“When Pel was taken, we decided we had no choice but to ask Garth to rescue him. Only he could get close to Cael, so we cut his chains to make it look as if he had escaped. He brought Pel home safely. And that is all the story I have to tell.” Without thinking, I finished with the words Xani or Gille used when they told the stories of our history.
Aasta stirred. “A fine story,” she said. “Brave women, brave men, and brave deeds. You’re a rare storyteller. I’d hear that again, given a chance. Now I’d best look at the stew.” She pushed herself up, to disappear into the kitchen.
Turlo looked at me thoughtfully. “It is a good story, and you did tell it well. Someone should write it down, though. Casyn, tell it to Colm when you get to the winter camp. He’ll do it properly.”
Casyn stretched. “I will. But Lena, you should find ink and paper to record it, too. Whatever I tell Colm will be my version of your story, and not the same. To be accurate, history needs many voices. Or so my brother would tell me.”
Could history ever be accurate? I wondered, raising my wine to my lips. All the talking had dried my throat. Who decided which stories were told?
In the morning, Turlo announced he would ride with us. Dorys had come in at first light to tell him his bay needed to rest. “Two, three days, at least,” she had said.
“Well, he’ll get more than that,” Turlo said, unperturbed. “I’ll leave him here for you to doctor, Dorys, and take another. He’s not mine, as it happens. My poor old fellow was a casualty at Berge, took an arrow in the throat. The bay’s a post horse from the northern inn, so it’s fair exchange.”
The thought of his company pleased me, but Bren also rode with us, and that made me uncomfortable. He remained distant and humourless, and I could not forget his challenge to Garth that first night. We said our farewells to the inn-folk and mounted in the cobbled courtyard. Clio whickered at the post horse, a sturdy chestnut. “Is yon a Han pony?” Dorys asked, pointing her chin towards Clio. I nodded. “So is this one,” she said. “Seems they know each other.” The two horses blew gently at each other. We rode out of the courtyard and back onto the road.
A fair day had dawned, and the clear sky was dotted with a few small clouds. The officers rode abreast, with Garth and me following. Turlo wore a quiver and carried a short bow, a hunting bow, for small game or birds. Odd, I thought, for an officer.
As the sun rose higher, the air warmed. We stopped at a stream to let the horses drink, stripping off outer tunics and cloaks. I stretched. “Why do you carry a bird bow?” I asked Turlo.
“To hunt,” he said simply. “I’ve a taste for wild meat, and if I can get a brace of hare, or grouse, well, that’s a fine meal.”
“Turlo,” Bren said, surprising me, “is barely civilised. Were he not riding with us, he would probably forgo the inns entirely, except to check for messages and buy wine, to spend his nights camped under a tree, roasting rabbit over a fire and singing barbaric northern ballads to the moon.”
Turlo grinned. “Aye, I would,” he agreed. “And glad you’ve both been, a time or two, of my prowess with bow and arrow. Shall I tell the young folk?”
For the next hour he told us detailed, and, I suspected, highly exaggerated, stories of hunt parties that would have failed and Wall garrisons that would have starved, without his hunting skills. He must have spent much of his service on the Wall. His stories made me laugh, and I welcomed the distraction.
We halted at noon at a rocky hillside scattered with pines and the scrubby oak of the highlands, to eat cold meat and apples before stretching out in the shade. The horses grazed the sparse grass between the trees. A jay called, then another, a harsh sound. Turlo raised himself on one elbow, raising a hand for silence. The jay called again. Turlo pointed, slowly. On the rocks above us, a wildcat sat, gazing down at us with its deep golden, unblinking eyes. The tip of its tail moved slightly. “A young one,” Turlo whispered, “this spring’s kitten. Smelt our meat, most likely.” He sat up suddenly, and the cat vanished. “Don’t want it thinking man and food go together.”
“I’ve never seen one before.”
“Nor I,” murmured Bren.
