Banner of the Damned

by Sherwood Smith

  So Lasva said, “We should get the king into his bed and summon the healer.”

  The guards obeyed with such alacrity their relief was plain. The king had said nothing about “her” and the princess had given an order. Thus, at a moment most dire, there was a clear chain of command.

  “Unlock the doors,” Lasva said briskly, and the door guards leapt to do that.

  The ones around the throne worked together to make a kind of carry-all with their arms. They did so in an efficient manner that I would come to recognize as part of their field training. Moving together, they lifted the king and bore him off.

  Lasva said, “I will attend the king until the healer arrives. First runner, attend me, please.” This last to me, her tone urgent.

  “I will go with you,” Danrid declared, with a glare Ivandred’s way. “To make certain nothing happens to the king. And that his orders are…”

  Danrid’s personal guards had stepped up to either side of him.

  “Heard.” Ivandred finished, as his glance flicked past Danrid to Lasva. I could not see her, but I sensed that some kind of signal went between them, quicker than a heartbeat, and then Ivandred shifted his attention to the angry jarl. “Do that. Do that, Danrid.”

  The jarl’s cheeks reddened, and he made the barest flick of his fingers over his chest, a belated gesture that reminded me he ought to have saluted.

  And so I slipped into the most disparate group of people I had ever experienced, as the guards followed Lasva down the corridor. She seemed to float, gliding swiftly ahead of the guards bobbing behind, their heavy boots clattering. Runners accumulated behind us. Counterpoint to them was Danrid, following me. His breathing stirred my hair, he was so close to my heels. At a corner I glanced back. Ivandred was nowhere in sight.

  So there had definitely been a signal between Lasva and Ivandred.

  The king’s rooms smelled musty and sour. “Open the windows,” Lasva ordered the servants.

  “The king has not permitted the windows to open for ten years at least,” whispered the oldest servant, his hand at his breast.

  The other said in a low voice, “He has forbidden the garrison healer to come near him. He… he feared poison.” The man looked away.

  Lasva turned her palm up. “If he will not permit the healer here, then we must do our best for him ourselves. Fresh air might do him good, wouldn’t you agree? He is fighting so hard for breath. And steeped leaf. Perhaps we can talk him into sipping it.”

  No one argued with that. One runner went to struggle with the nearest window, and another left, as the guards gently laid the king on the bed. The old servants fussed about, tugging the king’s tunic straight over his bony knees and his sleeves straight over the gnarled wrists, and then, hesitantly, began to tug the royal boots off. His knobby feet in their stockings looked abject to my eyes before they covered him with quilts.

  The jarl gestured for his men to wait outside the chamber, then he took up a station at the window closest to the bed, where he could see everyone.

  Lasva beckoned, and I joined her by the far window. The jarl looked our way, then back at the king as the old servants brought elderberry-ginger steep, more blankets, water, and a change of clothing.

  A servant entered with something on a tray. The king groaned.

  Lasva crossed the room quickly. Before she could speak, the oldest of the servants leaned over the bed, his low voice a rumble as he coaxed the king to waken and take a sip of the brew he held ready.

  “You drink it first,” Danrid commanded Lasva, startling us all.

  The old servant’s amazement altered to mottled anger.

  Lasva said calmly, “I believe we are confusing the king’s runner’s perception of chain of command.”

  The jarl glared from one to another of the servants, then pointed at me. “She can drink it. In case someone saw fit to send up poisoned steep.”

  Lasva addressed me. “Scribe Emras, you may regard what you just heard as a request.”

  The jarl stared at Lasva, and she gazed back. Now I understood why Danrid was with us. I’d thought he was going to attack the king, and Ivandred had signaled Lasva to be present to avoid that. He was waiting for the king to rouse himself, and complete an order for the guards to seize Ivandred. Danrid meant to witness the order, and see that it was carried out, and until then, protect the king from us.

  There was so much tension in that room that I said to Lasva, “I do not mind heeding the jarl’s request, Lasva-Haranviar. I cannot believe the kitchens would send up poison.”

