As soon as we sighted that city, the captain—in a much more friendly voice—sent one of his riders on ahead to notify the princess of our arrival. When he spoke the word, “princess,” he cast a quick glance Lasva’s way, but she showed no reaction to this evidence of the Olavair family’s royal claim.
The good relations continued as we entered a wide brick courtyard. Then the captain became more formal as an elderly herald in resplendent sky blue requested Lasva to follow. The captain fell in behind me, and an honor guard—or some kind of guard—made up of at least twenty armed warriors formed up behind Lnand and Keth, at a distance of about two paces.
In this manner we were escorted to a sizable room with tables and chairs that looked tall and uncomfortable to us who were used to cushions and Marloven mats. Again, I was not certain if we were prisoners or guests. A servant offered food and drink, which Lasva accepted with gratitude. Then the far door opened and a tall, gaunt young woman about Lasva’s age strode in, her chain belt ending in long tassels that swung at each step.
She took us in as we surveyed her. She had a broad, thoughtful brow and bright red hair drawn up in a complicated style. She glanced from Lasva to me, took in my rumpled blue robe, and shifted her attention away, making clear she knew I was a scribe.
She said to Lasva, “I see you bear no weapons. Perhaps we might converse better alone?” She pointed at Keth and Lnand.
Lasva turned to them. “I will be safe enough,” she said, her finger and thumb touching to remind them of her token.
Lnand and Keth betrayed their first uncertainty. I suspect they’d been ordered to stick to her side, but here was an implied order to withdraw. “My scribe must attend me of course,” Lasva said to Nanjir, but her tone addressed the lancers, who both glanced my way. Then they withdrew, and the entire clanking entourage went with them, shutting the door behind the last.
“Well,” Nanjir said. “This is a new situation. Marlovens—and I count half my ancestors among them—usually dictate terms on the field of battle or after they occupy one’s home.”
“I am here to try something different,” Lasva said. “In the style of Colend.”
Nanjir then said, “I trust you will not be insulted if I summon my own scribe.”
Lasva made The Peace, a gesture that caused Nanjir to stare, lips parted. “You really are from Colend,” she exclaimed, and Lasva laughed as she extended the scroll.
Nanjir took it but kept it between her fingers as she walked to the door, spoke to someone right outside it, then returned. “I take it you are an envoy from Ivandred?”
Lasva said, “You may regard me as such, if it smooths the path of our discourse.”
Nanjir sighed. “I don’t know my path,” she said plainly. “A few days ago, your Ivandred did his best to kill Mestan, my brother. Of course, Mestan was trying to kill him,” she admitted.
Lasva’s fingers fluttered in shadow-warding, ending at Thorn Gate—none of which Nanjir understood.
The door opened then, and a scribe appeared, in another shade of blue, but recognizable immediately. How absurd, that my heart would leap so gladly! I hoped it meant that our peace mission would be successful—that the war would end.
“What hear you of events?” Lasva asked.
“What hear you?” Nanjir countered.
Lasva made a pretty gesture, not quite Life’s Ironies, and when she observed Nanjir’s mystified gaze, she clasped her hands. “Nothing directly,” she said. “My escort has received very cryptic notes with some sort of military meaning. From that I am to understand that there has been little progress one way or another.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to softness. “I am here because I hope never again to witness what I did the other day.”
Nanjir said, “Yet after Ivandred gave us a battering, he’s been harrying our flanks. My grandfather is trying to hold his position…” She broke off.
“In hopes of the arrival of Marloven allies?” Lasva asked gently.
Nanjir looked away then changed the subject. “I remember that Ivandred would not write letters. We thought this was on orders from his father.”
“My understanding is, he has misgivings about the magical scrollcases. I admit, I do not yet understand his reasoning, but we are new-married, and there is much yet to discover about one another, as well as about my new home.”
Nanjir looked away again, then slid the ribbon off the scroll and unrolled it. She laid it down on the inlay table between herself and Lasva. “It is a map,” Nanjir commented. “A good one, too.” She leaned forward. “I see a line drawn at the River Tar.”