“I have,” Garth said, “before my father came for me. I was climbing in the hills above Tirvan, and I came across a litter. Their eyes were barely opened. The female must have brought them out for some sun. She snarled at me, and the kittens fled, but, oh, I wanted one. I planned to go back to capture one, but then it was Festival and the end of Tirvan for me.”
“Just as well,” Turlo said. “They’re not to be tamed, and the female would have gone for your face. But I know how you felt. I had the same plans until my mother caught me dragging a fishing net into the hills and gave me a scolding I’ve never forgotten. ‘Wild things are meant to be wild,’ she said. ‘You can’t change their nature. If you want a pet, there’s plenty of barn kittens.’ She said a wild thing taken as a babe is never truly tame but can never be truly wild again either. It will only be a shadow of what it should be. I never tried to tame anything again.”
“It would do a lot of men good to learn that lesson,” Casyn said. He looked at the sun. “We should ride.”
In the afternoon, the men’s talk turned to war. I lagged behind. The land had changed again. Elm and ash stood among the oak, their leaves fading from green to yellow and brown. My hands rested on Clio’s withers, the reins loose between them. Clio followed the horses ahead of her, needing no guidance from me. I thought about what Turlo had said, about not trying to tame something wild. The Empire had forced Garth to go against his nature. Turlo too might have been meant to roam the bogs and hills of the borderlands, unconstrained by the uniform of the Empire. Yet he seemed content, even happy. How could that be?
We rode south, bypassing inns except to water the horses and have a meal for ourselves, making camp instead. Turlo proved as adept with his hunting bow as he had claimed, so we ate well those nights, roasting rabbit or partridge over the fire. On the road, I often rode slightly apart while the men talked of war, strategies and mistakes. Strategy had interested me only when it concerned Tirvan and its defence.
I thought often of Maya. I envisioned her rapturous at our reunion, begging my forgiveness. I saw her on the other side of the Empire, writing letters that reached me twice a year, and always six months late. I saw myself working at the closest inn or fishing port, riding up occasionally to meet her outside the village. I thought of many ways we could wait out the three years of her exile from Tirvan. Very occasionally, I let myself think about what life might be like, without her, forever.
Whenever that thought intruded, I purposely began to think of Casyn’s proposal for a new assembly. I thought again about whom I would choose to represent Tirvan, weighing the strengths of Tirvan’s women in my mind. Casse would speak her mind, calling on long experience, but could she make such a journey? Would Dessa consider coming now, if it meant leaving Lara? The assembly would have to be in the summer, so the village delegations could camp on the way because the inns could not cope with large numbers. In this way, the miles passed.
About mid-morning of the next day, Casyn dropped back to ride with me. He reined Siannon in until we rode at a slow walk. The others pulled ahead.
“What is it?’
“Bren makes you uncomfortable.”
“Yes,” I said. “I don’t think he likes me being here.”
“Bren is never easy among women,” Casyn said. “His life is soldiery, as is true of all of us, but for him it is everything. He simply does not know how to talk to you.”
“I don’t fit.”
“Exactly,” Casyn said. “Bren is more rigid in his thinking than your Maya, Lena, but he is a good soldier and a fine strategist. His campaigns are planned meticulously, down to the last horseshoe nail needed. He has taught us all how important details can be.”
“And I am not one of those details.”
“Not one he has ever had to consider before,” Casyn said with a chuckle. “He helped plan
the invasion of Leste and then went north to manage the Wall garrisons. Their numbers were down, and he was the best man to organize the defence there. He opposed the involvement of the women’s villages because he could not understand how it might work.”
“Does he now?”
“I think he is beginning to,” Casyn said. “But there is something more.”
I eyed him curiously.
“His discomfort with women extends to Festival,” Casyn said. “He cannot make himself understood or attractive to women. Twenty years ago, I convinced him to go to Tirvan for Festival. He met a woman he wanted to know better, but it didn’t work out. Her attention was given already to another man.”
“Because I am from Tirvan, he is even more uncomfortable.”
“Yes.”
“Do you know who she was?”
“No,” Casyn answered. “He never told me.”
I looked forward to where Garth rode between Turlo and Bren. “I wish you’d told me this days ago.”
