“Before I depart, Lasva has given Anhar and me permission to visit home for a week. I can make the transfer tokens, so we are spared the usual prohibitive cost.”
“True,” the Herskalt said. “But is it wise to leave the kingdom?”
I gazed at him in surprise. “Is there something amiss that I do not see?”
“Remember our discussion about the Sartorans and your unorthodox training? This has been a problem for Marloven mages for generations.”
“Ah-ye!” I exclaimed. “I did not consider that. But in Colend I am known as a scribe.”
“But you will be visiting friends and family, yes? Do you trust them not to speak about your new calling? If they do, and word gets around as it does, Queen Hatahra could summon your hosts.”
I’d told the Herskalt that I wished to visit my parents, but I meant to spend most of my time with Birdy. I longed to tell him everything—to regain the free exchange whose preciousness and importance I only understood when it was withdrawn. So the Herskalt’s words startled me.
“Why should my queen summon him?”
The pronoun slipped out, but he did not remark on it. “Because the Sartoran Council will probably send an emissary to your queen if any word gets out about your studies. You do know how scribes share news and talk.”
I thought uneasily of Greveas and the ring on my toe, though I had done nothing wrong.
“Look at it this way,” he said. “Would you put your friend in the position of having to harbor your secret from his queen, and from the Sartorans?”
“I think he would gladly protect me, once I explain the reasons,” I protested. “Birdy and I trust one another.”
“He trusts you not to speak or do harm. Try to comprehend the difference between that and keeping secrets that transgress against guild rules.”
“I intend no harm, and we trust one another to be open.”
“You will tell him about the dyr, then?”
“The dyr! Should I not?”
“Don’t scribes have trade secrets?” He smiled. “Knowledge is important, on that we are agreed. Finding out the truth gives you greater understanding. You need that, as a mage.”
“I understand that, but—”
“Perhaps, at this juncture in your studies, you need the truth of experience, compared to your own perceptions.” He gestured, and there was the dyr again. “Think about your friend, this time.”
I stared at the gleaming object in his hand, and my desire to see through Birdy’s eyes—to see myself—was abrupt and irresistible.
“Shut your eyes and select a memory shared by you and your friend. Perhaps a crucial moment, one wherein you had doubts about someone else’s motivation. It need not be negative. In fact, I think it would be better if you chose a situation that did not make you angry or defensive.”
My mind reverted to that encounter when Birdy left for Chwahirsland. “The moment I want to see is one when I was a teen. It had no political importance, and there was no anger or threat to me.”
“I think such a memory an astute choice: thus you will learn to compare your own perceptions of an event with others’ real perceptions—not what they want you to hear about said events. Or what you want to believe.”
Guided by his whispered words, I watched myself through Birdy’s eyes on that day just before he left for Chwahirsland.
I did not record this memory of his when it happened because I think it is better placed here. Seldom is it pleasant to see oneself through others’ eyes, but in this one instance it was so poignantly sweet to be looking on my young self—my round face so unmarked by time and experience that it looked to me like unbaked dough. But to him it was dear. I had to laugh as he tried to find a hint of curve in my plain white linen robe, but my moment of humor was rueful, almost painful, as he struggled not to reveal his hopes, and his ardency.
He used his juggling to distract himself, to hide his sweaty hands (though he had come straight from the baths, his hair still wet). What a disaster! There I was, pompous as only the young can be as I scolded him for juggling at the table.
The diving of bold birds is an apt comparison to the swooping of your silken bags, I said, oh, so self-righteous, my voice much higher when heard through someone else’s ears. But if I have to point out the analogy then it is clumsy.
I’m the clumsy one. It’s just that… we leave tomorrow for Chwahirsland, he said in an agony of hope and fear.
And there I sat, my lack of concern killing him inside as I said, I thought you wished to go.
But… Chwahirsland, he said hopelessly, and there were all the dreams he had of me missing him, of me opening my arms to a first kiss. Nothing. All I offered was a platitude, my disinterest plain, and his sorrow and humiliation hurt me so much that I fell out of the memory, my head aching as if I’d someone had taken a hammer to my skull.
“Drink this.” Something cool and bitter was pressed to my lips. I swallowed, choked, forced another swallow.
Very quickly the pain receded, replaced by a cool fog that kept my thoughts at a distance.
“You have not only experienced the truth, you have also discovered the danger of personal exploration with the dyr,” the Herskalt said. “We all have done the same. Mages have to learn to disengage emotionally. Do you see that now?”
“Yes.” I had difficulty finding my voice. “What did I drink?”
“Kinthus.”
“You had it ready?”
He smiled. “Mage students at the higher levels often face this dilemma. It is expected.”
The conflicting emotions were still there, behind that fog. I couldn’t feel them, as I couldn’t feel the headache, but I knew they were there as I knew the headache was still present by the pulse of heartbeat behind my eyes. “I don’t think I can do that again. Not to him.”
The Herskalt inclined his head. “The knowledge we gain from such sessions becomes difficult to hide from those we are close to.”
I forced my lips to move. It took an effort. “We are told that the Old Sartorans talked mind to mind. How did they prevent that sense of trespass?”