“Your traditional border, I am told,” Lasva said.
“My grandfather is determined to acquire traditional land down to the Khan.”
“What tradition?” Lasva asked. “I beg your pardon for my ignorance. I thought that the area in question at present constitutes the jarlate called Khanivar.”
“It does,” Nanjir said. “It used to be Khani-Vayir.” She pronounced “Khanivar” as two words. “And before that, it belonged to us, the Olalia. Khani-Vayir was created in a treaty marriage.” There was a brief silence as Lasva waited, and Nanjir finally added, “Six and a half centuries ago.”
When the Olalia swore fealty to the Marlovens and renamed themselves Ola-Vayir. It remained unspoken, but I am certain they were thinking it as I was.
Lasva raised her hand and said, “Please educate me. I am trying to comprehend your customs here, and so any trespass is inadvertent. But are your people loyal to this land between the rivers? That is, do you regard it as part of your kingdom?”
“Kingdom,” Nanjir repeated, leaning her elbows on her knees. “I thought the next thing you would say would be the reminder of my grandfather’s being forced to swear an oath to old Haldren, the former king.”
“My comprehension of the question is not royal status, which Ivandred acknowledges as firmly as he does the familial connection, but the status of the trade treaty between our two kingdoms.”
Nanjir’s eyelids flashed up. “I… see.” Her tone said, It is too easy.
And so it went, as a meal was served and half-ignored. Lasva begged enlightenment, went over the map, asked general questions about history, about families, and Nanjir’s own experiences. All the little questions one asks at court to set a visitor at ease, but Lasva guided the questions around in wide circles, over uncontroversial areas, slowly bringing the circle in. When Nanjir’s tone changed, or her gaze, or her hands, outward would go the questions again, back to what was safe.
A day and a half passed like this, with our hostess vanishing every now and then. We would retire, Lasva to read and I to study, or we’d walk in the garden—with Lnand and Keth in sight, and those two, in turn, watched by an impressive host of guards.
Judging from the increased tension in our hosts, it became apparent to us that this war, or skirmish, or battle, was not going well for Olavair—contrary to their expectations.
Finally Lasva’s circles narrowed to three facts: Nanjir did not want the war; the brother, badly wounded, no longer wanted the war and was apparently writing a furious series of letters to his sister; the grandfather was angered enough by his wavering progeny to launch an attack.
The First Lancers were waiting.
Lnand and Keth were extraordinarily silent all through that next day.
Late that night Nanjir came to the guest suite to say, “My grandfather is dead. Ivandred has halted at the River Tar. My brother says the Marlovens are ranged along the bank.” She pinched her brow with trembling fingers. “Mestan and I will be sharing the crown, and he has agreed to your treaty. I will sign now—we will keep the trade treaty. But you say that Ivandred promises protection if we are attacked from the north, or from…” She looked away, and her chin jutted as she looked back. “If Danrid Yvanavar attacks us. Haldren-Harvaldar was a vicious man, but so was my grandfather. Right now your danger is not from us. It is from Danrid, for there is no greater peril than moral righteousness.”
“Yvanavar is where I intend to go next,” Lasva said.
Nanjir leaned toward her. “Talk to Tdiran.”
Lasva bowed over her hands. “I shall do my best.”
No more war, I thought, rejoicing. No more war!
Though I had not had any training in state matters, I’d sat through the lectures on herald scribes and their duties. I was expected to serve in this capacity, which in this instance was easy enough. The Olavairan scribe and I both wrote down the wording as dictated, and with celebratory enthusiasm I offered to make the Sartoran translation to be sent to the Heralds’ Archive there—though I suspected that the Marlovens had not sent any treaty to them for centuries. I hoped that the world seeing this treaty would cement it into reality. No more war for the Marlovens!
“There is no necessity,” the Olavairan scribe said in the stiff voice of personal affront. “We have a long tradition in place which I trust is sufficient.”