  I took the cup from the hands of the old servant, turned the brim the way we do when we share Restday cup with family, and drank down the hot liquid, which was fresh and aromatic.

  There was a besorcelled handkerchief on a side table. I wiped the rim and handed the cup back to the servant. In silence he poured another cup, then stood there with the cup in his hands as he stared down at the still figure on the bed.

  The king had fallen asleep.

  After a time, Lasva said to Danrid, “Shall I send for refreshment? Or you could send your own people, if you fear we conspire against you.”

  Her smile was sweet, her voice warm. The man flushed and made that negating motion. “Send anyone you like. I think no one in this room is conspiring.” His high tone had dropped closer to normal.

  The king’s second personal runner said, “I will order a meal.” He added with faint affront, not quite in Danrid’s direction, “And personally supervise its preparation.”

  He went out, leaving another silence suspended in time.

  When he returned with a row of tray-bearing servants, Lasva extended a hand to Danrid in invitation. He sat down stiffly across from her at the low table at the other end of the room, and Lasva drew Danrid by gradual degrees into speech. Too trivial to record here, it was an exercise in the Colendi arts of filling time with pleasant chat, and gradually Danrid’s short, abrupt responses lengthened into sentences. Encouraged by her, he described his land, and the horses raised on the northern studs, whose ancestors all came from the Nelkereth plains to the east.

  Finally Danrid laughed, a short, husky bark. When he smiled, the fellow was handsome. Lasva met my eyes, and then flicked her gaze to the window. The king’s rooms were built along one of the outer walls, which were so thick that benches had been carved into either side of the window alcoves.

  She wants me to witness, I thought, as I slipped into the alcove and sat down gratefully on the stone bench.

  Time passed, marked only by the gradual shifting of the shadows along the stone. Though I knew I was to be a witness, there was nothing to mark in the talk, which had shifted to riding, lessons in riding, carriages, and differing customs. Their voices blended pleasantly, Danrid’s acrimony having dissipated like morning mist. I shut out the difficult, rattling breathing of the king as I began reviewing my magic lessons.

  The ochre rays of the sun had nearly reached the toes of my slippers when the old servant startled everyone by exclaiming in a low, pain-rent growl, “O my king…”

  I leaped up. There were no swords, no threats. No one had moved from their places. The jarl and Lasva came together to the bedside. I stopped behind Lasva’s shoulder as we looked down at the still figure of the king. The slow, rattling breathing had stopped.

  Lasva turned to me. “You must summon the prince,” she said.

  The jarl stared from the king to her and then to me, his demeanor hardening to the tension I’d seen on our arrival. He yanked open the door, snapped his fingers at the two men who waited there with the king’s silent guards, and the three of them moved away so swiftly that they were gone when I reached the top of the stairs.

  From the doorway behind me, Lasva said softly in Kifelian, “Before he does, if you can.”

  I halted then went back to the silent guards at the door, who were staying at their post until ordered differently.

  “Where is the prince?” I asked, half expecting them to ignore me.

  �
��Guardhouse,” one said.

  Because I am determined to tell the truth as I understand it, here I must admit that after that, I dashed along the halls, full of my own importance at bearing this epoch-changing news, my emotions untarnished by the slightest vestige of regret. But after I’d encountered four sets of guards who crossed their spears at my appearance before allowing me to pass, I noticed there were more guards than usual. Thereafter, I found a pair at every intersection—male and female—with young runners here and there, ready to sprint. Everyone’s eyes tracked me as I passed.

  I approached the prison, deep within the garrison part of the castle. I had no wish to see the spectacle of a dungeon in reality, yet here I was, approaching the thick, iron-reinforced doors to its gates. Anticipatory horror tightened my nerves as I walked up to the guards. One pulled the huge door open.

  “The prince is in the lower level,” the guard’s tone with the last two words conveyed meaning that I had not yet the experience to catch.

  I stepped inside, instinctively fearing that I would never again emerge. There were no instruments of torture hung about in readiness for use. The stone walls were exactly like those elsewhere in the castle, save for the varied shapes of rusting iron bars outside the ancient, warped glass in the few window slits.

