to be no danger anymore. Who would know what it was, even if they found it?

I was impatient to get to Darchelde. Three times during my year of travel I’d transferred there to find an empty chamber and a further book of study awaiting me. This new one I copied out—a habit I continued, now that I had my own library.

On this trip to Darchelde the Herskalt was there. The burst of joy nearly matched my happiness on the day Birdy returned from Chwahirsland. To the Herskalt I could confess my triumphant ruse with the stones. I could report on my studies and share the puzzling aspects
of my work with the wards. Most of all, I needed him to comb out the tangle of my thoughts, as our counselors had done for us scribes.

He listened to it all, then said, “I was very pleased with your quick and innovative thinking.”

My gratification lasted only a pulse, accompanied as it was by the memory of what had happened to those people. “The First Lancers killed them, I fear. I did not want to ask.”

“Why not? Do you think that asking alters the events?”

“Because I feel responsible in part. And yet I know that those warriors could not have harbored any civil intentions toward us.”

“Correct. Once you finished the spells for Totha, you were not only expendable but a danger. If they’d captured you earlier, they probably would have tried to hostage you against Ivandred for treaty purposes, but permitted you to continue doing your magic as the price for your life.” His tone was matter-of-fact.