Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  Within a few days, I could sit up, eat, and drink; within a day after that I could take care of my own dishes. I also became aware of Marnda’s fretful voice summoning Anhar to other duties. So I took over the task of caring for the severely wounded, which enabled me to ride in the wagon beside them, my knees up under my chin. Anhar appeared with food, always making sure we got ours hot.

  The best part of those long days was when Birdy came. He would sit on one side of me and Anhar on the other, and report on our progress.

  One night Birdy appeared late. I had been lying there with my eyes shut. For a moment we just sat, three tired, grimy people far from the home we’d known and loved. Then he breathed, “Oh, I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I opened my eyes and discovered that he was not talking to me. The campfire light beat over his features, touching his ears that stuck out so appealingly, as he smiled across at Anhar.

  And she smiled back. Then he leaned forward—he was very tall—and their lips met directly over me. When they separated again, their breathing was ragged. They thought I slept, so I closed my eyes again.

  I also considered a strange conversation I’d overheard, or thought I’d overheard, half convinced I’d dreamed it. That healer Ivandred had brought to us—I could not recall for certain the language in which he had said, “We will talk later.” My forgetfulness suggested a dream.

  We traveled more slowly, not just because of the wagon but because it snowed twice. The second time, the snow stayed.

  When we reached the Faral River, Ivandred rode up a hill overlooking the cross-roads and peered intently toward the west.

  “He thinks the enemy came from there,” Lasva said to me, for she’d joined me on the wagon that day, to take a turn giving sips of water, or whatever was needed, to Fnor and Retrend. Fnor had wakened enough to discover that her sister was dead. Little was said, but Lasva sometimes just sat, head bowed, holding Fnor’s hand.

  “West of the Faral?” I asked. “Isn’t that what used to be Choraed Elgaer—where Elgar the Fox came from?” There had been a map in the scroll I’d translated from Tharais’s text, which I had copied out for Tiflis.

  “It is now called Totha and wishes to be independent.” Lasva lifted her head to glance at Ivandred, still on horseback atop the rise, reins loose in his hand. “There is a peace agreement with Marloven Hesea, but he said things are… complicated.”

  “‘Totha,’ is that…”

  “From Tenthan, Elgar the Fox’s home territory.”

  Prince Ivandred rode down the hillock and ordered us to cut up northward into a narrow valley rather than follow the Faral River to where it branched into the Marlovar.

  And so we began the last leg of our long journey.

  Marnda had been silent since the time we were invalids. She was like a stunned bird, eyes open but blank, eating by rote, only rousing to oversee Lasva’s care and to scold Pelis and Anhar—who were busy sewing a suitable gown out of the last hoarded length of silk. But her voice was no longer shrill.

  We had assumed that a kingdom whose prince could not afford to travel in the proper style would be penurious in the extreme. Our first introduction to Marloven Hesea was nothing like what we expected. There were inns, but to our eyes they were more like military posts, swarming with warriors. The stables were enormous. The rooms were plain, small, but warm, and the food, after the dreary travel fare, was hot and plentiful. No money changed hands—this was our first introduction to the complicated system of duties and barter that was more common than money in this kingdom.

  Despite those inns, we camped as usual.

  By the time we passed through low, rugged mountains, like those on the other side of the Telyer—sheer with naked rock of many warm colors, unlike the green, smooth hills of Colend—Fnor and Retrend were awake for longer periods. I had regained my strength, and practiced Marloven with them as I helped them to eat, drink, and to shift position.

  Our cavalcade climbed steadily, then descended into a valley of shifting shades of silver, white, and pale blue crowned by an enormous castle with eight towers. It was my first sight of the Marloven honey-colored stone that could look like gold when the sun sank toward the western sea. I never thought I would admire a castle—a building made for defense rather than beauty—but Darchelde was beautiful in an austere way.

  Marnda recovered her old spirit as soon as that castle was sighted. She pleaded with the prince to halt the entourage so that the princess could wash her face and hands, have her hair dressed, and wear the coronet that Marnda had secreted among her personal effects. Lasva tried to remonstrate, but Ivandred smiled. “You shall have it as you wish, Runner Marend. Ah. Marnda.”