“I should have,” Casyn said. “I thought you both might relax just by riding together.”
“We’ve barely spoken, and I’ve been riding behind.”
“That’s why I told you,” he said.
I nodded. “I’ll try to join in.”
At our mid-day break, Turlo offered to teach Garth to use the hunting bow. The day had turned glorious, the sky a clear blue with a light breeze. Garth accepted with alacrity.
“I’ll come to watch,” Bren said, standing. Garth nodded a welcome. He clearly liked Bren. After my talk with Casyn, I could see his distant manner in a new light. I no longer felt rejected by him, but I remained ambivalent.
“And you, Lena?” Turlo offered. I shook my head. My monthly bleeding had begun, and a general lassitude had settled over me. I stretched out in the warmth, drowsing as the hunters went off over a ridge. After a while, I stirred to see Casyn sitting on a nearby rock, a mug of tea in his hands. I rolled over, sitting up.
“I thought you had gone hunting,” I said.
“Four is too many.”
“May I ask something? About Turlo?”
“Bren this morning, Turlo now?” he teased.
“It seems to me that Turlo is much like Garth. He is happier hunting, or wandering the wilds, than anything else, yet he holds a commission and serves the Empire.” I stopped, not sure how to continue.
“You are wondering why Turlo became an officer while Garth chose to desert,” he said gently. “There is no easy answer to that. Turlo, for all his love of the wild, came willingly. His father was on Wall duty, a scout, and his tales of that life probably had the boy enthralled. Also, the Wall is a place where Turlo’s skills and interests are needed and encouraged. By the time he came to the cadet camps, he was already a talented borders scout. But Turlo is also a born leader. He understands men much as he understands animals, instinctively, and we fostered that in him. Garth is a different man, and his opportunities were different. If Mar had been in a borders regiment, then, yes, perhaps he would have reconciled to the army, but perhaps not. I doubt that Garth will ever be truly happy leading men, but I think he will teach boys with care and discipline and with a greater sensitivity than he received.” He sighed. “I am not sure I have answered your question, Lena, but it is difficult to talk about what might have been when we are speaking of men. I prefer analysing tactics.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said drily. “Although you’re not quite as bad as Bren.” He laughed. “I still wish things had been different for Garth.”
“And for yourself, and for Maya,” he said gently. “As I do. But we cannot shape the circumstances to fit our lives, only our lives to fit the circumstances. What defines us, as men and women, is how we respond to those circumstances. Courage comes in many forms, Lena, and I think perhaps Garth, in trying to reconcile his nature to the expectations of the Empire—and ultimately his own expectations of himself—is more courageous than Turlo.”
A gentle breeze rattled the dry leaves. I could hear the horses cropping grass. Casyn sipped his tea. I lay back again in the sun. “When do our roads part?” I asked.
“Two days from now. About midmorning on the second day, we’ll come to a track that runs south-easterly, while this road swings to the west. We’ll say our farewells there. The easterly track will bring us to the winter camp more quickly than the southern. Your errand takes you south, and neither should be delayed.”
I nodded. I would miss him, but part of me wanted to be alone with Garth again, to talk to him of Maya and the future, and to camp under the trees and moon. I heard voices; looking up, I saw the men climbing over the ridge, rabbits swinging from their hands. Garth was grinning. A light breeze blew, his hair back across his forehead as he held up his brace. “Dinner tonight,” he said. He looked relaxed, his eyes lit up with pride in this new skill.
“If we can buy some root vegetables, pot herbs, and perhaps a loaf of bread at the next inn,” I said, “I’ll stew those rabbits tonight, as a change from roasting them.” This brought appreciative noises from Turlo, but then, anything to do with food usually did. We doused and scattered the fire, re-bridled the horses and tightened the girths before mounting, turning south again into the red-gold afternoon.
Two days later, in mid-morning, we rode up from the bowl of a grassy valley between two ridges of land. We urged the horses up to the crest. As Clio came abreast of the larger horses, I reined her to a stop to look out. I gasped.
