When Bluejay finished, Ivandred stepped forward and said his vows in the same voice he used for everyone. Not a word more or a word less. No mention at all of those Totha attackers, dead somewhere around the border, but every single person in that Hall had to be thinking about them. There was too much tension for it to be a secret.
The surprising thing was the number of looks furtively cast my way. Irritated and unsettled, I reminded myself of what Anhar had said: the looks were not aimed at me but at “the mage,” who might be able to smite them with a whispered spell.
Smiting was what Marlovens thought about when they considered power.
The unwanted notice caused me to employ all my old skills at staying on the periphery.
There is only one other thing to report from that week.
The Jarlan of Totha was exactly my age. She was even small with a round face. But where I am spare, with thin hair of dull brown, she was as curvy as Nifta, with a great quantity of curly blond hair pulled back into looped braids behind a face that was the true heart shape so prized in Colend.
But she was not at all like a courtier. Her behavior all week was stiff and silent, her hands hidden in the sleeves of her robe, which was the dark forest green and silver of Totha.
Following supper on the Fourthday eve after the jarls and jarlans presented their requests for judgment, Lasva whispered to me in passing, “She asked to speak to me alone. Will you listen beyond the door?”
I felt like a spy, standing beside the door to Lasva’s bedchamber, which smelled of the dried rose hips, starliss, and verbena that she had transferred from Colend. Lasva’s tone was soothing as she offered her guest the best cushion, some freshly steeped Sartoran leaf, a cream cake.
The jarlan refused them all in a tight voice. Lasva said invitingly, “What is happening in Totha, Gdan? Please tell me. I promise you, I want peace. I would do anything I can to bring it about. Are there people trying to stir up trouble in your land? Do you need help?”
“Yes… No. That is, there are those who want… sovereignty. The way Olavair now has. And some want things to stay as they have been. Then there are those who want life to go back to the way it was in the old days. Except you really cannot go back, can you? No one in Totha speaks the old Iascan. We are Marlovens in all the important ways. We celebrate Rest Day like Marlovens.” Gdan-Jarlan’s voice lowered to a whisper. “But there is so much talk of war in the north. Everyone knows it is going to happen. And we also know that when the king calls the levy, it is our people who will be forced to go north to fight. No one wants to go north to fight Yvanavar or Olavair. We have enough problems of our own in the south, and many are afraid that if the king is dealing with the northerners, he will never get to us in time.”
“Have you and Bluejay spoken with Ivandred about this? Surely you trust him. I know that the most important thing in his life is this kingdom and keeping it safe.”
“There are different kinds of safe,” Gdan began, almost too low to hear. Then came the swish of fabric and a quick step. “I am afraid I have said too much. Thank you for… being kind, Lasva-Gunvaer.”
Lasva joined me. “She sounded sincere, did she not? I don’t need you to corroborate that she doesn’t trust me. It’s not that she thinks that I am a liar so much as she thinks the peacock can wave her pretty tail and strut all around this castle, but she cannot fly with the Marloven eagle.”
TWO
OF MEMORY’S ENCHANTMENT
I
followed Lasva out to the balcony a day later, when she joined Ivandred in watching the last of the jarls ride out of the courtyard, as snow drifted lazily down from a gray blanket sky. He gave me an absent nod as he stretched out his hand to Lasva. It was an habitual gesture, not the peremptory palm down but one of appeal, palm up. Lasva grasped his hand. He bent to kiss her fingers, then straightened up. It was all quick, with the unconsciousness of habit, as they turned their attention downward. I glanced at the two attractive profiles, wondering what was going on inside each silent head. Oh, to have a dyr of my own!
The impulse to see, to know, had been growing stronger by the day, becoming a hunger. When the last jarl was gone, Ivandred took Lasva off somewhere, and so I wandered back toward my tower. I was too restless to resume my work, so I turned my steps to the queen’s chambers, to which I always had entrance. Except for the guards, no one was about. The runners had been permitted liberty days in relay. Pelis was busy putting the finishing stitches on the tapestry. Nifta had been sent somewhere on a trade mission. Marnda and Kendred were either asleep or outside.