  Very soon Lasva rode beside the prince, her hair arranged in shining coils once again. She wore the Lirendi colors in filmy layers of royal blue, darkest around the square neck and with each layer lightening to silver. It was a beautiful gown, but meant for a ballroom, not arduous travel. Marnda climbed into the wagon, anxious that the many layers would not snag on the splinters or become mired with grime. She waved me away from the wounded with a gesture worthy of Queen Hatahra, and took her place at their heads.

  Ivandred gave the signal to ride, and the lancers ululated a shrill “Yip-yip-yip!”

  People came out of sturdy houses with tiled or slated roofs to stare at us as we crossed the valley on well-tended roads. Their gazes lingered longest on Ivandred and Lasva. We’d begun the winding road upward to the castle when riders galloped down to meet us. Over their coats were tunics with either eagles or fox faces worked across the backs. They closed around, accompanying us as, from one of the eight castle towers, out-of-tune bells rang in a dissonant, monotonous clang.

  “Alarm?” Lasva asked. She and Ivandred were directly in front of the wagon.

  Ivandred’s answer was too low for us to hear, but Birdy turned just enough to grin. “It’s a welcome ring,” he said. And in our own Kifelian added, “They don’t seem to have carillons.”

  I hope their horrible bells do not ring the hours, I thought, but kept it to myself.

  We rode through a huge open gate, under castle walls bristling with warriors—men and women—armed with swords, spears, and bows. When a trumpet sounded (thankfully not discordant) these guardians sent up a great shout and struck fists to chests.

  The lancers rode in strict control until we’d entered an enormous courtyard. Ivandred released them by raising his fist and opening the fingers. The column broke into individuals all talking and laughing, as riders in fox tunics or eagle tunics, friends and family, reached to take charge of gear and extra mounts, pelting everyone with questions the while.

  A woman approached, walking with a swinging stride, and everyone gave way. She smiled at Ivandred and laid her hand to her thin chest when she came abreast of Lasva, but all her attention was on the wagon. She vaulted lightly up and crouched down beside Fnor. Her hair was entirely silver, her bony face lined, emphasizing her resemblance to Ivandred. She had to be quite old, but she was vigorous. “I am Ingrid Montredaun-An, Ivandred’s aunt, and sister to the king,” she told me. “Give me a report on her state, please? On them both?”

  I began to speak, but Marnda sent me an angry glance, then said, “I am Princess Lasthavais’s Seneschal, your highness.”

  We soon learned that Ingrid was the jarlan of Darchelde, Ivandred’s ancestral territory. Jarl and jarlan were titles somewhat like duke and duchess.

  Ingrid-Jarlan issued a stream of fast-spoken orders, then turned to me. “My first runner will see you and these others comfortably established.”

  Our party was promptly surrounded by a genial, curious mob. Birdy was swept along with the horses in one direction, Lasva and Ivandred in another, leaving Marnda, Anhar, and Pelis with me. Marnda climbed down from the wagon, moving more quickly than I’d ever seen her as she scurried to take her place directly behind Lasva. They vanished inside.

  Anhar whispered to Pelis and me, “I hope their floors aren’t covered in horse
manure.”

  “Or that the beds aren’t bedrolls on the floor,” Pelis whispered back, her lips compressed against a laugh as a tall older servant handed them off to a younger and beckoned to me to follow.

  This older woman wore a long robe over trousers and a thick tunic, the colors contrasting gray shades edged with saffron. Everyone looked alike. I could see that none of our people could tell the Marlovens apart.

  My first glimpse of the great hall inside the massive iron-reinforced doors at the front of Darchelde castle filled me with wonderment. The hall was so enormous that the vast fireplace I glimpsed at one end was as large as the queen’s formal parlor at home.

  From there, we climbed steep stone stairs, the stairwell narrow and bare. The woman in gray and saffron pointed me into a small room on the third floor with the bed on a platform and space for a trunk. She talked so fast that I hadn’t a hope of following her words, once I winnowed out “bath” and “stairs.” I didn’t care about anything yet beyond getting a bath and changing my clothes.

