He listened to it all, then said, “I was very pleased with your quick and innovative thinking.”
My gratification lasted only a pulse, accompanied as it was by the memory of what had happened to those people. “The First Lancers killed them, I fear. I did not want to ask.”
“Why not? Do you think that asking alters the events?”
“Because I feel responsible in part. And yet I know that those warriors could not have harbored any civil intentions toward us.”
“Correct. Once you finished the spells for Totha, you were not only expendable but a danger. If they’d captured you earlier, they probably would have tried to hostage you against Ivandred for treaty purposes, but permitted you to continue doing your magic as the price for your life.” His tone was matter-of-fact.
“Herskalt, I do not understand how people turn evil. And then Retrend and the lancers celebrated a massacre. I feel like these people here in the west…”
The Herskalt regarded me with a skeptical gaze. “It appears to me that time and distance from your Colendi have eroded your usually acute observation.”
“The Colendi do not harbor evil intent,” I retorted. “We don’t go conquering back and forth. Well, I know we’ve had war, mostly with the Chwahir, but that was defense against invasion. And I know that our single emperor did conquer a vast empire, but he did it without evil intent. Or slaughter.”
The Herskalt laughed.
I exclaimed, “I want knowledge, I want the truth. Why do I gain this sense that you regard truth as mutable, that the intentions of kings cannot be civilized?”
“Perhaps we should begin with the reminder that kingdoms—countries—governments are made up of human beings, each concerned with personal survival and comfort. The most widely read and popular histories reweave the truth to bind their audience together with high sentiment. You still believe Colend is the pinnacle of civilization, of moral achievement. I am trying to get you to examine your childhood convictions.”
“So you imply there are no great kings, or that there are no great human beings? That everything is motivated by self-interest? Should we not have kings, then, is that our problem? Is the fact of kingship holding back the advance of civilization?”
“One of the few things one can safely accept about human behavior is that there will always be kings,” he retorted. “Whatever they are called. One reason is that any kind of government in which people must choose their leaders requires the people to think of the common good if it’s to function. Therefore, such governments are as inclined toward corruption as quickly, if not more so, than courts and kings. Kings control corruption by fear or force, by patronage, by what you Colendi call melende. Can you agree to that?”
“We were taught as much.”
“Very well. Then let us proceed to the second reason: since we don’t know what tomorrow will bring, most humans will follow anyone who promises a safe tomorrow, and more than that, an enjoyable tomorrow. So we are inclined to follow leaders who can both protect and inspire us.”
I sensed an importance to the discussion, though it appeared to be an academic exchange, teacher and student. “What do you believe was Mathias the Magnificent’s motivation for creating his empire?” I asked. “Everything we read in the archives pointed to the wish to spread peace by joining every kingdom under one benevolent set of laws. You will say that Colendi scribes and heralds will foster the Colendi viewpoint, and I can accept that, but–”
As I spoke, I remembered Greveas and the scribes entertaining themselves with discussions of which ancient records lied and why. Then the Herskalt twirled a finger in the Colendi fan gesture for Great Wind Over Little Matter.
I sighed and moderated my tone. “Assuming you disagree, how would I know your source is any more trustworthy?”
“By listening to the principles, of course,” he said, and there was the flash of silver—the dyr.
Though we’d listened to people I knew—including a prince and princess—I had never considered the possibility of delving into famous crowned heads of the past. Remembering the long debates we’d had about Mathias’s decision to cease empire-building, after we’d spent weeks combing through the existing records (as had the scribes of every generation since, I was certain) I said, “Can we see that moment? When he and the Enaeraneth king went off in private, then came back with the news that Mathias had reached the end of his empire building, and would return east?” I remembered some of the more creative surmises—made when the Senior Scribes were not in hearing—and hid a spurt of laughter. “The only thing anyone could agree on was that there was a mystery witness to that meeting, but there is no written evidence.”
