Banner of the Damned (36 page)

“So the suitors are showing up,” Hatahra said, as Lasva joined her and Davaud. “Kholaver of Bren has been prowling around impatiently, as I told you. Now I hear that Hathian of Sarendan is on his way. And here is the mysterious Marloven.”

No reaction from her sister. Lasva seemed lost in reverie.

Hatahra tried again. “Somehow I did not expect a royal suitor all the way from the barbarian west. And a descendant of Elgar the Fox, no less.”

“Elgar the Fox,” Lasva repeated. The name made no sense at first, then she said doubtfully, “The pirate in history?”

Hatahra leaned forward, her brows beetling. “So says the legend. But we will deal in facts. The single thing I know about the Marlovens is that one of their kings, perhaps an ancestor of this very prince, is the one
whose threat to join the Enaeraneth caused our own ancestor, Mathias the Magnificent, to think better of bringing his empire of peace to that part of the world.”

“You judge the Marlovens ill because of that?” Lasva asked, surprised.

“I do not,” her sister rejoined crisply. “I would be a fool to hold against anyone a defense of their homeland. My point is this. This king—perhaps his ancestor—returned Mathias’s peace offering with a warning that Marlovens do not negotiate, though the Enaeraneth might. We have
that
exchange reported by a herald scribe, kept in the royal archive. I’ve seen it. However, it was centuries ago. Maybe they are more reasonable now.”

When Lasva bowed, vouchsafing no answer, Hatahra said in a different voice, more speculative, “Did you meet this Marloven prince in Sartor?”

And Hatahra saw it again: the catch of breath, the widening of pupils. Lasva, for once, was not aware of her outer response, which amazed Hatahra and Davaud.

Lasva was only aware of the quickening of her heartbeat. “We did not meet to speak. I only glimpsed him once or twice on the river road,” she said.

“Yet the city is suddenly talking about ancient pirates as if they’d sailed their ships up the Ym into town. It’s the illustrious history of this man’s country that is now the most popular thing. I understand The Slipper has abandoned their current slam at us to mount a new rendition of
Jaja the Pirate Slayer
. And I hear some of the younger girls are wearing a new fashion, shades of amber and maple in layered mantles on their gowns, called a fox ruff. Is this coincidence?”

Lasva was genuinely puzzled. “I don’t know. That is, my scribe did mention something about a scroll, and Elgar the Fox. But that was before you summoned me home by magic transfer.” She did not have to add that that was nearly three weeks ago, and she’d been sequestered in her suite ever since.

“This new fashion has sprung up in the city over the past five or six days. What was that about your scribe?” Hatahra asked, and at Lasva’s bewildered reaction, used her fan to dismiss the matter. “I have an idea.”

She reached for the bell-pull that would summon a page, then paused. “Before I investigate further, let me ask you if yon Marloven prince is someone you wish to acknowledge formally as a suitor? If no one has met him, then we don’t know, after all, if he’s even less appealing than that young hum from Bren, whom we must tolerate if we’re to honor
our treaties with his father. We have no treaties, no embassies, nothing, with these Marlovens. That gives us the freedom of response.”

Lasva drew in a deep breath, and once again she was back at the riverside inn, weary, dreading another long night of joyless music—and looked straight into those startling winter-blue eyes. “What have you in mind?”

Hatahra said, “To snap my fingers under Thias Altan’s nose. He’s the leader of the ducal faction, not Gaszin. They’re trying to get back at me for smashing the Gaszin marriage alliance with Alarcansa. Except for Thias, who’s pushing me because he can,” she added with a thin smile.

Lasva flicked her fan over the lower part of her face in Surprise then flipped it, indicating the opposite.

Hatahra flashed a grin. “If we were, as publicly as possible, to offer this martial Marloven a royal alliance and request him to aid us against the Chwahir, it might undercut Thias and his allies at a stroke. If the Marloven does, indeed, know something about military matters, Davaud could all but promise him the supreme command, and watch our dukes fume. Nothing they can do, if half the servants they’re stuffing into old armor to fulfill their ancient obligations are still straggling this way with lagging steps, while the dukes try to force me to pay to equip an entire army.”

Lasva smiled. Her thoughts veered from memory of that hapless King Jurac to Kaidas, then recoiled from Kaidas to Ivandred’s pale eyes. Attraction and mystery.

If he agreed, they would meet. Speak. Would either mystery or attraction survive their first conversation?

Her heart sped. “Do it, then.”

W

Over the last two days, whispers had spread through the palace faster than a fire. All of court and everyone else who could find an excuse to be there ranged on either side.

Hatahra watched that straight, slender figure with the fearless pale gaze, the callused hands, the hard-heeled stride so unlike the sinuous cat-grace of her courtiers, and gloated inwardly at this challenge to her court.

The young man came directly to the foot of her throne. He did not bow but stood with his booted feet slightly apart and struck his right fist against his heart.

“Welcome to Colend, Prince Ivandred of Marloven Hesea,” she stated in the clear, steady cadence that made it easiest for the heralds up in the left-hand gallery to take down every word spoken. “You are welcome as friend and as an ally to be trusted in time of need.”