“By using mental shields,” he said. “It is very much like learning to ward scrying, except you are not using a glass as a focus. It is inside your head, reinforced by magic.” He smiled. “Some are warded from the outside, as I have already explained about Danrid Yvanavar. If you follow the typical pattern to the next step, you will be tempted to look at my experiences, if you did not already know that I was shielded long ago.”
For the first time, it occurred to me that he might have used the dyr to delve into my memories. I was afraid to ask if it was true. Instead I asked, “Will you teach me that mental shield?”
His smile deepened as if he knew my thought. I reassured myself that what I felt was probably what everyone did. His voice was noncommittal as he said, “You will learn it when your studies reach that point. So let us address your progress with the castle wards.”
I did not go to Colend.
I was in the staff room when Anhar returned from her visit. On her arm was a basket full of delicious Colendi pastries. I was startled to see her hair dyed that light ashy brown again.
Pelis raised her brows. “Anhar, why that terrible color? Or is it all the rage?”
“It was what my sister wanted,” Anhar said, flushing.
Pelis paid no attention. She was trying to see into the basket. “You brought us lily breads! And lemon-cream cakes? I can smell the vanilla bean!”
Anhar pulled the basket from Pelis’s eager fingers. “These are for Emras. Birdy and I packed them together.”
Pelis turned to me, and of course I had to say, “We shall share them.”
Anhar went on to describe, in detail, the newest plays in Alsais.
The next day, her hair was back to its natural hue.
Scarcely a week after Anhar’s return, came two surprising letters.
First, one from my parents. I’d corresponded with them ever since making mysel
f a scrollcase, but I never mentioned magic. Our letters were entirely about the family doings, irrelevant to this record until now. On my Name Day they sent me congratulatory notes and a gold piece, and Tiflis also remembered, writing a long screed about how busy and successful she was, but I did not hear from my brother at all.
I did not know what to make of Olnar’s silence after I’d written on his Name Day. I had hesitated about writing to him on mine, for I did not want to tell him what I was doing (I knew what he would say) and yet I did not want to lie. So what had we to talk about?
Here is the letter I received from my parents.
Emras,
We received a call from a Mage Council representative. She is a very friendly young person who claims to be known to you. Olnar vouches for her: Greveas. What she had to say surprised us exceedingly: that you have begun magical studies with a mage outside of the Council? You can imagine our concern. Olnar says further that he attempted to transfer to you but found he was warded, whatever that means. Please explain? You have not mentioned any such things in your letters—we have just finished rereading them all.
Deeply disturbed, I sat right down and wrote a fast response, telling them about the queen’s orders and my subsequent decision to learn magic directly instead of learn about it (thus protecting Tiflis, who got me that book). I explained that my lack of information about my new studies after the death of the king was nothing more sinister than habit, and that I was a beginner, my job to renew the protection spells.
As for Olnar being warded, that was because Marloven Hesea’s border had transfer wards that were fairly old and fairly strong, specifically against mages from the Sartoran Mage Guild. I said that maybe the new king would order those removed, but someone with more skill than I would have to see to the removal.
Wondering if I’d hear from Olnar next, and if he would still scold me for my unorthodox method of learning, I folded my note, opened the case, and discovered another letter.
It was not from Olnar, but from Birdy:
Emras:
I hardly know what to write! Somehow someone chirped after Anhar’s visit. Not that I thought that your lives in Marloven Hesea should be kept secret, but old scribe habits keep me from talking about my personal life. Anhar insists she did not talk to anyone about you, so someone must have been listening to us.
The Chief Herald summoned me at the Hour of Stone to an audience with no less a personage than a mage from the Sartoran Mage Council. What did they want to talk about? You! Who was teaching you, what you are learning, and what you had done. I told them what I knew, which in retrospect, I realize is very little. They would not tell me why they were so concerned, but they made me promise to contact them if you ever come to visit and to share any letters in which you detail your magical studies. I am writing to you to let you know, so that you may contact them yourself. I do not understand why this high personage should be making me into a go-between.
This hit me such a blow I walked out of my room as if physical distance would lessen the pain.
As one does instinctively when emotions are overpowering, I turned toward the light and nearly ran into Lasva, who was walking the hall with the baby clasped in her arms. I had forgotten how she often prowled around, walking back and forth with a fretful baby, so that Marnda could sleep. In those first few months, the young prince was colicky, and Lasva was adamant that he not be left to cry it out.
“Emras,” she exclaimed. “You look like Thorn Gate come again. What is amiss?”
I told her. She followed me to my room, and when I was finished, she said, “Who is this Birdy? Do I know him?”
“You knew him as Herald Martande. Sent back to Colend.”
Lasva gazed at me as she hefted the heavy, slumbering infant up tighter in her arms. “Herald Martande? A lover? You are not elor?”
“Not my lover,” I said quickly, for well-drilled in me was the old rule about how royal scribes were never to marry. Even mates were frowned upon, for one’s loyalties must not be divided. But such things no longer mattered. “He’s my friend.”
“I can see he is important to you. I could have kept him here. Why did you not tell me?”