The Herskalt’s smile deepened briefly. Obviously his years of study had featured similar discussions. “Both kings, sadly, were warded, so we cannot look inside their memories. But that is not true of others present. I trust you will find this one interesting.”
I knew what to expect now and did my Altan fan-breathing as I braced myself.
I knew at once that I was in the thoughts of a female. There were a thousand subtle signals. That was the clearest impression. Thoughts, words, were distorted; meanings and pronunciations different. But emotions, those were clear.
This is Firel, sister to Alored Elsarion, who would soon become the Enaeraneth king. She was exactly your age. The thought came from the sky, in the Herskalt’s voice.
Firel stood at the top of a curve of marble steps as a fantastic carriage pulled up, all gold and scrollwork, beautifully hinged—perhaps even aided by magic, so it never so much as rocked, much less jolted. The matched team of white horses pranced to a stop, and Firel admired the braided tails and manes, the well-bred heads tossing, then shifted her attention to the door of the coach as attendants opened it.
Out stepped Mathias as everyone bowed. Mathias’s face was familiar from statues and pictures. Like Martande I, he really was as handsome as the art that represented him, for at that time he was in his mid-thirties, three years into his long and remarkable reign.
Firel’s slow, appreciative gaze afforded me a clear view of his splendid form in the close-fitting clothes of the period.
He paused halfway up the steps, one foot higher than the other (Firel’s gaze lingering along the line of his thigh), then looked up and laughed. I will not reproduce the archaic language, which probably would not be exact, but what he said to Alored was: “No one told me you were one of us.”
Firel turned, and with a wash of pride mixed with irony, observed her brother, who was about thirty. If possible, he was even more beautiful than Mathias, at least in profile: his hair was long and golden and, judging from the variety of shades, from lemon to amber, it was not hairdresser’s art. His skin was russet shading to gold, his eyes under long lashes so light a brown as to also look like gold. His direct descendant, the lazy, careless Prince Macael, bore him no resemblance except for the light hair common to this end of the continent. Alored is a Golden Dei—one of the famous Dei descendants whose coloring was so distinct.
“You really did not know about the infamous duchess, my great-mother?” Alored said as he led the emperor past courtiers who formed a colorful wall on both sides of the marble hall.
Firel followed at her brother’s shoulder, her gaze sweeping past the courtiers so fast they were a blur of faces, accompanied by a flutter of reactions. Then she paused, and again I nearly fell out of the vision: intense with a different sort of attraction, she gazed at a short, still man who stood alone, framed by a doorway. He had to be near fifty, long gray-streaked yellow hair pulled into a topknot on his head. I recognized the distinctive Marloven gray coat, tight-fitting to the belt, and flaring into skirts below; in his high boots, the subtle wink of polished knife handles. How could Mathias have looked past him?
The emperor assumed he was a guardsman, came the Herskalt’s amused voice. That is the Senrid-Harvaldar who reunited Marloven Hesea. Alored’s Uncle Senrid. Came over the mountain with dragoons and skirmishers.
“We’re either famous or infamous, I find,” Mathias said, in response to Alored’s query about his great-mother, the “infamous duchess.” He went on: “In Sartor I am known as Mathias Dei, son of Lasva Dei the Wanderer.” He paused to greet Firel, whose reaction to him was so intense I felt unclothed. It was a relief to me, in spite of her disappointment, when Mathias turned back to Alored and said, “So. To our business. I trust you received my equerry, duly sent on ahead with my offer?”
“Among the bits of wisdom my infamous great-mother passed down,” Alored said in his singer’s voice, “was an exhortation to resist investing in ephemera.”
“Of course empires never last,” Mathias responded, as Alored gestured and a footman closed Mathias, Alored, and Firel into a white and gold room filled with arabesques and embellishments designed around moons, stars, and suns. “But it will be glorious while it does. And the day will come when it is no longer glorious. Then your descendants will sit down with mine over a spectacular dinner and negotiate a withdrawal from the empire, leaving in place an excellent trade treaty.”