Although I apologized sincerely for my ignorance and assured him that their protocol was more than sufficient, my mood of release—of hilarity, of joy—did not diminish. No more war! I stood by as witness as each new queen signed, and I took charge of the precious scroll for the heralds in Choreid Dhelerei.
When we were alone, Lasva asked me for paper and drew on it a single letter, then folded it and sent it to Ivandred in her scrollcase. “It is so strange,” she said. “That Ivandred does not trust these things. Is the magic so easy to violate?”
“I was told as a student that it was nearly impossible,” I said. “But I will find out.”
Four days later (we traveled much faster by day, and on the road) we reached the river, where a good portion of the Olavairan army still remained.
I had envisioned a crowd of people whose relief would match mine. No more war! Everyone could go home again, and take up their lives! I could work on magic without having to waste time inventing war spells!
We were met by a delegation that took us to Mestan, newly a king. He was badly wounded; though the healers had done what they could, he was obviously in great pain. Lasva and I were conducted to him by silent Olavairans. He could only speak a word at a time, but Lasva offered a stream of questions, which he answered by sign.
I showed him the treaty, Lasva wished him a swift recovery, and we left his pavilion, and traveled between two rows of Olavairans. My shoulder blades tightened as I gazed about me in amazement, then concern, then resignation. Many of those faces were angry, some tight with extreme reserve. A few were curious, but it became clear that whatever quarrel lay behind this uncivilized behavior had not been resolved.
At best, it had been postponed.
My mood plunged into gloom, worsened by Ivandred’s request for a magical aid in battle—which I now would have to heed, or leave. Where did my moral duty lie?
With Lasva, I kept telling myself. I had sworn to serve her, and she made it plain that she served the cause of peace.
Lasva bore herself as she always had and neatly stepped onto the waiting ferryboat. As soon as Keth and Lnand were in with us, each holding their horses by the bridle, we set out.
Ivandred was there on the other side, still and watchful until Lasva reached him. I think he meant to greet her with kingly formality, for everyone was watching (including, no doubt, the Olavairans with field glasses, from the other side of the river) but the moment their hands touched as he helped her from the boat he drew her into his embrace and kissed her, then he let go and stepped back.
Lasva gestured to me, and I handed him the treaty, which he did not look at. Clearly Lnand and Keth had been in communication with him.
“We are to return to Choreid Dhelerei now?” Lasva asked.
“You can,” Ivandred asked, his voice so low I scarcely heard him. “If you need. I was going to ask you to ride to Yvanavar. The treaty has to be announced. It would be an honor if you took it to them, while I ride to Khanivar Castle to hear the new jarl’s oath.” His voice dropped even more. “It also forces them to stay in their castles separately in order to receive us.”
Lasva’s chin lifted, and I stared, astonished yet again. If I understood him correctly, he did not want fighting breaking out. “Ah-ye,” she said. “I will be happy to do that, the more if it will prevent any more lives being destroyed.”
“Then you can take half of the worst wounded. Tdiran will look out for them.”
“Talk to me about Tdiran,” Lasva said the next day, when our cavalcade—slow because of the wagons of wounded—set out for Yvanavar. “What did you observe when we visited Yvanavar before the battle with Olavair?”
“What little I saw, Tdiran was civil,” I said.
“Put it in our terms.”
It was strange. Though my thinking was still in Kifelian, applying courtly language to this situation felt a lot like putting on a pair of shoes that I’d worn too long, and then cast off.
“Lily Gate,” I said.
“Yes, yes. That matches my impression. The determined formality, yet when she spoke it was always to the others, and to me, only politesse. Did you see her when Ivandred was present?”
“She did not look at him, except to speak to.”
“Except once. Before our departure. The Garden Arch, when he left the room. Oh, Emras.” But she did not follow that with an observation.
So we fell silent. She reached down a hand, stroking absently the square, thick book she was halfway through reading, until she said, “I think I know what to do.”