I looked around, then transferred myself to Darchelde. The Herskalt appeared moments later. Was there a faint scent of wood smoke? It was gone too soon for me to be sure. I took my chair, saying, “I suppose that kings and others in power are protected against the dyr magic, but I cannot stop thinking about it. There are so many possibilities to find out the truth of important events.”
The Herskalt said, “Very true. However, there is much to be learned from ordinary people. Discovering hidden motivations and reasoning will enable you to make more acute evaluations in your own life. As you gain magical knowledge, you are going to be called upon to make judgments that will affect many lives.”
“So what do you suggest?”
“Begin to study people familiar to you.”
“Not my parents,” I said quickly, but what I was really thinking was, Not Birdy.
He said, “People with whom you have some connection, but minimal emotional involvement.” He opened his hand, and there was the dyr. “I anticipated your question, and did some exploration of my own. I believe that this will be a very good place to begin, on what appeared to be a peaceful day’s picnic, not long ago.”
He whispered the words, and guided me into a vision of a warm day. Colend sometimes had such bursts of very late summer warmth, weeks after harvest. A group of people sat upon a silk quilt that covered a mossy bank. Behind them a few white-barked birch trees retained enough bright orange leaves to catch the low, slanting light of impending winter.
My heart yearned at the layered silk robes the two women wore, one in shades of soft blue, embroidered with long-tailed parrots and orchid blossoms in silver and peach, the other in shades of lemon and straw, embroidered with pale green cattails and butterflies. The man wore summer blue edged with amber. His embroidery was thistles in a geometric pattern. His head was bent as he played with a little boy of two or three. His short, curly dark hair hid his face. Was that jawline familiar? I wondered as he plucked up dandelions and blew on them, sending tufts into the air that the child tried to catch in his grasping fingers.
The man laughed and looked up. Yes. I knew that face. He was the Duke of Alarcansa. I shifted my gaze to the two women, and recognized the seated one in blue with the perfect profile and elaborately dressed golden hair. She was known as “the duchess” at seventeen: Carola Definian, now a real duchess. The one in yellow was tall and thin. Tatia. Her ruddy hair was also dressed elaborately, though with knots of ribbon as embellishment, instead of gems.
We’d looked through the eyes of a servant, who was waved off by an impatient gesture from Tatia.
Then the vision smeared, causing my insides to lurch, and now I looked down at the top of the duchess’s head. Beyond her the man and boy played, the colors distorted in a way difficult to describe, until the first thoughts whispered into my head: anger. We looked through Tatia’s eyes.
Go on, one slide of those slippers on a rock, brat, she thought. But no, the Hummer would catch him, then Carola and the Hummer would fuss sickeningly over the brat, Vasande, as if he had fallen and cracked his stupid skull.
Memory flashes. Pain nearly slew me as jolting, rage-burning images provided context: distracting a nursemaid by sending her for something to drink, then luring the small boy to play near one of the indoor pools. The toddler laughed… climbed up… fell in… Tatia scurried away, her laughter screaming through my skull; then she looked back, and the rage surge
d through me as scalding as vomit when she saw the baby swimming to the side. How angry Tatia was that the Hummer (for such was her name for Kaidas) had taught “the little maggot” to swim!
I nearly withdrew, but the Herskalt kept the vision steady as again the memory provided a horrifying image, this time high on a wall, but again the frustrated rage when Carola appeared and intervened, dismissing the two maidservants and the footman whom Tatia had carefully distracted. Carola’s anger doused Tatia’s, causing fear which was scarcely less terrible to endure than the rage, scolding as Tatia herself was sent on degrading errands until the servants could be replaced.