  A tall boy emerged from a side room. “Are you the princess’s runner?” On my assent, “They just came up from below.” He opened his palm toward the first door along the hall.

  From habit my steps were soundless as I walked through the empty outer chamber and approached the inner one. The only light was from a lantern hung on a hook high on the wall to my right. Ivandred and Haldren Marlovair sat together on a bench below the window in an otherwise bare, clean-swept cell.

  I must describe this still-vivid image: the prince still mud-spattered from his long ride, the hilt of a knife visible at the top of one of his boots, his body leaning as the two sat forehead to forehead. The prince’s right hand braced the back of Haldren Marlovair’s head, the tendons in his fingers standing out. Haldren, too, was disheveled, but the grime in his skin and clothing and the smell of sweat were so stale they had to be days old. His profile was drawn, his eyes closed as Ivandred said in a low, husky voice rendered sharp and clear by the bare stone walls surrounding us, “You know he’s a liar, and I know he’s a liar, but I can’t accuse him before the Convocation without proof. That will be his excuse for civil war. It’s the law, Haldren. Everything according to law.”

  Haldren whispered, “I am not a coward.”

  “Everyone knows that. Danrid looks like a coward to accuse you.”

  “Then… do what you will. Shoot me. But not a coward’s punishment.”

  I had frozen in place outside the cell, so I saw every detail and heard every word. I knew I shouldn’t disturb them, and yet I had news that was too important not to impart.

  “It was the king’s will, Hal. We both know Danrid hears what he wants to hear, but Len was on door duty, and he assures me that it was clear enough spoken that everyone in the throne room heard it. You know the importance of heeding the king’s last command, sorry as it is, until he can rescind it. And I will get him to rescind it as soon as he wakens, I promise you that.”

  Haldren whispered something too low for me to hear, after which Ivandred said, “If we both survive this day, you will ride at the head of the First Lancers as commander, whatever happens. You have my oath, brother in shared blood.”

  In shared blood was in Marloven a compound word that I had not heard before, and I did not understand its import then. I knew only that I was not meant to witness this conversation.

  Haldren lifted his voice. “My honor is in your hands.”

  I had begun step by step to back away. But my movement must have stirred the air, or maybe it was their eternal wariness, for both heads turned.

  For a heartbeat two pairs of shock-rounded eyes stared at me from faces taut with strain. Then Ivandred’s eyes narrowed in a twitch of anger at my trespass. He straightened up, his jaw hardening.

  Haldren’s eyes closed as the prince let him go, and he sank back against the wall.

  “The princess sent me to tell you that the king is dead,” I said, falling into old habit: I gave him the words in Lasva’s intonations and accent.

  His eyelids flashed up in brief surprise. “Where is she now?”

  “She stayed with your father,” I said.

  “Danrid Yvanavar?” he asked.

  “He left ahead of me,” I said. “But I do not know what was his destination.”

  “It matters little.” Ivandred’s mouth creased in a brief, bleak smile as he gazed down at Haldren. “He will have discovered by now that I have the castle secure.” He did not wait for Marlovair to respond. “Come, Scribe,” he said to me. “There is much to be done.” And in a low voice, “Bide. Remember my oath.”

  He walked out, me scurrying at his heels. I heard the runner shut those iron-reinforced doors behind us, one, two, and three—leaving Haldren still in prison.

  “Can you remember orders?” he asked over his shoulder as he sped through the garrison, everyone in sight standing still, fists to hearts, eyes tracking us.

  “I can,” I said.

  He issued a stream of orders that are immaterial to list here. They were mostly summons, or curt sets of words to be spoken to this or that person. We parted at the foot of the stairway to the king’s rooms, and then I began to make up for my long day of standing by running all over the castle.

  Every person I spoke to listened to me with exquisite intensity, indicating that although I was in the center of great events I barely comprehended how great.