By the time we reached Yvanavar, I had worked it out in my head. My duty lay with Lasva, who was adamantly against war. She had also made oaths to Ivandred and his kingdom. So. Perhaps I could please everyone if I invented something that would fit his requirements yet make death-dealing more difficult.
I had two ideas. Both had to do with shifting water, something I’d learned a bit about while working the purification spells. If, for example, I could raise minute bits of water to seep into arrow wood, then they could not be used. And what if I could raise water from the ground into vapors to hide armies from one another?
I would bring these up with the Herskalt on our next tutoring session.
The Yvanavar castle was built alongside a curve in a river, surrounded by a ring of hills with a beautiful road topping them. Silhouetted horse riders appeared and vanished down into valleys as we rode, passed on by dipped flags and hand signals.
The castle itself was built out of stone the color of honey in sunlight, rare in the east, and almost ubiquitous at this end. As with most Marloven castles, you could not just ride up to the front door. There were angled sweeps of stairs to either side, making frontal assault difficult. The doors were massive, iron-reinforced. The one at Darchelde was beautiful with carvings. This one was plain.
The jarl and jarlan both came to the door, as was proper for welcoming someone of superior rank.
The tensed lower eyelids and the tightened jaw betrayed anger in Danrid Yvanavar’s handsome, smiling face. I watched Lasva’s quick gaze assess him as she returned the greetings, and how her attention turned solely to the man’s wife, the jarlan Tdiran, a tall woman, at least as beautiful as her husband. They made a mythic pair, like songs and stories, standing side by side, but the subtleties of muscle, angle of head, the flicker of an eye provided a stream of impressions, not quite clues.
Two things I was sure of: that the woman had far better self-control than the man did. She was impossible to read. The other thing I saw was that he watched his wife as closely as he watched Lasva.
It was clearly understood by the formal words of greeting that they acknowledged the honor of the gunvaer’s having personally brought the treaty, but no tone or demeanor betrayed the gratitude you would expect of someone so honored.
I was motioned forward (my role now being scribe and herald rather than mage) as Keeper of the Treaty. I unrolled the thing to display it and watched Danrid’s light blue eyes brush indifferently over it. He then turned to his wife. Tdiran’s gaze moved fr
om side to side—she read at least half of it, then began uttering the conventional offer of hospitality.
We staff were bustled off to be entertained and effectively shut up for safekeeping. The wounded were escorted to the barracks lazaretto, and Lasva was conducted inside, the jarl at her right, the jarlan at her left.
The first break in the fog of formality was the next morning. As first runner, I had the freedom of Lasva’s suite. Thus I was able to signal when the jarlan came to greet her. On Lasva’s orders, we arranged for Tdiran to find her in the middle of the Altan fan form.
As Lasva had surmised, Tdiran had too much respect for drill—even a type of drill completely foreign—to interrupt, thus she witnessed the spectacle of the fan she had seen dangling apparently uselessly at Lasva’s waist circling with its pair, faster and faster, until they slashed the fabric that I had fastened in the collapsible easel that we had carried along with us. Lasva was so good by now that the slash was a loud, effective rip.
Then I stepped aside to watch the jarlan’s reaction as Lasva set down her fan and assumed her overrobe. Thus I saw Tdiran’s gaze go from the slashed cloth to the fans, then down Lasva’s form to rest on her bare toes. Then her lips parted, and her teeth bit into her soft lower lip, her expression impossible for me to define.
So I transferred my gaze to Lasva’s feet, to find nothing out of the ordinary. Her feet, like the rest of her, were beautiful, and beautifully tended. Was it the silver polish, or the neatness of her trimmed nails, the absence of callus or rough cuticle? Or was it the delicate gold ring on her middle toe, carved with minute blossoms?
Marlovens did not color their nails. From their raggedness, especially toenails as seen in the baths, I had wondered if they cut them with knives. Then Tdiran came forward, her tone betraying a cautious interest as she greeted Lasva.
Banner of the Damned Page 58