Again he struck his fist against his heart, a gesture she found strange and intimidating, then he cooperatively spoke the single line she, Davaud, and the Chief Herald had wrangled over all night:

“You have only to state your need, and I will prove that trust.”

He said it clearly in that clipped accent. What did the words mean to him?

She lifted her voice once more. “When can you be ready to ride to the aid of Colend against the threat of Chwahir invasion?”

“Now.” He smiled briefly.

As whispers susurrated outward, Hatahra almost laughed. Oh, this little drama would be talked of for days. Maybe years.

She turned to her consort, who stood behind the throne in a splendid battle tunic modeled on a gold-leaved illustration the heralds had found in the Archive. She thought he looked quite distinguished, so tall and sturdy with the long blue tunic worked with golden stars down its front, the gleam of chain mail at the gapped sides, his rich sword belt and gem-studded rapier. These were artifacts from the Lirendi treasury, along with the splendid shield, half as tall as he was, with the Lirendi lily in the old-fashioned crowned dagger shape that furniture artisans had spent all night silvering afresh, then adding ten layers of cobalt to deepen the blue. It still smelled faintly of lacquer.

He looked noble and imposing, but not as… martial as this young fellow in his plain black, relieved only by the golden belt buckle at his narrow waist and the long knife he wore at his side. If he wore chain mail, it was hidden beneath that tight-chested, long-skirted coat.

“Are you ready to ride, Lord Davaud?”

“I am, your majesty,” Davaud replied, the sonorous drawl pitched to be heard in the gallery where the scratching of quills could be made out over the profound silence below.

“Then I bid you go. Protect our kingdom,” she commanded.

Lord Davaud stepped down from the daïs to Ivandred’s side. The Marloven turned, coat skirts flaring, and matched pace with the consort. Together they walked out of the throne room to the great courtyard, where the courtly carriages had all been sent away, and the only people permitted were those ready to ride with the consort—including twenty-four Marlovens, still and straight on their exquisite horses.

As many courtiers as could crowded out behind the grim-faced Duke Mathias Altan of Altan.

The court peered past the milling herald-guards in their old-fashioned armor and hastily sewn (or age-green, attic-resurrected) battle tunics, waiting in disorder next to the still double column of horsemen all dressed in black, as Prince Ivandred mounted, then raised a gloved hand. One of his boys (
were
they all boys? That one next to the redhead had a
womanish turn to her throat) blew a stirring air on a trumpet, a sound unheard for centuries. Twenty-four lances with black and gold fox face pennants rose at exactly the same angle. Then the prince’s horse leaped into a gallop, tail high, and his twenty-four followers wheeled and raced after, the columns strictly side by side, horses nose to tail, the riders so easy on their backs the racing enthusiasts among the court felt their hearts seize.

Behind them galloped Lord Davaud’s riders in a mass, borrowed weapons and armor clattering and jingling.

The court turned away, everyone talking. The queen stood alone on the top step between the massive doors.

The Duke of Altan rubbed his heavy jowl, then indicated by sign that he wished to speak. Hatahra gestured permission, and he stepped up beside her. “All right, Tahra, you win.”

“Try to catch them, Thias.” She breathed a laugh.

Servants found their own vantages from which to observe history being made. The favored view was from the roof of the carriage storage building, where Kivic sat, exchanging joking comments with co-workers. One raised a tankard. “Ah-yedi! Look at those foreigners ride! Wouldn’t you love to get your hands on their horses?”

“You won’t get within sniffing distance of them,” scoffed a stableman from Kivic’s other side. “Those Marlovens pull a sword if you so much as touch one of their hoof-picks.”

“Ye
di!
They do all their own grooming? Imagine one of our fine lords knowing what a hoof-pick is, never mind what to do with it,” offered a third, to knowing chuckles.

The dust had begun to settle behind the riders when Kivic stretched and yawned. “Duke Pinch-Copper Altan looks like he’s going to snap his fingers for his saddle at last.”

Genial curses met this announcement. They slid off the roof onto the bales of fresh-harvested hay and dispersed.

Kivic eased away. In his locked room, he wrote:
My liege, the crown is sending a force east. Among them, twenty-four Marloven boys and girls as honor guard. There may be a more substantial number out of sight. Rumors are wild about a Marloven army, though no specifics.

Jurac Sonscarna waited a day’s ride north of Alsais, well outside the range of Hatahra’s magic wards. He frowned at Kivic’s message. He and
his force had crossed the border one by one, dressed as day laborers. There was no disguising their pale Chwahir faces, but this close to the mountains, Kivic had assured his king that Chwahir were often hired on the cheap for harvesting. They had to make certain no one saw them en masse—something that would have to be addressed later. For now, Jurac waited for news of his princess. Kivic had only to find out where she was, then he could act.

But Marlovens? Even if each of the twenty-four fought with the prowess of an Elgar of the legends, they could not defeat a thousand marchers massed up in the eastern pass, waiting on his word to engage the queen’s fan-waving fops, and make them all look like the fools they were.

But if there was a Marloven army on the move somewhere, masked by the mass of courtiers flowing toward Alsais…. Kivic must find out.

Jurac threw the paper into the fire. Kivic now had five spies out on the western road below Alsais, along which the courtiers were straggling. How long could they hide a traveling princess—or an army?

Davaud soon regretted having chosen to ride.