Banner of the Damned (82 page)

“That would be an excellent place to begin,” the Herskalt conceded. “Were he not warded, as I said.”

“Can the dyr’s magic be warded, then?”

“It can. A very old spell,” he said, flashing a quick smile. “Or, human nature being what it is, the dyr would be in use every day in political circles, would it not?”

“This is the first time I have ever considered the political consequences of this kind of magic,” I said.

“Yes. And I see your ambivalence. Your thinking has been carefully hobbled by years of the Scribes’ First Rule. Promulgated by the Sartoran Mage Council, whose strategy centers on the airy belief that it exists above politics, in order to do good.”

Though his hazel gaze was exactly the same as ever, his voice deepened with irony on the last few words, then resumed an instructive tone. “The Sartoran Mage Council has not changed its method of teaching for centuries. Any system is, understandably, dedicated in part to perpetuating itself. They teach not only magic. As you discovered in your brief conversation with your brother, they successfully alter their students’ views of the world to fit their own. Thus, you have learned more in not
quite a year then your brother did in four. But then their first year is entirely spent on shaping the student’s views and on memorization training. So if you were to discuss your training with your brother—telling him how much you have learned in so little time—it would be human nature for him to feel affront, and to scold you and deem it his duty to report you to the Council.”

I bowed my acquiescence, aware of sharp regret. So there would be no writing to Olnar about magic, at least for a while—at least until I better understood my new place in the world. I’d thought to surprise him with the news of two mages in the family when I wrote on his next Name Day. My gratification would have to wait.

The Herskalt lifted his hand. “Dyr aside, what makes you believe that Danrid Yvanavar harbors perfidious intent?”

I exclaimed, “Was he not behind the war with Olavair? Does he not hate Ivandred and wish to take over his throne?”

“Do you really believe human motivation so simple?” the Herskalt retorted with a humorous glance. Then he said, “Perhaps you need some context. Within living memory of Yvanavar’s older generation—whose bitterness has influenced the succeeding generations—Yvanavar lost its traditional lands to the Faths. What they have now is a small corner of less desirable land.”

“I have gathered that much.”

“Perhaps you do not understand what that means to the man himself. Danrid Yvanavar is two years older than Ivandred. He was, until Ivandred joined the academy, an emerging leader. The Yvanavars have long felt that they had a claim to the throne.”

“Yes, I know that. His family talks of a legitimate claim.”

The Herskalt smiled. “Your irony when you say the word ‘legitimate’ tells me you do not understand how important a justified transfer of power is.”

“Justified because of the accident of inheritance?” I countered. “Yes, we have studied how stability is established through accepted accession, but—”

“But you are about to tell me that Colend’s transfers of power are all peaceful. That shows me you do not understand the importance of Marloven Hesea to Danrid Yvanavar. Imagine yourself raised in his house, believing yourself, as heir, a great leader, because you are quick and strong and on all sides all you get is encouragement and flattery. You are raised to think that accident of birth put Ivandred Montredaun-An in the heirship, but if Ivandred is not strong or smart enough to handle
the challenges of kingship, why should not a better leader, one with equally legitimate claim, lead the Marlovens?”

The Herskalt opened his hands in mimicry of the Colendi gesture for Query. I glimpsed hard calluses across his palms before he put his hands on his knees. “What you do not know—could not know—is that in his striving to better the training of his people, Danrid has of late hired a sword master to train them all—including himself. He recognizes the need for improvement, for the good of the kingdom.”

“This is new to me. Is Ivandred aware?”

“Yes. But he does not know the sword master and probably will not. Danrid will go to great lengths to keep the king from poaching him, is my guess. The point being, this sword master has convinced Danrid, especially after that foolhardy ruse with the Olavairs, that Ivandred is just what Marloven Hesea needs to regain its ancient glory. And so Danrid’s attitude is undergoing considerable alteration, because his loyalty goes first to his people but second to the kingdom.”

“So that fog spell will raise an impenetrable layer of vapor between the two forces,” I said to Ivandred some weeks later. “It doesn’t last very long, and like I say, you have to pace out the place you want to raise it, and say the spell each time, but it should suffice if a party of warriors seems about to attack you. Maybe it will halt them long enough to send a peace party,” I said, and when Ivandred signed that he understood, I said, “And here is my spell for drawing the moisture out of an arrow.”

I demonstrated the spell on an arrow, then broke it between my fingers. “As you can see, it becomes so brittle that it would be useless for shooting.” My secret hope was that this spell would be lead the Marlovens to join the Compact forbidding any weapon that is not wielded in hand—and help take them toward the same place in civilization as the rest of the continent. “The arrow spell has to be used one at a time, and, as you see, you need some proximity, but it could be of use.”

“This is good work, Sigradir,” he said.

“I hope that they will contribute to peace,” was my response.

He gave me that open-palmed gesture that meant assent. “Come spring, you will fulfill my oaths to the kingdom by renewing protection spells.”