  The baths turned out to be in the basement, a long, long way down dank stairs.

  “It’s stone everywhere upstairs,” Pelis whispered when we met at the baths a short time later. “Is this a prison, perhaps?”

  “No torture instruments,” Anhar said, bowing in Unalloyed Gratitude, causing Pelis to sniff a laugh. “And though we are consigned to dormitories like children, at least they are warm.”

  Dormitories? I did not tell them that I’d been given a room to myself; though it was small and mean by Colendi standards, it was private. And privacy was important to us.

  “At least these Marlovens have discovered vents.” Anhar turned to me. “Who was that woman who escorted you? A scribe? I didn’t know they had scribes!”

  “I don’t know that they do, yet,” I said. “She was introduced as ‘the jarlan’s first runner,’ whatever that implies.”

  Anhar said, “I thought they only had runners in the military.”

  “According to An Examination of Greatness, they were also a kind of seneschal, and scribe, and maid,” I said as we stepped down into the steaming water.

  “At least the baths are civilized,” Pelis said, sighing as her long hair fanned out like fronds of walnut-shade in the water around her. “Dormitories!” She splashed her hands up in shadow-ward.

  “We don’t have time,” I said. “There’s the banquet to get ready for.”

  “Oh, we know.” Pelis sniffed the air and made a face. “While you were off wherever you were, we had Marnda scolding us like a pair of kitchen pages.”

  Anhar ducked down, then came up, hair streaming over her round face. When she was wet, her wide eyes and round face pronounced her Chwahir heritage. “Here is my prediction,” she said. “After all the time and care in making that royal-blue gown, we will be throwing everything away. You’ll see. It’s going to be gray linsey-woolsey, perhaps with a single spangle where it can’t be seen, for variety. And she’ll wear it for a week at a go.”

  I had been so busy resenting Marnda’s usurpation of my time, I hadn’t considered how the dressers would feel to be superseded in a land where everyone seemed to dress uniformly, and only once in the day.

  The banquet hall was another vast chamber, mirror image to the great hall. The public chambers were plastered smooth and painted over with just the sort of enormous figures that Queen Hatahra had decreed should be torn down in Alsais’s old palace. Only these were not lifelike, but highly stylized—great raptor shapes, horses at the gallop, manes and tales flying, some with riders on their backs shooting arrows from those same oddly shaped bows. The raptors all soared, talons extended, beaks open in screams.

  I looked away from the walls to the people I must live among. The tables were low, guests seated on cushions. The prince and his party sat on a daïs well forward of the enormous fireplace, which was partly screened, and in the manner of that particular type of castle, very well vented in that these central fireplaces provided heat for the rooms directly above.

  The people looked alike at first glance: mostly blond heads, everyone with braids, and the clothing shades of gray, black, and undyed, with contrasting edgings of yellow or dull gold; the only variations were fox faces or eagles embroidered in wool on the backs of many of the tunics.

  Lasva still wore the blue gown—for she had no other formal robes. Her hair was bound up with a single strand of pearls, falling in ringlets down her back. In the time it took me to enter the room and walk along the wall toward the daïs, I observed how many of the Marlovens looked her way as they talked in low voices.

  Lasva saw me, smiled, and lifted her hand. Marnda stood among the servants behind the main table, some holding pitchers, others ready to fetch and carry.

  As I neared, Lasva and Ivandred finished a whispered conversation. He gripped her hand below the level of the table.

  “This is my first runner, Emras,” Lasva said to the jarlan.

  Marnda stepped forward. “I have already learned where the kitchen is and how things are done here. I would be honored to serve.” Her voice shook as she glared at me.

  Lasva said, “Emras, I hoped you might consent to take charge of the wine.”

  Marnda had to step aside, her hands trembling. I took my place beside her, stunned at her rudeness in public. It made no sense!

  I forced my attention on the service of the meal. The Marloven plates were wide and shallow, the only utensils spoons and very sharp knives with which they speared bites of the roasted turkey or fish or potato. The spoons were for eating something that smelled peppery and seemed to be made of lentils and garlic. They broke apart hot biscuits to mop up juices or gravy.