Beyond this final ridge, the land fell away quickly in a series of declining hills. A sea of grass extended far beyond sight toward the horizon. From this height, we could see the roll of the land and the sweep and ripple of the pale, sere grasses. The sky soared above us, and the boundary between land and air looked like a hazy blur on the distant edge of vision. As I gazed at the space and enormity of the grasslands, an unrealized tension eased. I felt an inner expansion, the loosening of constraint. I could live down there, I thought, suddenly, fiercely, wanting it. I could lose myself in that land, below that sky, in all that emptiness.
“I had no idea,” I said. “Rasa and Dian tried to describe it, but I didn’t understand the immensity. It looks as if the grasslands go on forever.”
“Not forever,” Bren said. “Eventually, the land begins to change again, sloping down to the fertile fields of the south.”
We sat our horses, looking down at the rippling grasses. A long-winged hawk hunted over the plain. I began to sort out features—clumps of trees in valleys, the occasional glint of a stream. The road itself stood out clearly, winding over hills and into valleys until it disappeared into the haze on the horizon. Another track branched off from it toward the east.
“The eastern road,” Casyn said, following my gaze. “Let’s ride.”
A series of switchbacks led us gently down into the grasslands. We wound back and forth at a walk, reins loose, letting the horses choose the pace. The sun rose higher in the sky. Turlo and Garth talked about the game to be found on the grasslands and the best places and times to hunt. The sea of grass grew closer until we rode into it, the wave and ripple of the grasses in the breeze creating a constant susurration like waves on a beach. Small birds trilled among the grasses, darting rapidly from one clump to another or flashing high into the sky. When the sun had nearly reached its zenith, we came to the place where the roads diverged.
Just to the north and east of the fork, a small stream running out of the hills had been channelled into drinking basins. A rough ring of small boulders and logs marked the common resting point. We dismounted, removed bridles, let the horses drink from the lower pool, then hobbled them for grazing. Turlo built a fire. We made tea and ate cheese and bread.
Casyn stood, brushing the crumbs from his legs. After looking to me for permission, he pulled the map from my saddlebag to spread it on a flat piece of ground, weighing the corners with small stones. He beckoned us over. “We are here,” he said, pointing. He traced the line of the southerly road. “There’s an inn here, a
t the river. You could reach it by nightfall. Or there is a good camp some miles before that, in a stand of trees by a stream, just here.” He pulled a blackened twig from the fire, making a mark on the map. “In another seven or eight days of easy riding, you’ll reach Karst. Try not to push the horses. They—and you—will need to drink more often through the grasslands. The air is dry here. Groom them well at night.” He stood, refolding the map before handing it to me. “It’s time.”
We smothered the fire and prepared the horses. I filled water skins. We had divided the food and camp gear that morning. When I handed the skins to the men, Turlo grinned at me.
“You’ll do fine, lassie,” he said. His mood buoyed me, and I grinned back.
“The evenings will be quieter,” I said. “Don’t drive the others mad with your stories.”
Turlo laughed. “They’ve heard them all, and told them all, so many times, they can’t tell my lies from theirs.” He held out a hand, suddenly serious. “Go safely, Lena,” I clasped it in the soldier’s grip. He turned to Garth while I shook hands with Bren. I held out my hand to Casyn. He took it, holding it between both of his.
“Go safely. I will see you again.”
“Go safely, Casyn.” I had too much to say, and to ask, and time had run out. I turned away, willing my eyes dry, and mounted. Garth saluted Turlo and Bren, then Casyn, before mounting Tasque. I turned Clio’s head to the south, raising a hand in farewell.
Clio’s ears pricked and her stride lengthened as we rode south. I reined her in, waiting for Garth to come abreast of me on the road. “Clio wants to run.”
“She must have memories of running free in the grasslands,” Garth replied. “Still, why not?” We gave the horses their heads, pounding along the road. I bent low over my mare’s neck, urging her on, feeling my own spirit rise with hers. I laughed with the sheer joy of life and sunshine and freedom.
Empire's Legacy- The Complete Trilogy Page 25