“By which you will benefit.” Alored sat in a fine chair, and Matthias in another.
Unnoticed, Firel avoided the adjacent chair in favor of standing at her brother’s elbow so that she could see Mathias’s face.
“Of course!” Mathias said with an airy gesture. “You know we Colendi haven’t defensible borders, so we must achieve with inventiveness what others achieve with valor.”
Firel’s attention strayed to Uncle Senrid out there in the hall somewhere, thence to the prospective evening ahead, and to a hatred of whatever ancestor had bequeathed her her plain looks. By then my head was pounding so hard it was difficult to discern voices, and the Herskalt ended the vision.
He gave me a cup of kinthus. When the pain had receded, I asked, “So was Mathias’s withdrawal caused by this King Senrid, or not?”
“The war game occurred the next day. It really was a game to the Marlovens. Not so much to the Colendi in their splendid clothes, who limped off the field after an efficient thrashing. There was trouble between the Faleth and the Marlovens, the former taking exception to the thrashings. A handful of them died before the trumpets were blown.”
“Yet there is almost nothing said about that in our records.”
“To be fair to your heralds, all they saw was dust, all they heard was shouting, until the living combatants staggered off the field. The Faleth, ashamed of their losses, hid them. But the kings acted as if nothing happened, until the famous meeting later that night, the two of them alone… or not alone.” The Herskalt smiled. “Mathias took his leave the next morning, with many expensive parting gifts going both ways, and rode eastward again, out of their lives. Senrid then helped Alored ride to the capital to claim his kingship… but that is Enaeraneth history.”
I had no interest in Enaeraneth history. What caught my attention was how easily the Herskalt used their names—Mathias, Senrid, Alored—as if he had known them all.
That must come of seeing history through dyr magic, I thought.
“To your Colendi. Events came to pass as Mathias foresaw. How would you characterize his motivation, Emras? You may think about that. And this: since those days, many of your Colendi heralds took advantage of Mathias’ precedent of skillfully fostering squabbling among neighboring kingdoms, which your Colendi diplomats could solve by inviting everyone to sumptuous balls and parties, and gently but firmly negotiating treaties favorable to Colend, all in the name of peace.”
As I recovered from the effects of the dyr-vision, I stared at the centuries old pile of papers—the Fox memoir—still sitting there on the table. It seemed to mock my ignorance. “That should suffice for now,” the Herskalt said and sent me back, whereupon I tumbled into bed.
I was awakened by Anhar, who came to my tower and burst into my bedchamber, her travel gear clasped to her. She was dressed in her old Colendi travel gown.
“You have been given leave,” I said.
“She paid me well and gave me three weeks. I can spend one with my sister, and then go east to Alarcansa. On my return, I will be promoted: she has asked me, me! to be Kendred’s tutor in Kifelian. She desires him to read and write gracefully in our language, and to be familiar with our best plays and poems.” She smiled with her entire being. “I will spend my time in Colend collecting the very best works, and I will ask Birdy for polish in reading.”
I said all the right words, though there was the old surge of envy of her freedom to return to Colend.
Her gaze was searching. “Emras?” she said on a note of inquiry.
I made a little fuss, rubbing my eyes and brushing my hair out of my face (it needed cutting again, I thought in annoyance) as I reached for an excuse to cover whatever she saw in my face. “I remember something you said, and forgive me if I trespass personally, but did you not wish to alter the color of your hair again before you return?”
“No. Not anymore.” Anhar drew in a deep breath, and words cascaded. “I told you that I hate history. I never wanted to read it. I always liked plays, because they are not real. History lessons were full of thorns and nettles about the Chwahir. Platter faces. Hummers. Chalk skinned. Ugly, stupid, barbaric, evil and venal. Always they. Them. I don’t feel like one. I do not speak a word of the language. I have never been north of the border. My father left when he was a boy, because he wanted a better life than the army. And he had it. Though he, too, had to endure the thorns and nettles. But people made us out to be them. So when I turned sixteen my mother told me to get my hair colored and style it to make my face longer. Go in the sun as often as I could to turn my skin darker. But now? After what happened at Totha? I don’t care. They can look at my black hair and say what they want, but I don’t care.” She held out her hand. “May I request a transfer token?”