I stared at her, my lips moving. So deep was my training, I could scarcely get out the words First Rule.
But she understood. “Emras, I am sorry, most particularly because it seems my sister is right after all. I know how much she resents Sartor and interference, though they use other terms. Even in my earliest visits to Sartor for the music festival, I noticed that ineffable superiority the Sartorans feel for all the rest of the world whose kingdoms are not four thousand years old.”
She hefted the baby again, glanced into his face, and gently laid him on a cushion. He was too deeply asleep to notice. “Ah! Then I can let poor Anhar sleep. She has been up reading to him every night while he cuts these wretched teeth.”
She pressed her fingertips to her forehead and dropped her hands. “If Herald Martande ever wishes to return to us, we will find him a place. I will give orders to that effect.” She looked around again. “While you are on your journey, I will have your things transferred to the mage tower.” She peered into my face and said quickly, “Nothing needs to change, except your experiments probably require more space. And my staff complains of a burning smell, as if cloth were singed, when you have been very busy. I would be honored if you would continue the fan practice with me, just as usual, on your return, and you may always eat with us.”
She left me feeling ambivalent about the prospective change. My resentment of Sartor’s officiousness annoyed me so much that I decided I owed them no explanations. I had never made any oaths to them. The only promise I made was to alert Greveas via the toe ring if I ever discovered any Norsundrian influence. That promise I would keep—though I didn’t know how much good it would do, if Sartor’s mages couldn’t transfer into the kingdom.
TWELVE
OF THE LINEAMENTS OF LACE
L
asva: We have passed through Eveneth and Zheirban, and are heading southward toward Marthdaun. Though I promised I would write frequently, I have so far reneged as I would not trespass against your kindness and concern by demonstrating my lack of skill at making interesting a journey divided between riding and performing basic but necessary spells.
You asked for my impressions, but all I have to offer are journey details—the mud, the emerging haze of green which close up looks like a fine stubble, the many unfamiliar birds crying overhead as they search for seed or prey, the distant horizon. The cold. If you will, do me the honor to reflect upon your own journeys.
I lifted my pen, scribe training prompting an objection to my tone. Duty did not require an opinion.
You will remember red-haired Retrend. Haldren Marlovair put him in charge of my riding of Lancers. He says he has yet to regain his full strength and confessed one night at campfire that he will probably never have the honor of leading a first charge, but he is proud to have attained the captaincy of skirmishers, whose practice I see if I rise early enough. They gallop around in circles on the plains, shooting their arrows accurately backward as well as forward. When the first-years have picked up all those arrows again, I know it is time to end my own practice and prepare to resume the journey.
Would Lasva really want to read the details? I was grateful to her for having assigned Anhar to see to my needs. Lasva had told the Marloven runners that only a Colendi understands the little habits and rituals that make life comfortable for another Colendi. But even the most skilled poet would struggle to make the grubby details of travel interesting.
Nor would I write about the tedium of repeating the road spell for throwing off snow, as Ivandred had requested. So I ended that letter with an apology for its brevity, reminding her that I was keeping exact records of each spell for the Chief Herald. I could copy it for her if she wished.
The following night I was surprised to discover a letter from her in my scrollcase when we halted for the night.
I honor you for your exemplary concerns on my behalf—
Ah-ye, was she still thinking of my having hidden my mage studies? But she was never petty.
—and I cherish your forbearance, for I do recall the details of my own travels. What I desire to see through your eyes are the people you meet, and what transpires. I told you before you left that reading Hadand-Gunvaer’s letters was wearisome because of the language difficulties and because so very many of the details of their daily lives are uninteresting or obscure. But now that my darling Kendred needs me less as he gains the strength and curiosity to explore his world, I am reading more. And corresponding more. (I will return to this anon.)
The young Hadand, in going from girl to young woman—from anomalous princess to queen—gains in interest. Especially when I discovered that a great many of those interminable references to pets, birds, and animals were actually codes.
As Ivandred would say, what is my strategy? Through Hadand’s letters I am beginning to perceive two kingdoms, interlocked, for neither exists without the other: what I think of as the kingdom of trade and the kingdom of guards. This is profoundly new territory to me, and as yet I cannot seem to express my ideas to Ivandred, who repeats that there is only one kingdom, and that he is sworn to keep it whole, and further, during the time of Hadand-Gunvaer’s letters, men and women both guarded, the first from without, the second from within.
But I perceive a difference, and it is not so simple as “men fought and women traded,” which would not be true. Hadand became queen after she herself dueled the leader of a conspiracy. It is odd that the man she defeated was an ancestor of Danrid Yvanavar, and that the two times I mentioned this ancestor, everyone hastened to assure me that his son was a hero, and that the family was quite loyal thereafter. As for Hadand’s letters, my runners (who follow my progress with interest as they define terms for me, and identify names and places) keep warning me about “Andahi.” I located Andahi on a very old map, for there is no such place now. It might not even be the right place, for it lies far, far north, entirely outside of Marloven Hesea. Apparently some battle occurred there, but that is for later reading.
Banner of the Damned Page 61