She was the heir. She should rule Alarcansa, not this disgusting worm of a brat. Why should Carola birth an heir thirty years before anyone of her age thought of such things?
I could not bear this woman’s thoughts another heartbeat. I tried to end the vision, but it smeared… and I found myself caught in a wash of sensory impressions that cleared away, establishing a caressing perspective on the child and man.
“It is a refreshment to the spirit to see them together like that, is it not?” Carola asked her cousin, richly enjoying the way that Tatia snorted like a lapdog in frustration. “Would it not be charming for him to have a sister or brother to romp with? Perhaps several of them.”
Carola laughed to herself at the forced pleasantry with which Tatia replied. She entertained herself with imagining another child. A beautiful daughter, who would enter court exquisitely trained. Carola toyed with the notion of her daughter courting the Royal Princess, who was almost certainly going to look like a toad in silk.
I would be ruling court now if I had had the wit to court that fool Lasva, she thought. If only she’d had the long vision to see it at seventeen. Lasva’s self-centered acceptance of everyone’s admiration, her sentimental assurance that everyone loved her… it would have been easy to swallow disgust and flatter her. But that was the past. She had longer vision now, which could benefit a daughter.
As Kaidas chased Vasande around in a circle, and the boy laughed, she suppressed the image of the beautiful daughter. What if he monopolized her as much as he did Vasande? Whenever Kaidas was in Alarcansa, every free moment was given to Vasande. Carola gritted her teeth against bitter resentment. Kaidas never came to her freely. She always had to summon him. She would not lose what time she had to another child, not until her interest in him died. Some days, she hoped it would die soon.
On this bitter thought, the Herskalt shifted us to Kaidas, whose emotions buffeted me like a wind storm, so fierce was his love for Vasande, and so strong was his longing for freedom.
That was as much as I could discern before the headache threatened to overcome my wits. Already I was dizzy and sour-mouthed with nausea.
Once again he had a cup of kinthus waiting for me. When the pain and nausea had lessened, I said hoarsely, “They are evil people, the Definians.”
“They are angry people.”
“Bitter as iron gall. Why is that? They are wealthy, they have everything they want.”
“They do not have everything they want. They have everything others want. Experiences shape us, but so do the choices we make in reaction to those experiences. Tatia craves her cousin’s title. The other cousin, Falisse Ranalassi, ran away and learned to sing. In your terms, the latter chose the path of civility—art—and the former pretends to civility.”
The hunger was there again, this time to dive into this other cousin’s mind, to know through experience what shaped Falisse Ranalassi. Uneasy at the intensity of my own passion I asked, “Is it not a trespass, to delve into people’s secret thoughts like this, unasked?”
“Almost everything we do in life is a trespass by someone’s standards. You Colendi object if someone steps on your shadow inside a house, but in other kingdoms, no one notices shadows. Ask yourself this instead: will you do harm or good with the knowledge that you have gained? And ask yourself if you ever have enough knowledge, when you are making decisions that will affect other lives?”
I made The Peace. My thoughts tumbled in painful confusion. Knowledge, the gaining of knowledge, that steadied me. Knowledge led to wisdom.
“I believe the time has come to let you explore on your own.” The Herskalt laid the dyr in a shallow dish of thin porcelain, chased round the rim with tiny red-centered golden blossoms and blue laurel leaves—it was not Marloven, whose styles were variations on interlocking figures. I had this sense that it was old. “I am going to be busy for a time. I have a very difficult set of wards to set up. I believe you are aware of the dangers of using this magical artifact, so you will follow my instructions exactly.”
I was so amazed I couldn’t speak. But I did not need to. I am certain my longing was plain in my face.
“No more than one memory a day—if I am not here, and you lose consciousness while under the influence of the magic…”
The idea was so terrible that I made a gesture of repudiation that I could not control. He left the sentence unfinished and said, “You must always come here. If you take the dyr anywhere, there are powerful wards that will alert interested mages to its presence. You may find yourself in a difficult situation, and again, I would be unable to rescue you.”