“Here you go.” I took one from the little carved chest where I kept my inks. “Give my greetings to Birdy.”
“I will,” she promised, and then vanished, the cold air in my room stirring in reaction.
I rose, my emotions in turmoil. I longed to see Birdy again, but I couldn’t for the very reason I wished to: to talk out the confusions in my head. I had to protect him as well as myself from Sartor’s well-meant but misguided investigations. Someday I would have to deal with that, but not now. Now I could at least write to Birdy:
When we were children, we asked questions. At scribe school we were praised for asking questions, and we wanted to know the answers. We delighted in finding them. I suspect that we stop learning when we leave behind that childhood habit, and so, in the nature of inquiry, I have questions about what heralds are taught about the writing of history.
We grew up with the conviction that Colendi are civilized, that they are peacemakers where others resort to war. It is startling to discover how others view us: For example, someone recently said that during the years the empire waned our heralds caused trouble so that they could make peace to our advantage. Birdy, were you trained to this end when you were sent to the heralds?
Someone had been hired from one of the pleasure houses to attend to our nails and to provide muscle relief when we needed. She was older, calm, efficient, but did not have Anhar’s touch.
Days passed with the entire castle busy getting ready for the arrival of the jarls and their parties for New Year’s Week. I continued my work, but my thoughts strayed eastward to Anhar and Birdy there in Alarcansa, and then southward to Darchelde.
From my limited experience with the dyr, I knew that some minds and memories were more accessible than others. Ivandred had been the most difficult, Lasva the easiest, probably because I knew her well and because we were both female and close in age.
I kept imagining the possibilities. Think of the understanding one could get, seeing famous moments from inside the participants! But how many of them had been warded against dyr magic? I was going to ask. I had to know, had to see more. Had to learn, I kept telling myself. The Herskalt wanted me to ga
in knowledge. Ah-ye, this was better than sifting through old and dusty records.
On the last day of the year, I took a walk around the city walls as I performed the spells I’d been working on. A year before, that much magic would have tired me to dizziness, but exhilaration kept me strong as I felt the old mess of wards disintegrate and reform in a structure as strong as the golden stone that formed the walls.
When I returned to the royal castle just before sunset, I heard the rare sound of many female voices emanating from the queen’s outer chambers. Lasva had asked me to listen, for she relied on my perceptions of New Year’s Week. “When I am in the midst of the jarlans,” she said, “and all eyes are on me, I am so busy thinking about what I must say next, and how I must curtail my habitual gestures, my walk, so as to lessen the mannerisms of the peacock. I certainly don’t see what they are doing when they think my gaze is elsewhere.”
The air beyond the door did not carry the astringent aroma of crisp white wine, offered in Colend when New Year’s Week begins. Here in Marloven Hesea it was the heady scent of the last of the festival barley-wine. It is these little sensory starts and jolts that keep a place from ever becoming home.
I shut my eyes and listened to the voices, so different on the surface from a court gathering in Colend. But there was a similarity after all, I thought. Though Colend’s courtiers speak so softly in the trained cadences that rise and fall so smoothly, there still was that sense of self-awareness, and I heard it here, too: the sound of people pretending to civility, rather than the ease of relaxation or friendliness.
I told Lasva, who nodded in corroboration. “They still see a peacock.”
The Great Hall was quiet as the Jarl of Totha—the others called him Bluejay—came forward to make his vows. I watched from above as he spoke in a wooden voice. He was a lanky, loose-limbed fellow, too well trained to shamble, but he reminded me a little of King Jurac of Chwahirsland, who had moved as if he never became accustomed to the length of his own limbs.
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