  The watch change in the middle of the night was the first time I sat down. Marnda had left a meal waiting in our staff sitting room, along with a candle. The precious summer steep had gone cold, its surface oily. I ate the bread and butter, then pillowed my head on my arms. I’d meant to rest only my eyes, but I woke when my legs had gone numb.

  I heard singing. The room was dark. The candle had gone out.

  The rise and fall of voices was faint but gradually swelled in volume as more voices joined, and then slowly passed as I rubbed at the painful needle-pricks in my legs. I couldn’t yet stand.

  The singing faded away again as Pelis came in, bearing a tray with food and a candle on it. In the wavering light she set it down and swiftly set out the fresh bread, some oat slurry, and more of our precious steep, from the refreshing smell. My eyes prickled at the scent of home.

  “The singing is them bearing the king away.” Pelis’s brown hair blended with the shadows. Her eyes were wide, the pupils dark as she whispered, “Lnand told me all the guards are on readiness alert.”

  A rustle behind her, and Lasva joined us. “There you are, Emras,” she said. “I looked in your room. Thank you, Pelis.”

  Pelis gave a faint sigh as she made The Peace and withdrew.

  Lasva moved into the light, her eyes marked with exhaustion. She sipped from a cup she carried. “What did you see in the king’s chamber, Emras? Ah-ye, I misspeak.” She raised two fingers. “There was so very much to see. What was your impression when Danrid gave you that order to taste the cup?”

  I said, “He was about to insist? Perhaps, might have used force? There was the tensing here and here.” I touched my shoulder and my jaw.

  Lasva laced her fingers together around her cup. “Yes. I think… there is only a pretense of regarding me as Ivandred’s equal in their chain of command.”

  The word “barbarians” shaped my lips, but she forestalled me with a forefinger. “As we treated King Jurac of the Chwahir. A semblance of respect, but if Jurac had given orders as the queen does, no one would have obeyed, at least, not without her corroboration.”

  “The Colendi are loyal to Queen Hatahra,” I said. “No one feels loyalty to the Chwahir king.”

  “I have been pondering the ephemera of hierarchy,” she said, setting the cup down, “and of my own place, if I am truly to b
e an aid to Ivandred and not just a decoration. Either I request Ivandred to order these people to obey me, or I find a way to inspire loyalty on my own.”

  Loyalty.

  Here, at last, was my opportunity.

  I stood up, so that I could make the full Peace, and then I dropped to my knees before her. “O Princess Lasthavais,” I said, my words tumbling out. “Now that the king is dead, I must unburden my heart and confess the secret I was ordered by the queen your sister to withhold from you: I have begun to learn magic.”

  My heart was so full of remorse and sorrow that I misstated the queen’s orders, which as you have seen, were not about learning magic but about discerning whether Norsundrian magic was at work in Marloven Hesea—something the Sartoran Mage Council, through Greveas, also wanted to know. But what I told Lasva was what I now believed, and so I explained about the book I’d arranged to get from my cousin, and my secret studies. I told her about the spell I did at the bridge, and how I discovered Ivandred’s teacher, the Herskalt.

  But did I tell her everything?

  No.

  When do you keep secrets from those you love most? When the knowledge of them would cause nothing but hurt. So I reasoned as I approached the Herskalt’s disc, the dyr, and its lessons. As I neared the subject and saw how taken aback she was when I told her about my being able to send Ivandred to her on New Year’s, I thought for the first time, would she have granted me permission to experience her secret thoughts had I asked? Though I had not chosen to do so, I had participated as a learning exercise. Yet my learning exercise had been through her memories, never willingly shared. And so I did not mention the dyr.

  The blue light of dawn painted us with shadow, turning the candle light to dirty smudges, when I finished.

  Lasva said, “I asked you once for personal loyalty, but now I wonder if I asked too much.” As I moved to protest—to implore, to explain—I even considered, for a reckless moment, the relief of confiding everything, including the dyr, but then she raised her hand. “Ah-yedi! I hear your good intentions in every breath. Yet is true fidelity possible? My sister issuing orders to my own staff that I was not to know about. Not just you and Marnda, but this Herald Martande, whom I do not even know.”