I was surprised, for in spite of his “sigradir,” I still thought of myself as a scribe who happened to be studying magic. “What about the Herskalt? Surely he can do these tasks much better than I.”

“Asked him. After my father died. Said he’s an instructor, and his time is already promised. Comes to us because he thinks that you will make a great mage.” He tapped two fingers to his heart in salute to me. “And after a year or so of making reinforcements, you should be expert at it.” He turned away, then back. “Also. Lasva tells me you are still holed up in that servant’s chamber. Why have you not moved into the tower? I gave orders for it to be cleaned out for you, all except the library. That you’ll have to sort out yourself.”

I gazed at him, my first reaction dismay. It wasn’t the moving—I had so few belongings that I could probably carry them all in a single trip. It was… the residue of bad memories of the king? Reluctance to move farther away from Lasva? The sense of permanence that moving implied?

“When you wish,” he said and walked away.

I tried to make time to experiment with healing spells. I knew that there must be training for anything major—I would never risk people’s lives with my experiments. I could help with binding a broken bone, however, if the healer was not in reach, and someone was injured in the stable or in the practice yard at the garrison. I rather liked being summoned to their aid. It made me feel important, and Haldren Marlovair, who had moved into the tower at the north end of the castle (when he was not in the field) always went out of his way to thank me for these extra attentions to his people, the rare times our paths crossed.

This brought us to late autumn and the cold winds that promised winter. The yellow leaves were clattering across the stones when Pelis crept into my room and shook me awake.

My head pounded. I had been up late working at converting the snarl of ward spells to a clear, tight pattern of interlocked wards, which had apparently plunged me into turbulent dreams. It took me a few moments to recover place and time.

“The babe is coming,” Pelis whispered.

I rose and dressed, in case Lasva might need me, though I could not imagine what for.

We had discovered that Marloven custom for birth was different from ours. In Colend—at least, at court—women preferred to experience the effort and physical awkwardness with only personal staff at hand, or a sister if she had one, sometimes with music played from beyond a stout screen, some say to bolster the mother’s spirits and others say to help mask the messy aspects of bringing another life into the world.

The Marlovens, we were told, used to require the family to be there by law, a consequence of the Time of Daughters and subsequent sneaky practices with switching babies. Within the last century that law had been rescinded, so that an entire family might be there only if the parents wished.

But I found it strange to discover Ivandred with Lasva in the birthing room, muddy to the thighs, his hair wind-tousled. Since the last we’d heard he was somewhere in the south, he had obviously transferred straight to us.

He was holding Lasva’s hands, whispering to her as she gazed at the far wall, her face rigid with concentration and, finally, extreme suffering—she, who had experienced so little physical duress. But pain lasted a very short time, and there was the new prince, a red, wriggling mite with a newborn’s misshapen head, his eyes so squinted it was a while before we saw their murky blue.

“Name,” she murmured, barely audible. “It is a boy. What shall be his name?”

“Do you have a preference?” Ivandred’s voice was low and tender.

This surprised me, for in Colend such things are discussed well in advance.

“There have been no men in my family for several generations,” she said. “And as for the famous names—Martande, Lael, Mathias—too many people now wear those names who I don’t particularly wish to remember. What about your family?”

He spoke so promptly it was clear he’d thought about it. “Kendred.
Family name, but far enough back that there are no expectations. Obligations.”

“Kendred. I like the sound of that.” She shifted. “Go, and permit us to be tidied,” Lasva whispered.

Ivandred looked down at himself and smiled. “Not just you.”

Soon a fire stick was warming the clean, orderly room. The babe lay on a soft towel, and Lasva looked tired but content, her hair brushed and braided.

At her request, one of the runners brought in a shallow bowl filled with Sartoran steeped leaf, which gave off a refreshing scent. In Lasva’s hands was a small dish of green kinthus, which the healer had advised her to drink before attempting rest.

Lasva asked me to stay, once she’d been restored to order, the babe in her arms. Everyone else had been sent out.

When Ivandred returned, he wore fresh clothes, and his hands were red from scrubbing. I faded back as he approached the now-neat bedside, but in truth I doubt he would have noticed me if I’d stood on my head and barked like a dog. He knelt down, and reached toward one of those jerking, waving arms. He touched a small hand, the fingers outspread like the petals of starliss, and his eyes gleamed with tears.

“We should talk about Kendred’s Name Day party,” she said.

He glanced up, lips parted.

“We Colendi always celebrate the birth of a baby and acknowledge our Name Days with little gifts until coming of age, and notes thereafter, to remind our beloveds,
I am glad you are here
. I miss that custom and intend to institute it for Kendred.”

“I agree,” he said. “The Herskalt once told me that some of our strife might stem from how little family feel there is, when too many put off having heirs until they are old. My father… you know what happened. Let us have that tradition again.”