I assented, reflecting on all those castle wards still awaiting replacement. The sooner I freed the city of ancient bindings and granted the Herskalt access, the better for us all.
He issued a long list of magical instructions specific to the circumstances, so useless to duplicate in this defense.
Two days later, Anhar returned. She burst into the tower and thrust open the door to my study, bringing the scents of Colend with her, and a basket of fresh pastries and late-season berries, plus a letter from Birdy. Her eyes were wide as she said, “You certainly stirred him up the night after I arrived. That next day he went off to the archive, and every time I turned around he and the duke were talking about this record or that, or Birdy was scribbling this letter.” She laughed as she handed me a fat scroll tied with the green of sincerity—far too lengthy to be stuffed into a scrollcase without being put in three separate sendings. I sat down and opened it, with her looking on; my worry about magic was foremost in my mind.
Who have you been talking to, Em? Is Lasva turning on her land of birth?
That is not to deny that some heralds didn’t interfere in foreign affairs. We were told about them and shown how short-sighted such a policy was. Did Lasva really say that “all heralds were educated to cause trouble in other kingdoms” or is that the careless hyperbole of discussion?
The Duke of Alarcansa and I both agree that Colend has never set out to make trouble for other kingdoms. Many name Mathias the Magnificent, our single emperor, as the height of ambition, but if you read all his records, he firmly believed that the creation of his empire was an exercise in civilizing people. There was a Lassiter as equerry on that famous journey, and I finished reading his account last night. According to the words he heard spoken by the emperor, Mathias’s definition of civilization was food, shelter, and meaningful work for everyone. His military strategy (if you can call it that, when there was little or no actual fighting) was to push his indefensible borders out to defensive ones.
When he approached a new border, and invited the rulers of the kingdom to talk to him, he explained at length—you can read the records written AT THE TIME by herald scribes from both sides, as one of our exercises was to compare them word for word, translating them back and forth from Sartoran to Kifelian—that he was constantly formulating experiments to better all three of those for the good of all and that he invited client kings to actively contribute.
His laws were set to protect all people and their property. Show me any empire that has done the same. Including that Marloven one. I’ve been reading its history, as much as I can. There is scarcely anything available, unless you want to send me copies.
I glanced rapidly down the rest and found that he’d listed every source he had to hand, with salient quotations cop
ied out in a handwriting that got more hasty and scribbled toward the end.
I looked up, to discover Anhar waiting, her expression curious and intent. She was going to report back, of course. Relieved that the question of magic had not come up at all, I said, “We studied this question when we were young, but it’s interesting to delve into it now—except that I don’t have access to Colendi records anymore.” I pointed to the pastries. “Nifta is back, and Pelis is restless, as it’s been snowing since New Year’s Lastday. Shall we go to the queen’s rooms and share these out while they are fresh?”
I still walked to the queen’s suite each morning at the daybreak bells to spend an hour with Lasva doing the Altan fan form. Twice she asked me if I had begun reading Hadand’s letters, and both times I told her that, so far, my tasks had precluded this reading, but if she desired me to do so, I would lay aside another task.
I was aware as I repeated those words a second time that she would take the reiteration as an oblique question: is this an order? If she ordered me to read those letters, I would. I believe she knew that. What I did not see at the time was the hurt I caused in putting her in that position; I just wanted to be free of the obligation. I knew that she was seeking something from them, but I had no time for toiling through four-centuries’ old letters in search of the long dead queen’s inner mind, not when I had the means to visit people’s thoughts directly. I consoled myself with the thought that gunvaer affairs could be safely left to the current-day gunvaer. I had my own tasks.
I was tempted to venture into Hadand’s mind with the dyr. All I required was one letter to use as a focus. But the Herskalt had warned me about people with whom I had no contact, and I feared that the distortion of old-fashioned Marlovan would be difficult to endure.