  The runners stood behind their master or mistress, pouring wine, or fetching food when it was either pointed at or tapped with a reaching knife.

  Conversation was loud enough to mask the noise of eating. Lasva borrowed Ivandred’s knife to press her food into accommodating bites. Marnda hovered, anxiously watching that thin hand rise and fall.

  The jarlan smiled my way when her runner handed me a pitcher of wine. Before she could speak, someone blew a trumpet in rising chords. The Marlovens stilled. The hubbub of voices flattened to whispers—harvaldar—then they, too, stilled.

  Warriors entered with a quick clatter of iron-heeled footsteps, swords at the ready. Ivandred’s head moved minutely as he tracked this efficient spread through the room. Their gazes shifted everywhere, and I belatedly noticed that everyone above the age of ten or so had their hands in sight.

  Then two strong young men entered, supporting a thin, elderly figure between them.

  Everyone in the room stood.

  The runners around me picked up Ivandred’s, the jarlan’s, and Lasva’s dishes. Others appeared, a little out of breath, holding fresh dishes at the ready.

  This old man was Haldren-Harvaldar, the Marloven king—the man who at least half of the male lancers and jarls were named after. I will refer to him as the king.

  His face was seamed with lines, his skin burned as brown as tree bark. Though he limped heavily, he shook off the young men impatiently as he neared the table. Ivandred led the salute: the stone walls threw back the sound of hundreds of fists thumping wool-covered chests, making me think of arrows striking into hearts.

  The king touched his fingers to his chest and lifted his chin in question. Ivandred stepped aside, so that the king could choose his place.

  He stepped between his son and Lasva, then motioned impatiently. Everyone sat down, including Ivandred and Lasva as the king eased himself, wincing and grunting, onto the pillow that Ivandred had vacated.

  As the hovering servants moved forward to set fresh dishes and cups before the king, he turned Lasva’s way. His nose made Birdy’s hawk beak seem delicate. “Let me sit next to the princess who picked my son out of all those prancers and dancers of the east. Heh! How did you win her, Van? Have you a hidden talent at romping about to tootle-music? How did you look trussed up in ribbons?” His laugh s
ounded like a whinny. “Tell me how a Marloven courts a Colendi. Or did you steal her, Van?”

  “Contrary.” Lasva tipped her head, hands at Oblique. “I stole him.” She smiled, the dimples flashing.

  The king pounded the table with his fist, setting the dishes jumping. His whinny deepened to a guffaw before he began coughing. “Damn!” He coughed again, and gasped.

  “He, in his turn, protected our kingdom,” Lasva said.

  “Yes, Van will protect the kingdom. He’ll ride the border again, heh!” The king coughed more, waved off his hovering runners, then gasped, “Eat, eat. D’you like my sister’s food? Is it as good as what you eat there in Ribbon-Land?”

  “It is very fine,” Lasva said, nibbling a fragment of rye bread.

  The king speared bits of turkey, roast potato, and greens, watching Lasva the while.

  She had grown up being the focus of a room full of people, and her manners were superlative because she never flaunted them. Neatly, deftly, gracefully, she used the knife and spoon in the Marloven manner, as if she had always done so.

  The king seemed bemused by her calm. When he spoke again, his voice was less harsh. “Heh! I like that sister of yours.”

  Lasva made The Peace. “She was well pleased with the alliance.”

  “She can use us as a stick to shake at those Chwahir north of her.” The king whinnied a laugh that snarled into another coughing fit. “That’s what happens with us here, our allies use the threat of us coming over the border to control their neighbors. He laughed and coughed harder, spraying bits of bread over his plate and part of the table. “But who was to know those damned Olavairs would back down after they found out about Van and you? I thought you people didn’t have an army.”

  “We do not have such a thing organized,” Lasva said. “But the nobles must serve if called upon.”

  “Either they’re formidable from a distance, or it’s your treaty prowess they’re afraid of.” He creaked with laughter, gulping as he tried not to cough. “I had the heralds bring me some history—” His voice hoarsened. “—and it seems you never met anyone over a treaty without your going away the winner, eh?”