Read Online Banner of the Damned by Sherwood Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Sherwood Smith
Ads: Link
suppressed laughs. “Someone taught him to dance.”
By then, while Lord Rontande gloated at the fall of his clique’s leader, Lord Kaidas had taken in the entire room. His circling gaze returned briefly to the besotted Chwahir king, who appeared to be utterly unaware of his near brush with ignominy, then stayed with the princess, whose smile, whose laughter, rang the true note of merriment and fun.
SIX
O F H ONEYFLOWER W INE
AND L ILY -B READ
S
everal mornings later, Birdy came straight from the baths, his hair still wet and pressed flat against his skull. He seemed more restless than ever. Out came the silken bags. He’d sent the salt bowl tumbling and nearly overturned the entire table in a lunging dive to keep a bag from falling into the butter rolls when I said, “Birdy, I apologize for sounding ill-natured, but must you do that now?”
Birdy turned scarlet, nipped up the bags with far more dexterity than he displayed when juggling them, and said contritely, “I didn’t think you minded.”
I took refuge in quotation, as people will when they want to say something but find it necessary to mask personal intent with someone else’s words. “I am weak, and my serenity is easily disturbed when I can’t anticipate the next assault upon the dishes.”
“Assault! Oh. Queen Alian the Second.” His smile was pained, but present. “And why she did not like picnics.”
“The diving of bold birds is an apt comparison to the swooping of your silken bags,” I said. “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, as abrupt as any of his bags’ attacks upon plates, glasses, and bowls.
“I thought you wished to go.”
“I do. But—” He pressed the silken bags in his fingers, so that the sand bulged against the fabric as he gave me a comical look of regret. “but… Chwahirsland.”
I opened my hands in Heartfelt Assent, not wanting to say that I would loathe going there or to anyplace like it. “I hope it will prove to be fascinating, and that you are so valuable that promotion comes swiftly. Will you write to us?”
“Us?” he repeated.
He made The Peace and bow over his hands, but he remained silent as more of our friends arrived. He left without speaking—without eating, even—and I did not see him for the rest of the day.
Next morning I discovered through casual talk by his sister that Birdy had departed with the ambassadorial staff who accompanied King Jurac. I found myself looking for him at fan practice, at meals, at the archive late at night where we went for extra study. Then I would remember that he was gone. He had not said farewell, nor had he said anything other than that “Us?” It made me think that maybe heralds were not permitted to correspond with scribes because of the secret nature of diplomacy.
The only thing I was sure of during the next extremely tedious month, as I reviewed every detail of royal etiquette and protocol, was that there was a Birdy-shaped hole in my life. I would even have welcomed the juggling.
In the wake of the Chwahirs’ departure, the whispers eddied out, the most common topic being how Jurac of the Chwahir had offered anything short of his kingdom to arrange a marriage treaty with the princess, to be turned down by the queen. But Queen Hatahra worked out a trade agreement for wood and sailcloth and, in turn, Jurac agreed to accept the ambassadorial mission in place of the old trade agents.
The month after Birdy’s departure, it was time for my formal evaluation.
At the Hour of the Quill, I presented myself.
The scriptorium’s formal chamber, used only for important matters (it was there that Scribe Halimas had exiled my shivering thirteen-year-old self to the kitchens), was formed of cool, slightly glistening moonstone. The senior scribes gathered on a wide bench carved of old rosewood. The only decoration was a tapestry
By then, while Lord Rontande gloated at the fall of his clique’s leader, Lord Kaidas had taken in the entire room. His circling gaze returned briefly to the besotted Chwahir king, who appeared to be utterly unaware of his near brush with ignominy, then stayed with the princess, whose smile, whose laughter, rang the true note of merriment and fun.
SIX
O F H ONEYFLOWER W INE
AND L ILY -B READ
S
everal mornings later, Birdy came straight from the baths, his hair still wet and pressed flat against his skull. He seemed more restless than ever. Out came the silken bags. He’d sent the salt bowl tumbling and nearly overturned the entire table in a lunging dive to keep a bag from falling into the butter rolls when I said, “Birdy, I apologize for sounding ill-natured, but must you do that now?”
Birdy turned scarlet, nipped up the bags with far more dexterity than he displayed when juggling them, and said contritely, “I didn’t think you minded.”
I took refuge in quotation, as people will when they want to say something but find it necessary to mask personal intent with someone else’s words. “I am weak, and my serenity is easily disturbed when I can’t anticipate the next assault upon the dishes.”
“Assault! Oh. Queen Alian the Second.” His smile was pained, but present. “And why she did not like picnics.”
“The diving of bold birds is an apt comparison to the swooping of your silken bags,” I said. “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, as abrupt as any of his bags’ attacks upon plates, glasses, and bowls.
“I thought you wished to go.”
“I do. But—” He pressed the silken bags in his fingers, so that the sand bulged against the fabric as he gave me a comical look of regret. “but… Chwahirsland.”
I opened my hands in Heartfelt Assent, not wanting to say that I would loathe going there or to anyplace like it. “I hope it will prove to be fascinating, and that you are so valuable that promotion comes swiftly. Will you write to us?”
“Us?” he repeated.
He made The Peace and bow over his hands, but he remained silent as more of our friends arrived. He left without speaking—without eating, even—and I did not see him for the rest of the day.
Next morning I discovered through casual talk by his sister that Birdy had departed with the ambassadorial staff who accompanied King Jurac. I found myself looking for him at fan practice, at meals, at the archive late at night where we went for extra study. Then I would remember that he was gone. He had not said farewell, nor had he said anything other than that “Us?” It made me think that maybe heralds were not permitted to correspond with scribes because of the secret nature of diplomacy.
The only thing I was sure of during the next extremely tedious month, as I reviewed every detail of royal etiquette and protocol, was that there was a Birdy-shaped hole in my life. I would even have welcomed the juggling.
In the wake of the Chwahirs’ departure, the whispers eddied out, the most common topic being how Jurac of the Chwahir had offered anything short of his kingdom to arrange a marriage treaty with the princess, to be turned down by the queen. But Queen Hatahra worked out a trade agreement for wood and sailcloth and, in turn, Jurac agreed to accept the ambassadorial mission in place of the old trade agents.
The month after Birdy’s departure, it was time for my formal evaluation.
At the Hour of the Quill, I presented myself.
The scriptorium’s formal chamber, used only for important matters (it was there that Scribe Halimas had exiled my shivering thirteen-year-old self to the kitchens), was formed of cool, slightly glistening moonstone. The senior scribes gathered on a wide bench carved of old rosewood. The only decoration was a tapestry
Similar Books
